#she turns back into a bird to nest and sometimes curl up under people's chins/on their shoulders

[funky-sea-cryptid]

the bulls treating nero as a pet is so important bc i KNOW she got kissies on her perfect little bird head and got held in peoples hands and i KNOW she has a nest in asta's room and plays favorites and i imagine this is what it's like to be a cat.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Park Across the Way

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy Pairing: Five x Lila Rating: T Word Count: 587

Summary: Reincarnation: that’s another thing. What’s happening to them isn’t something he’s been able to find an explanation for in any text, scientific or religious. It happens anyway. Who is he to stand against the will of the universe?

Grace is playing in the park when she spots the flowers. She knows about gardens, and that you shouldn’t pull them up, but it seems to her that there are plenty of flowers, and she’s only taking two.

She brings them to her auntie, who looks like she wants to scold but softens instead. Her palm cups Grace’s chin and she says, okay, they can take them home.

The stems are short, so instead of a vase, Grace’s auntie drops them into a cup of cool water. They bob together, even when Grace sticks her finger in the water and stirs it around. She’s trying to make a little whirlpool like Claire showed her one time.

The bright petals crisp and discolour, and the flowers die after a couple days. Grace has already forgotten them and moved on to other pursuits. Her auntie drains the water, then tips the flowers into the trash, not noticing how those roughly-severed stems have curled around one another. If she had tried, she would have found they required effort to separate.

—

Sometimes they’re not them—they’re not anyone.

They come back as eight clouds that hover over the same park where there were once eight flowers. They come back as hairs on the same head, two of them caught in an elastic and pulled from the scalp when a ponytail is let down. They come back as sparrows. Their bird minds are keen and make choices for survival, but when two of the males want to build a nest with the same female, they fight until one plummets to the grass. That’s the first time, as he’s falling, that he feels an echo of pain, and it’s not from his damaged wing.

Sometimes they’re not them—they’re not anyone—but when they are, she knows him.

It’s always that park. Five doesn’t know how it works, but he doesn’t always recognize the place. He accepted a long time ago that there’s a hell of a lot he doesn’t understand. Reincarnation: that’s another thing. What’s happening to them isn’t something he’s been able to find an explanation for in any text, scientific or religious. It happens anyway. Who is he to stand against the will of the universe? They’re here, aren’t they? Alive when they shouldn’t be? When he’s him, and she’s her, and they’re people, the rest doesn’t matter. The stuff they’re made of insists every time they meet is a harbinger of the apocalypse, but it feels like magic to him. Somehow, they both end up under the same tree. Five looks at Lila, the dappled sunlight making her welling eyes gleam, and he suddenly can’t breathe.

Nice knowing you, he thinks, because the beginning is always the end.

But she laughs through the tears—guess he said his thought out loud—and he knows, again, that he’ll die with her. He’ll go willingly. Whatever it is.

“Do you want to get a tea or something?”

“Not really my style.”

“You could try branching out from coffee after a hundred lifetimes.”

“I could,” he says.

“Fine,” she says. “Coffee.”

When Lila puts her arm through his, they’re just a couple walking through a park on a beautiful day. This is the kind of thing they died trying to give other people. Five would like to think it’s not their fault that their good intentions count for shit, but it probably is. After a hundred lifetimes, he doesn’t really care. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Lila’s hair.

[themadhatterofficial]

Eyes, Bodies, and Potions

The Golden Trio was always meant to take down Voldemort.

Perhaps, if things happened a bit differently, if the pieces managed to link together in another way...

(Dark Golden Trio AU)

********************

Harry Potter only knew violence growing up.

The young boy hidden away in the cupboard under the stairs would sit in fear and anticipation as heavy footsteps pounded above and rattled the dust onto his tiny bed. He had a single mirror in his cupboard that Aunt Petunia had given him as a Christmas present after his uncle had slammed his head into it hard enough to cause cracks to run through it like an overzealous spiderweb.

No matter how many times he tried to avoid it, Harry always ended up watching himself in the dingy glass. In anything remotely reflective, really.

Everywhere Harry went, people commented on his eyes. On how pretty they were, how they made him look respectable, how much they stood out against the darkness of his skin and the heavy bangs that resembled a rat's nest at the best of times.

It had jump started Harry's obsession.

Everywhere he went, Harry would stare at eyes. Brown ones, blue ones, grey ones, green ones, and every mix you could think of. He liked the emotions that ran through them, how they told stories that faces and bodies would never reveal.

He could see the happiness when a couple held hands.

He could see the fear when a man gripped his girlfriend's arm a little too tight.

He could see the joy in a father's eyes when his baby snuggled further into his neck.

The fear was nice sometimes. When it was someone who deserved it. Like when Dudley's friend Henry punched Harry hard enough to take out his baby tooth and split his lip. Harry had launched forward and kept hitting and hitting and hitting until Henry was crying too hard to make noise and he was covered in reds and blues that never blossomed on Harry's deep skin.

(Henry's eyes were grey. They were scared. It was nice.)

(Henry's parents also moved their whole family far away from the neighborhood the very next week. Harry chalked it up to coincidence.)

Harry liked the happiness a lot more than the sad or scared ones. He liked sitting in the little park far from the Dursleys' and letting the long cuffs of his torn hand-me-downs scrape below the swing, watching the happy families laugh and jump and run around with one another without caring about anything else.

For as long as Harry could remember, he had wanted that. He longed for it. He would sit in his tiny cupboard on the last night of July and beg and plead whoever was up there for someone to find him. At first, Harry wished for someone to take him away. Now, Harry would be content with someone approaching him to just talk. It was a far-fetched dream, something he only dared to dream of in the quiet darkness when he pretended that his parents weren't worthless drunks who cared for the bottle more than their son. That he had a mother that took the time to tame his bird's nest of a head and read to him at night, that he had a father who taught him how to play chess and cook breakfast for his mum in bed, and maybe even an uncle that bought him secret ice creams that ruined his dinner and taught him how to talk to pretty girls at school and maybe even a sister who laughed too loud and grinned too wide and let him wrap her up in soft blankets when she was too cold to ask for it.

But for now, Harry would settle for their eyes.

********************

Ron Weasley, in Ron Weasley's opinion, was not very special.

He was the sixth child of seven in his impoverished family. He got hand-me-down everything, and was expected to do as well as his brothers, if not better. It was nothing special if he could do this, because Percy could too, and if he could do that, well, Bill already had years before.

Sometimes Ron wished he was an only child, if only for the attention he would have.

(He never wanted his siblings dead, Merlin no. He loved them all and wished them the best, even if he was a bit jealous of them.)

Perhaps this was why he was often seen hanging on Harry or Hermione's arm, spending every bit of his free time with the first things that were his, and only his.

They weren't things, and Ron knew this. He knew that they were people, and he knew that they were their own people. He never claimed them aloud, and especially didn't hint at it to Harry. He was already treated like a Thing by his muggles. They locked him away and took him out when he was of use. Ron wanted to be with him all the time, even when he didn't listen and remained as stubborn as an ass.

But they were still Ron's. He didn't like when Fred or George or Ginny would try to covet Harry's attention, or tease Hermione until all the blood rushed up to darken her cheeks to a deep blue. She would hide behind her massive hair that curled around her wildly in a way that she wasn't.

Later, Hermione would shyly admit that she'd never felt wanted, and that she quite liked the way Harry and Ron so openly expressed their need for her. Harry would say the same.

Ron Weasley liked watching people.

He saw everything he needed to from a distance, even if he wanted to get closer. He liked watching quidditch especially, how their bodies moved so gracefully and held no hesitation in their gestures. (This did not extend to his brothers and sister. He actually didn't like watching them in particular, even if he could never pry his eyes away from Harry twisting and turning and reaching as far as he could.)

Every quidditch match was exciting. Ron would emulate certain things, ever since he could remember. Bill's easy-going swagger. Charlie's big hand movements. Percy's chin tilt he did when he was trying to make a point, or the seamless weaving and bobbing Fred and George had mastered together. He'd mostly out grown it before Ginny came along, but sometimes he even ran his hand through his hair like she did. His dad did it, and it was a small thing the three of them shared, and Ron coveted it.

The most ingrained thing about Ron was probably his tactile nature. His mum was the same way. They were probably the most expressive, always ready to give out a hug and kiss on the cheek or just to hold someone.

This came in handy later in life.

Hermione likes to stand on her toes.

It's a small thing that he's sure she isn't really aware of. She'd mentioned offhandedly that her parents had forced her to do ballet when Ron mentioned it, and it became more and more clear. When she stretched she pointed her toes perfectly, and when she turned to speak she'd often spin around on the tips of her feet. It was endearing, especially even when she went on her long winded tangents about anything and everything.

When she talked, her smile lit up the room and her hands flitted about excitedly. When she saw something that caught her eye, Hermione would stretch out her neck and raise her eyebrows high into her uneven bangs.

Hermione was also very awkward. She hid behind her big kinky curls, which Ron soon learned were in that weird frizzy stage because of repeated failed attempts at straightening it. (He quite liked her hair just the way it was, but Hermione didn't, which was disappointing.) Ron would shake his head and teasingly pull on one of her coils so it bounced tightly. She would flush, and when they first met she absolutely despised it. It wasn't until they'd known each other for so long that she would allow him to do so. He was the only one other than Harry that was allowed. Soon after she began to grow comfortable with his casual touches.

So when she would awkwardly put her hand forward to shake Ron's, he would push it away in order to wrap her up tightly in his arms. She'd tense at first before hugging back tentatively, then tightly, as if she never wanted him to let her go.

Harry tugs at his sleeves when he gets nervous.

He does it a lot, actually. When they ride up, he pulls the cuffs down to grip in his palms.

When adults speak to him, he squeezes himself inward to make himself smaller. When they raise their voices, his head drops down ever so slightly, as if it's an instinct he's trying to fight. When they get too close, his body twitches away as if it has a mind of its own.

Ron soon noticed that Harry couldn't handle yelling. Ron and Hermione began to fight about Merlin-knows-what one night by the lake. It wasn't until Ron's voice was slightly hoarse and he paused to take a breath that he remembered that Harry was still there. He was sitting on the damp grass, completely still with his hands muffling his ears and his head tucked between his knees.

Ron always warns Harry before reaching to him. Always asks if its okay. It's soon obvious to Ron that no one has truly hugged Harry, and does so whenever he has the chance. And Harry absolutely clings onto Ron, which is really nice. No one's really done that. His siblings weren't always the touchy-type and his parents were always too busy with this or that to dedicate so much time to the Least Favorite.

(Ron knew that they loved him. He never doubted that. But he was nothing if not a realist.)

But Ron's favorite thing was when Harry would jump on him. Harry never talked much unless one prompted him endlessly, and it was even rarer for him to initiate a conversation or reach out for anyone or anything. So when Harry would get so excited he tackle-hugged Ron into the grass or the floor of the common room, and Hermione would burst into giggles beside them, he'd feel his heart burst open for these two people that truly appreciated him.

Watching people fall was pretty fascinating.

Their bodies would turn and prepare for the inevitable, bracing in fear before the impact came.

They showed something real, in those moments. The shock, the resignation, pure, unadulterated fear that overtook their entire bodies dominated Ron's attention when it happened. And when the fear happened, he saw who they were. How one handles the fear, the harsh reality ready to break their nose it, shows who they truly are.

When Hermione fell into the Devil's Snare, and Ron and Harry were stuck in the stage of fear, he could see Hermione's brain turn over. He saw the way she went straight from the fear to the calm determination of someone who was not ready for the end. He could see the clear fuck you on her face before she sunk below the vines.

When Harry's broom began to shake and throw him off in a violent rage, Ron saw the fear. He saw the clear fear outline every bone of his body before his grip tightened and his body swung upwards. He could see the resignation, and he could see the acceptance of what would happen. But that wasn't standing out as much as the look that overtook his entire face. He could hear it from the stands, the way he was telling himself - not without a fight.

Ron quite liked the fear. He liked seeing them panic and squirm. He liked knowing who they were, if only for a moment.

When he punched Goyle in the face, he saw it. When he beat him over and over in the empty corridor, Ron knew. He didn't have that fight in him, the way his best friends do. He was pitiful, really. Ron felt no sympathy afterwards, merely watched as the larger boy scrambled away bloody and terrified.

And later, when Ron let Harry bandage his knuckles in a way that no eleven year old should be able to do with such ease, he watched the blood swirl down the drain with morbid fascination.

His knuckles were swollen and bruised, and Harry was endlessly careful with them.

Goyle had gotten a good punch in, and Hermione's hand flitted around his cheek worriedly for a good two minutes before calming down.

And the next day, when Goyle's bruises were yellow with some kind of accelerated healing potion, Ron was quite disappointed that the colors had left so quickly. He felt put-out, robbed even, of the satisfaction he'd wanted. That he'd earned.

But when their eyes met, and Goyle flinched to look down with shameful fear, Ron decided that he could settle for that.

********************

Hermione Granger had always been a smart girl. It was something she had always prided herself in. Top of her class, always on time, always perfect.

Her parents had made sure of that. The Grangers would not permit their only child to fail. They refused to have a fuck up for a daughter. It would disgrace them beyond belief, leaving the family humiliated and shame-faced for all of the world to see.

Hermione Granger was used to the low expectations. She had long since grown accustomed to people looking down on her. From her buck teeth, to dark skin, to her frizzy hair, not many expected much from her.

They were proper people, the Grangers. Practical and no-nonsense types that expected their child to achieve a level of success that they were never able to reach.

So it was quite a shock when one day a severe-looking woman appeared on their doorstep in a tall pointy hat and bright green bathrobe that smelled faintly of cat treats.

Hermione had had an inkling about the magic. Strange occurrences, things that logic simply could not explain.

"It snowed once," she had murmured under her breath.

The three adults stopped their snapping, which had been quickly escalating into a fully-blown argument, to look towards the girl.

"What was that?" the professor had sniped quickly.

Hermione looked towards her parents, their lips pressed together tensely as they stared down their daughter through narrowed eyes.

"It snowed," Hermione'd said a bit more clearly. "When... when I read Narnia." She barely kept from flinching when her mother's fist clenched at the mention of one of those horrid fairy tales, but Hermione looked down and twisted her lips from side to side.

"Why is that?" the woman had asked a touch less harshly.

"In the story the kids went through a wardrobe and found a place where it snowed all year round. I just wanted to visit somewhere... somewhere different. Like..."

When Hermione made no effort to finish the professor made the effort to kneel before her to match their heights.

And slowly, the professor's lips began to pull up ever so slightly into an encouraging (and slightly conspiratorial) smile. "Somewhere magical?"

"Yes," Hermione had breathed out emphatically, nodding her head so vigorously that the beads in her weighty braids clanked together loudly enough to echo around the silent room.

"Well, I think that I may be able to make that happen."

To be entirely truthful, Hermione didn't much like school.

She loved learning. She had always loved learning. It was her favorite thing in the whole world. But the pressure, both from the school and her family, made Hermione want to tear her hair out until there was nothing left. Her parents were terrible about it. They monitored her grades as closely as humanly possible. And it was't enough to just do good, or great, or perfect. She had to be better than everyone in anything and everything she did.

Hermione had done ballet when she was little. It wan't her favorite thing in the world, but it had been fun.

But she wasn't The Best.

So her parents made her quit.

Harry and Ron were different than most.

They were her friends. Her real friends. Most people sneered at her in class when her hand always shot up and she jumped at the chance to answer every question she could and fight to be the first one to demonstrate how much better she was than them. (There had been a period of time where Hermione had stopped doing so. Her parents found out. She began raising her hand again.)

Her boys sometimes did that. When Hermione got overexcited and cut off the teacher Harry would sometimes hide his face with his hand or Ron would groan and roll his eyes. But the second someone else said something to her, they would jump at the chance to defend her and take no prisoners.

The three of them were family. A real family. Not like at home where dinner was tense and silent while Hermione's father picked apart every single sentence of her school progress reports, or when Harry would talk about his relatives in quivering whispers before quickly changing the subject before they could ask about his over-sized clothing and the gruesome pattern of raised skin on his arms.

Hermione laughed more with them in her first year at Hogwarts than she ever had in her entire existence. While Harry had a strange kind of gasping laugh that she could hardly distinguish between joy or pain, Ron's was full-bodied and bright. But they were both amazing. They sounded happy. Safe. Kind of like home.

She had never been so happy in her life.

Hermione loved magic.

It had a strange set of rules to it. Strange. Different. But soon enough, Hermione understood it.

Her favorite was potions. There was a definitive way to it, logic that was always followed. Hermione could follow a method and it would be perfect. Action and reaction. That was all it was. Action and reaction. Action and reaction.

(Snape was obviously terrible. He made her face burn and tears spring to her eyes. But she couldn't stop raising her hand or jumping in to answer questions. She just couldn't. If it got back to her parents it would be a thousand times worse than anything Snape could ever do to her.)

But outside of the classroom, Hermione fell in love with the method of potion-making. It was soothing and gentle and welcoming and just so perfect for her. Outside of the dankness of the dungeons and the harsh bearing of Severus Snape's beady black eyes, Hermione Granger sat in the sunlight of the second floor girls' lavatory and created masterpieces. She used her tools to create art. From potions of brilliant greens to velvety purples to bright blues so clear that she could see the bottom of the cauldron through. It was stunningly beautiful. And it took her breath away.

But she wasn't The Best.

(not yet, at least)

It was early on a Saturday morning.

The sun streamed through the tall window of the second floor girls' lavatory and landed on Hermione and her cauldron at the perfect angle. It was a potion recipe that Harry had found in the restricted section and given to her. (Normally, Hermione would never condone breaking rules. At school, no less. But this was a Special Circumstance.) It caused the consumer's heart to beat so fast that the blood couldn't make it through the arteries quickly enough, causing them them to clog and trigger a heart attack.

Hermione hadn't planned on actually giving it to anyone. It would be disgustingly terrible. To cause someone's death...

But then, the colors were so pretty. Swirling pinks and purples moving like waves crashing upon the sand, splashing against the sides of the cauldron of their own accord. Her eyes traced their movements, transfixed into a deep state of pure calm.

She didn't even notice when some of it had splashed up over the lip of the cauldron. It landed on the tiles with a decisive plink that echoed in the silence.

Hermione hadn't seen the rat until it was too late. She watched in horror as the small rodent moved towards the spilled potion, sniffing at it before licking hesitantly.

Before she could yell for it to stop, the rat began to convulse on the dirty floor. Hermione could do nothing but watch as the poor thing's body shook violently, squealing pathetically and rolling around in excruciating pain.

And then the blood.

There was so much in its tiny body. It was actually quite shocking. Spilling from everywhere from its eyes to its mouth to its ears. It was a horror scene - party of one.

Hermione wanted it to stop. She wanted to save the little rat. It was cruel and unkind and unfair and...

Disgustingly beautiful.

The vividness of its blood threw her off. It was smooth and thick, running through the grooves of the tiles in gentle rivulets akin to that of the rivers that carved through the Forest of Dean.

It was very different to see this kind of pain tearing its course through something. It felt almost satisfying to watch. Like she was seeing her own pain manifest itself within a tiny conductor, forcing everything inside of her inside of it.

And it was Hermione that was doing it. Hermione's potion. Her own knowledge and power transferring into another living breathing thing, wreaking its havoc as it went.

Action and reaction.

Sometimes Hermione would watch others in school with the same lens that she had watched that rat. She would bore holes through the side of Pansy Parkinson's head or clench her hands to avoid tilting the entirety of her scalding potion down the back of Professor Snape's robes during class.

(She would fantasize about it. Sometimes Hermione felt like a monster for doing so, but then she would look at Ron when he dug his fingertips into the desk and glare at Draco Malfoy with a barely concealed type of rage that she Knew meant that they were the same.)

(Harry was a little different. He didn't always have that kind of rage inside of him. But he would watch when Ron would fight others, untamed and wild in every aspect. And it would glimmer behind the vibrant green of his irises that Hermione had yet to recreate with one of her potions.)

Hermione wanted to do it. She wanted to drip just the littlest bit of her art onto their wrists. Just a drop. She wanted to watch their skin shrivel and burn, eaten away by the nature of her poison. She wanted to hear them scream. She wanted them to feel what she feels, if only for a bit. She wanted to paint with their blood, tracing sigils of old into her skin and practicing the kind of magic that would have her mother fainting on the front lawn and her father puking into the ugly orange tulips tracing the stark white walls of her pretty little muggle home.

But for now, she'd have to settle for the rats haunting the bathroom floor.

[aotwaifu]

Hey I'm the person who as for Mikasa as a mother can the Reader be an male

Okay so I assumed this is meaning, Mikasa as a mother to a reader who is a male? Anyway! Requests are still open! <3

|||

Bundle of Joy — Mikasa! Mother x Reader! Child.

Character: Male!

Summary: in AU standpoint!

|||

Streams of golden light seeped into the partially opened curtain. There was a rustle of movement. Before a small sigh and a again slight twitch of movement. Mikasa slowly opened her left eye as strands of hair and twinkle of sunlight devoured the sight of the little form in front of her. Gently her hand caressed the little (h/c) haired head, his mouth partly opened while his arms stretched above his head. His small snores brought a tiny smile to Mikasa as she slowly pulled the little boy closer to her chest.

With her arms wrapped gently under his back and her face snuggled into the side, placing soft and loving kisses. She ruffled his hair as he began inaudible protests. His body wriggling against Mikasa’s tender hold.

“Muuum” the little voice whined attempting to shove Mikasa’s face out of his.

Mikasa giggled, “you have to get up”.

Her son—(Y/n) Ackerman–pouted with his eyes shut. Rolling to his side again facing the window. He mumbled a few inaudible sentences before slowly descending back into sleep. Mikasa smiled her frame softly pressed against his small body, her hand reached out and timidly stroked his hair.

“Come on (Y/n), I need to bath and dress you for today” she replied, (y/n) grumbled in return.

(Y/n) flipped back to his side, his half asleep eyes looking longingly at his mother. Mikasa smiled her fingers softly tracing over his small button nose and his rosy cheeks. She felt her heart curl in her chest and a warm feeling fall over her as she stared at her child. (Y/n) leaned towards his mother’s chin giving a sloppy and small kiss.

“Mwah” he mumbled against her skin.

Mikasa laughed before sitting him up from their bed. They always shared and slept her bed despite (Y/n) having his own small one. Eren insisted on building the small bed frame for (Y/n) when he turned four despite Mikasa’s protest. In the end it was only a product of appearing good, sitting in the bedroom and well–not to hurt Eren’s pride with the hard work he put into it. Mikasa tried putting (Y/n) in the bed but it only earned her a confused stare.

“Do you not want me to sleep with you Mommy anymore?” He bluntly asked making Mikasa feel guilty and ultimately changed her mind.

Now here he was cooped up closer to Mikasa in their bed while the other bed remained untouched. Like a little bird in a nest, Mikasa never thought negatively about it but felt more assured with having her son near her while they slept.

“Mommy can we go out today” (y/n)’s small voice echoed, bringing Mikasa out of her thoughts.

(Y/n)’s eyes were glossy as he stared longingly out the window, the sky reflecting back a bright blue. His hands placed either side of his body while the baggy orange pajama shirt cling to his body. Mikasa studied her son and almost could see the small resemblance of her father.

“Yes. We can go out today” Mikasa replied ruffling his hair again.

—

“(Y-Y/n) wait a minute” Mikasa called as she watched (Y/n) quickly speed by his mother’s side.

Eren watched as (Y/n)’s face leaned up against the shops window. His small beanie was a bit too big for his head and it’s furry ball at the top would occasionally droop down and tickle his nose. Eren snickered as he watched Mikasa try to get a hold of his hand.

“Relax Mikasa. He’s just curious” he ushered to her.

Mikasa sent a lawful stare at Eren before sighing. Both and (Y/n) had decided to run to the nearby bakery and indulge in the winter season.

However, Mikasa had dressed (Y/n) in a red puffy jacket followed by the oversized beanie and long pants. At first Eren tried to object saying it won’t be that cold but all he earned was a scornful stare. (Y/n) didn’t mind however, he knew his mother was just trying to keep him warm and stop him from catching a cold.

“He has more energy today than he did yesterday” Mikasa sighed, a tired expression falling across her face.

Eren giggled placing a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s just a kid” he remarked, Mikasa scoffed.

It felt like yesterday since (Y/n) was only a small, sleeping pod glued to Mikasa’s chest. Sometimes Mikasa would catch herself longing for her baby boy to go back into that stage, where she could hold and protect him. Of course she was overprotective but inevitably was absolutely infatuated with her son. He’s her world.

The small bakery came into view and Mikasa carefully watched as (Y/n) stopped in front of the sign. His body whipped around as he sent a flamboyant smile to the pair, his finger pointing up to the bakery sign.

“We’re here!” He cheered.

Mikasa and Eren laughed. Mikasa scooped (Y/n) into her arms before entering the warm bakery, the small tingle of the bell going off as they walk in. (Y/n) excitedly leaned forward, his face practically pressing against the glass that was reflecting the sweets and pastries. Mikasa giggled, whispering into his ear to calm down. Eren eyed one the creamy pieces of cake, his mind already made up. Eren glanced at (y/n) who was in a trance, his eyes glossed at the same piece of cake as small pools of drool made it’s way to the side of his small chin.

Eren ruffled the top of the beanie before smiling and ordering for the piece of cake. Mikasa studied as (y/n)’s eyes glistened with adoration and love as he was given the brown parchment. Beholding the dear cake. She swore she was in tranquility and felt her heart swoon. The three of them all sat inside the warm bakery. Soft chatter of other customers residing inside the warmth filled the air as all three dug into the sweets.

Eren and (Y/n) both had forks in their hands as they shared the piece of cake. Since (Y/n) was born, Eren and Armin were constantly around. Both men were absolutely swoon over baby Ackerman and became so overly attached. It ended up with both men moving in and living with Mikasa and (Y/n). Mikasa attempted to assure that she was capable of taking care of (Y/n) on her own but both friends insisted on sticking around.

“Mama.. where’s uncle Armin?” (Y/n) chirped, glancing from his fork to his mother.

Mikasa replied, “he’s away this weekend. He’ll be back soon”.

(Y/n) nodded his head in a mixture of approval and understanding. He wasn’t a fussy child as Mikasa was expecting; he liked his toys and sleeping close with her of course– but overall he was a perfect kid. Mikasa would often see herself in him. He had his odd features of being loud but he was very well mannered and kept to his own business. He was a concerned child, often doing things to ensure his mother was okay. Like frequently running her a warm bath after she had come home. Mikasa didn’t realise it until recently how special of a bond they had.

“What do you want for Christmas (Y/n)” Eren asked as he looked down at the small kid.

Like usual little kids, both adults were expecting a list of random toys. Eren began mentally noting recent action toys that were released and was determined to find the best pick for (Y/n). Mikasa could feel the wallet in her pocket deflate as she evidently forgot how close Christmas was.

(Y/n) paused and his small mind went into a deep trance. His eyes flickered between the cake and his plastic fork in his hand. A couple of moments of silence passed and (y/n) gazed at both Mikasa and Eren.

“Will Uncle Armin be there?” He asked.

“Of course he will” Mikasa replied, slight confusion coming over her and Eren.

They both glanced at each other with questioning looks before turning back to the small boy. A soft smile and gaze morphed onto his face as he looked at two out of three of the people he loved most dearly.

“Well then that’s all I want for christmas” he smiled, parts of the cake staining the sides of his smile.

Mikasa felt her heart hammer into her chest as she gazed at her son. Eren smiled as his cheeks began to change into a light pink, earning a small giggle for Mikasa. (Y/n) dove right back into the cake not giving much thought to how touching his response was. Mikasa ruffled his beanie as both adults started up another conversation. After a few minutes of chatter and light hearted laughs, (Y/n) paused.

“Actually there is one thing I do want” he chimed into the conversation. Both adults leaned forward.

“A baby sister!” He smiled.

Mikasa’s face turned pale and Eren’s eyes widen. Eren turned to Mikasa softly snickering at her face before softly patting (Y/n)’s head.

Oh how he was so utterly loved.

\\\

Had to do it in an AU standpoint because I don’t see Mikasa having babies anytime soon <3 but hope this was earnest enough :/

[youtuberswithalex]

PRVL, Vol 3, Ch 3: It’s Brawl in the Family

Summary: Riad’s risky move comes to play as Roman and their friends watch and worry in the stands. Will it pay off, or will it cost Team AMBR the match?

Word Count: 3,291

Warnings: Fighting (in a tournament), mentions of alcohol

Tag List: @haikyuupaladin @an0therrand0 @isabel3710 @ilia-a-isms (Let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

Masterpost – Volume 1 – Previous - Next 

---

Anole kept his head under the shallow water and swam as fast as he could, eyes glued to the blurs fighting at the top of the bird’s nest. Each kick of his feet sent sand up to cloud the water further; by the time he made it to the other end of the pool, he could hardly see a thing.

He pressed his hands on the rising bank and scrambled onto dry land, frantically pushing his now-soaked bangs out of his face.

The ground jolted beneath his feet.

Letting out a yelp, Anole stumbled and crashed face-first into the sand as the stage began to tremble.

Ash and Mauve gasped and threw themselves onto the edges of the bird’s nest, gripping with white knuckles while Bora and Marjani grabbed each other’s hands and beamed.

Myrtille toppled backwards and fell to her knees. She slammed her ice saw into the floor before slamming her metal leg down next to it, cleats shooting out from the bottom.

The sound of cracking rock sounded across the arena, and as Sakiz lost her hold, the loose boulder toppled over. It splashed into the lava pit, sending bubbles flying everywhere.

Sakiz landed right on top with a heavy oof!, and only a drop of lava hit her armor.

The earthquake slowed to a stop.

Riad sat up and let out a sigh of relief before Myrtille let out a cry and tackled him back to the ground.

Looping his bow around the quiver on his back, Anole leapt onto the mast, the scaly grooves on his palms sticking easily to the wood. He swung his feet far behind him as he used his upper body strength to scale his way up. When he reached the bottom of the bird’s nest, he braced his heels below him; he walked his hands across the bottom as quickly as he could before gripping the boards on the side and swinging out.

Through the cracks, he watched as Ash threw an uppercut into Marjani’s chin; in return, she kicked her back, sending her struggling to keep her balance on the edge.

Anole grinned.

He gripped the top of the nest and hoisted himself up as he threw out a leg to knock Ash to the ground. Mauve whipped around and aimed an arrow at him, but he somersaulted onto the floor just as it whizzed past his hair. Yanking his own weapon out, he shot an arrow through her dress, pinning her to the side of the compartment.

“Four square, huh?” Bora huffed.

Growling, Anole scrambled over and started to unwrap the chain. “Shut up, not my best plan.”

The chain dropped to the ground, and Marjani shoved one of her swords into Bora’s hands. “Don’t blame, fight,” she said.

There was a laugh behind them.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mauve replied.

The three whipped around to see her balancing on the side of the bird’s nest, her taut bow aiming at their feet. Ash crouched on the floor next to her, her chain in one hand and Anole’s arrow in the other.

“This fight’s over.”

She fired a red arrow and dropped; Ash leapt out after her, grasping her by the wrist. The arrow wedged itself into the wood in front of Anole’s feet and started to flash.

“Great,” he grumbled.

Ka-BOOM!

Nila gasped as they watched three bodies go sailing across the field. “They’re not gonna land it!”

Thamir grimaced. “So that means…”

The buzzer sounded.

“Ooh, what an upset!” Professor Port’s voice echoed around the arena. “Three out of the four members of Team AMBR have been eliminated by knock-out!”

“Truly, what an unfortunate circumstance! It is now up to Mr. Airtafae to win this match, with his worryingly-low Aura levels after that astonishing demonstration of his semblance!”

“Four against one,” Lloyd finished. “This isn’t going to end well.”

Roman whirled around to glare at him. “How dare you assume that my boyfriend can’t hold his own!” he exclaimed. “Riad can and will take these fine ladies single-handedly and destroy them!”

“I have reason to believe you are highly overestimating him,” Logan stated.

“Roman’s definitely got one hell of a pair of rose-tinted glasses,” Thamir laughed.

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Roman doesn’t wear glasses…”

Riad kicked Myrtille off of him and dove for his mace; as soon as it was in his hands, he slammed it into the ground, setting off an explosion that had both him and Myrtille flying in opposite directions. He skidded to a stop, one hand on the ground for balance, as she tumbled towards the water.

Just before she fell in, Mauve leapt over the water and shoved her down to the stage. Ash landed next to them and launched her chain into the lava field, snatching Sakiz and bringing her to safety in a second.

They slowly stalked around him; he watched carefully, gripping his weapon tight.

“You might as well give up now, kid,” Ash said. “There’s no winning this match for your precious team.”

He shot her a confident smirk. “I don’t stop fighting until the end.”

Myrtille let out a hum. “That’s respectable. You seem like a cool guy. I kinda wish we didn’t have to do this to you.”

“Let’s get dinner sometime after this,” Sakiz offered.

“Sorry, girls. I’m already taken.”

Behind him, he heard the creaking of a bow.

“Who said any of us were interested?” Mauve asked.

Riad whirled around and swung his mace, the spikes crashing into the arrow just before it hit him; he ducked just as a machete flew above his head and swung his leg to knock Sakiz’s feet out from under her. As she fell forward, he leapt up and landed an uppercut on her jaw. He snatched the chain as it flew towards him, yanking Ash into a kick in the stomach. The ice saw flew down out of the corner of his eye, and he threw his mace up just in time to block.

Myrtille spun and twirled her saw, wrapping the chain of his mace around the handle before yanking him over and putting him in a headlock. He threw his elbow into her stomach, but she held her ground.

“Now!”

With wide eyes, Riad watched the other three come sprinting towards him.

A punch to the stomach.

A kick to the shin.

A headbutt to the face.

A buzzer.

“Oh, and with that brutal elimination, Team SAMM proceeds to the Doubles Round!”

As the girls dropped their stances to cheer, Riad slumped to the floor, panting heavily. He squeezed his eyes shut and hissed through his teeth.

“Riad!” a voice screamed.

Roman shot into the air and towards the stage, ignoring his friends’ cries in favor of keeping his focus on his fallen love. It was hardly a split second later when, not unlike a bird to a well-cleaned window, he crashed into the shield protecting the stands from harm.

He fell to the floor with a groan; when he sat up and looked over to Riad, he was slowly making his way towards the locker rooms, shoulders low and his mace dragging behind.

-----

 “That was awful.”

Virtus offered a soft, sympathetic smile and put his hand on Roman’s shoulder as they stepped off the airship. “Yeah, that’s tournaments, kid. It’s always the people you want to win that lose.”

“But it’s so not fair!” Roman exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “How did we pass onto Round Two and not AMBR?!”

“We were against different teams, Roman,” Logan pointed out. “There is no evidence to suggest that we would have won against SAMM, nor that Team AMBR would have lost to Team JTTT.”

Roman looked away. “I know, but… still. Seeing Riad like that…” He sighed. “I’d at least have felt a little better if Anole had actually let me talk to them.”

Esther adjusted her hijab. “Give them time to lick their wounds. They need it.”

Giving his shoulder one final pat, Virtus put his hands on his hips and stopped to look at the group. “Well, I don’t know about you three, but watching all that fighting made me hungry. Whaddya say we meet up with the other two and head into Vale to get something to eat?”

“Why not go to the fairgrounds?” Roman asked.

“Can’t exactly eat in public without pulling that down, now, can we?” Esther said, pointing to Virtus’s mask.

“Oh. Right.”

Logan opened his scroll. “I’ll send Virgil a message to have them meet us—”

“Guys! Guys!”

They spun around to see Virgil already sprinting towards them, Patton hot on his heels. The Lyceums each reached for their weapons; as soon as they saw the huge grin on Virgil’s face, they relaxed.

The two skidded to a stop, and Virgil frantically pointed behind him towards the courtyard. “Did you guys see that?! Please tell me you saw that!”

“See what?” Roman asked.

Virgil let out a cry and dug his hands into his hair. “You just missed this incredible fight!”

“In the courtyard?”

“Yes!”

“There was this Huntsman with a big sword,” Patton explained, “And he was fighting with an Atlas Military woman!”

“Not just any woman—a specialist!” Virgil added. “They were so fast and strong—dude would’ve beaten her clean if General Ironwood hadn’t stepped in!”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Who would be foolish enough to attack an Atlas Military Specialist?”

Patton shrugged. “I think his name was Crow, or something.”

Roman froze. “Wait—wait—you said he had a big sword? Was he drunk?!”

“Um… Maybe?”

His face turned a deep red. “Was… Was it Qrow Branwen…?”

“The one from Team STRQ?” Virtus asked. “Is he still picking fights?”

Roman buried his face in his hands, wings curling around himself. “Gods…! That was one of my teachers at Signal!”

“What?!”

“The drunk dude?!”

“He’s a teacher?!”

“Not anymore,” Roman replied as he dropped his hands. “Yang said that he left to go on some mission that was going to last a really long time or something. Didn’t think he’d be returning at all, let alone like that…”

Logan crossed his arms. “And where would Yang have acquired that information?”

“Um… Her and Ruby’s dad?” Roman shot. “He’s their uncle.”

Virtus smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Gah, of course she is! Should’ve known from the moment Ruby pulled out her scythe!”

“Oh, come on! You couldn’t have guessed it just by that!” Esther exclaimed as she swatted his shoulder. “That girl in Team AMBR had one, too! It’s the hair that should’ve given it away!”

“Her hair doesn’t look anything like his!”

“Oh, what are you—?!”

“Okay, okay—” Logan put his hands between the two and shook his head. “If we want to eat in Vale, we cannot start this conversation. Patton, Virgil, would you like to join us?”

Virgil put his hands in his pockets. “Sure, I could go for some food. Where are we going?”

“I’ve got a few places in mind we can pick from,” Virtus said. “We can decide when we get closer.”

“Trust us when we say the food is great,” Esther added. “One of the places has a pumpkin bread that is absolutely to die for.”

Roman perked up. “Oh? Riad loves pumpkin bread! You must tell me where I can find this!”

Logan looked to Patton; he frowned when he saw his arms wrapped around himself, looking away.

“Patton?”

His head snapped up. “Huh?”

“Are you going to be joining us for dinner?” he asked again.

Shifting his weight between his feet, Patton looked away hesitantly and shrugged. “I… don’t think I can,” he whispered. “I don’t really have any Lien…”

“Who said you were paying?” Virtus cut in.

Patton blinked at him, eyes wide. “U-Uh… I thought…”

Virtus cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Hey, c’mon. We’ve got the money, and you kids definitely earned it today!”

“No, it’s—it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“We want to,” he replied. “We wanna get to know you kids better, anyway. What better way to do it than over some grub?”

“I…”

Mouth still half open, his eyes flicked between Virtus’ and Logan’s shoes; when they lifted to look at Logan’s face, he did his best to offer an encouraging smile. Patton shrunk in on himself further before turning to Virtus.

“Are you sure…?”

Virtus beamed. “Absolutely! C’mon, now. This restaurant isn’t going to pick itself!”

He turned and started to lead the group back towards the airships while Logan waited in place for Patton to catch up. As soon as he was near, he held out his hand; Patton glanced at it, softly shook his head, and scurried along.

Logan frowned before trailing after them.

----

 The setting sun shone a soft, warm glow through the windows of the quiet diner. Though it was rather packed compared to a normal day, most of the tables kept their conversations soft and to themselves. Servers wandered between their tables, and the radio playing in the background left a calm atmosphere.

At a table near the back, one of the patrons slammed his fist down.

“Tallahassee couldn’t hold a flame to Pyrrha Nikos!” Virgil exclaimed.

“Are you kidding me?! She doesn’t even use her Semblance in battles!” Virtus shot back. “Tallahassee has two AI in her armor! Two!”

“Yeah, exactly! Pyrrha doesn’t need any help! She can kick anyone’s butt with just her raw strength alone!”

Logan scooped up some pasta. “Virgil does have a point, Father. She would also surely allow the rest of Team JNPR to help her, whereas Tallahassee refuses to accept any help, be it from the Pinks, the Purples, or the Mercenaries.”

“Of course she wouldn’t, they’re all idiots!” Virtus laughed, nudging Logan hard enough that his food fell back to the plate. “That’s the whole point of the show!”

Patton frowned, looking to Virgil. “I thought it was about capture the flag in a canyon?”

Roman let out a groan and dropped his fork to run his hands through his hair. “Is there nothing else we can talk about other than a theoretical fight between a cartoon character and a real person?!”

“PvP isn’t a cartoon,” Virgil huffed. “It’s made in a video game.”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t know, Roman. Pink Versus Purple seems to be a show you would enjoy,” Logan said.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes. You don’t agree?”

“Uh… Not really,” he replied. “It’s, like, all dialogue. No singing or dancing or any of that Volt Tawny crap.”

Roman gasped. “Did you just call Volt Tawny—?!”

“Alright, alright, alright,” Esther interrupted. “Roman had a point earlier. We can debate fictional characters against each other any time, but we’ve got a whole tournament right in front of us that we’ll never get a second chance to speculate on! Why aren’t we pitting two real people against each other?!”

“Like who?” Logan asked.

Patton poked at his small plate of fries. “What about that Penny girl that Ruby’s been hanging out with?”

Virtus slapped his hands together and pointed at him, ignoring the way he flinched. “Now she’s a real fighter!” he exclaimed. “I would not be surprised at all if she were to win this year! That kid’s got some real power behind those swords!”

“No, way! Coco Adel’s got it in the bag!” Esther said.

“Ohh, you’re just saying that because you like her weapon!”

Logan cleared his throat, rendering his parents silent. “I believe we do, in fact, still have a matter we need to discuss about the tournament.”

Roman sunk into the booth with a sigh; Virgil looked between the two with a raised eyebrow. “And that would be…?”

“Who will be proceeding from our team to the Doubles round.” He reached up to fiddle with his necklace as he began to inspect his suddenly very interesting pasta. “I… would very much appreciate it if you would allow me to be one. I’ll admit that my reasons are more… sentimental, than anything, but I’m sure you know that I would fight to my full potential in the name of our team, regardless of the emotions behind it.”

Virtus gently put his hand on his shoulder; Logan swallowed thickly and placed his hand over top of his. He took a deep breath and looked at each of his three teammates in turn.

“That being said,” he continued, voice cracking and steadying within a syllable, “It would mean a great deal to me if you were to choose me to proceed forward in the tournament.”

“Oh, Logan!” Patton cooed. “Of course you can!”

“You are the strongest member of our team,” Roman added. “I don’t think there was any chance we’d tell you not to.”

Virgil smiled and gave him a soft kick under the table. “Yeah, dude, if anyone can win this for us, it’s you. You’re gonna destroy whoever we go up against, no matter who it is.” Then, with a thumbs up, he added, “You’ve got our support.”

If there was an extra sheen to Logan’s eyes, no one said a word.

“Thank you,” he thickly responded. “I promise I will not disappoint you.”

Virtus frowned, brow furrowing as he turned to look at Logan. “What?”

Logan cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Um— I believe we still need to choose one more of us to join me in the next round.”

“Uh… Yeah,” Virgil carefully replied, watching as Virtus and Esther shot each other a glance over Logan’s head. “Yeah, um… I think Patton should be the one to go.”

Patton startled, dropping a fry back onto his plate. “M-Me?!”

“That is an excellent suggestion,” Logan replied.

With wide eyes, Patton leaned forward in the booth to watch as Roman nodded along with them. His mouth opened and closed a few times as his gaze darted between the three.

“Why… Why me?” he asked, voice about an octave higher than normal.

“Well, I sure as hell don’t want to be out on stage again,” Virgil said. He took a deep breath and leaned back. “Not in front of that many people, at least.”

“And, Roman was the only one of us to get knocked out in our fight,” Logan added. “Not to mention how wonderful an opportunity it would be to help you train yourself in fighting with your semblance.”

Patton spluttered. “But—But you know I can’t! If—”

His eyes flicked to Virtus for just a split second. He shrunk in on himself.

“…You know why I can’t use it in the tournament,” he quietly finished.

“With all due respect, Pat, I don’t think it matters much at this point,” Roman piped in. “They’ve probably already seen the match.”

Gaze falling to the floor, Patton reached up to fiddle with the edges of his collar. “That’s what I’m afraid of…”

“What does it even matter?” Virgil questioned, gently nudging his arm. “You haven’t talked to them in months, and it’s not like you’re going to any time soon. If they try to come fight you, the three of us would get rid of them in a second. You know that, don’t you?”

“I… do, I guess…”

“Then there should be nothing to fear,” Logan stated. Then, with a soft smile, he added, “Please, Patton. I truly believe you are the best person to participate in the next round with me.”

Patton looked up at him, still hunching in on himself. “…You’re sure?”

Logan held out a hand. “I’m positive.”

There was a long moment where he stared at it and chewed on his lip. The others watched with baited breath.

Finally, Patton let out a breath, swallowed thickly, and took Logan’s hand.

“I’ll do my best.”

[marmeladednd]

take all that pain and turn it into love

Caleb is not one for physical affection.

Frumpkin is, though. After all, he’s just a cat. And like every cat, from every plane of existence, he likes to 1. cause mayhem at times and 2. chin scratches. Caleb doesn’t want to think about what that means for his own character, with Frumpkin technically coming from his innermost spirit, or subconscious, or whatever.

 Of course, the person Frumpkin snuggles with most, is Caleb. He will curl up in his lap, or lie down across his shoulders, or climb up his body however he can. And sometimes he does that without Caleb telling him to- at least not consciously. But Frumpkin will lie down on top of him, and start purring, and push his little face into Caleb’s clothes, no matter how dirty they are.

Caleb recognizes, of course, the inherent redundance of Frumpkin giving him physical affection, the psychological implications of it all. But it’s also just really damn nice. 

At first, Caleb is careful with Frumpkin around the Nein. 

It’s not like Frumpkin is really vulnerable- Caleb can just summon him again once he’s been disintegrated, with enough time and supplies. 

But Frumpkin is, in some way or another, a piece of him. 

And Caleb is not one to give away pieces of him to random people he barely knows. 

The only one who’s allowed to handle Frumpkin is Nott, because she’s the only one Caleb allows in, the only one who doesn’t ask too many questions, the only one he trusts. 

She’s gentle with Frumpkin, happy when he’s there, but okay when he’s not. She plays with him when he offers, pets him when he lets her and always offers him some of her food, even though she knows he can’t eat it. 

Caleb tells himself not to get attached to people. To not trust them. No matter how nice they are. 

But then, there’s monsters, and travelling, and suddenly, they’re in Zadash, and even though there’s a war coming, Caleb finds himself wanting to run away less and less. Finds himself slowly starting to trust them. Not all of them. Not at once. 

Finds himself smiling more often. Laughing, sometimes. Being touched. Hugged. Cared about. 

“Frumpy!”

Jester loves Frumpkin, and she doesn’t hide it at all. In her typical way, she calls for him every time Caleb summons him, using that nick name, beckons him close, arms reaching out to touch him, pet him, hug him to her chest. 

“Who’s a cute kitty? Who’s the cutest kitty? You are! Come heeeere!” 

She actually drops to the floor, a big smile on her face, and Caleb can see her wonderful, childish, genuine joy in her face when she reaches out, opening her arms for Frumpkin. 

Frumpkin pats over to her, meowing happily as Caleb looks on, hiding the smallest smile in his scarf. Jester grabs Frumpkin, lifting him to her face, burying her face in his side and then pressing kisses to his ear which he accepts graciously. 

“Aww I missed you! It’s really stupid when you get disintegrated, Frumpy. I hate it! It’s good to have you back.” 

Caleb feels himself blush, just a little.

Frumpkin licks Jester’s cheek, once. 

Frumpkin really likes Yasha. 

Even though her hands are so big, they’re gentle, and her quiet voice is soothing. Frumpkin climbs into her lap whenever he can, whenever she’s around, and her pleasant surprise always tugs on something inside Caleb. It’s like she’s surprised such a small creature wants to be around her. 

Frumpkin plays with the beads woven into her hair, and she lets him, watching him with a gentle smile on her face. 

Beau is nice to Frumpkin before she’s nice to Caleb.

Frumpkin, unlike Caleb, has claws and sharp teeth, and so the grumpy and gruff don’t scare him off so easily. 

And so, Caleb finds out that Beau is actually way nicer when she talks to animals as opposed to humans. 

And the way she looks at Frumpkin when he walks next to her, or when he jumps around in her line of sight, trying to catch a bug, or when he lies down in the sun, Caleb recognizes something in her gaze: longing. 

“Yeah, get it!”, she cheers when Frumpkin finally catches that fly that’s been annoying them for the past half hour, and calls him “bro” when he drops it before her feet, prize of his victory. 

“Can you teach a cat to fist bump?” 

Fjord is allergic to cats, and so Frumpkin doesn’t approach him- even though he really wants to. Caleb can actually feel it. Maybe it’s just a cat personality trait to want what you can’t have. 

Whenever Frumpkin is a different animal, though, he will sit with Fjord, a lot, as if to make up for the time lost whenever he’s a cat. And Fjord just smiles at Frumpkin when that happens, and then at Caleb until Caleb has to look away. 

Bird Frumpkin sits on Fjord’s shoulder, and when it gets cold, hops into the side of his collar, and makes a little nest there for himself, and when no one is looking, Fjord turns his head and presses the briefest, smallest kiss to Frumpkin’s fragile little bird body.

Mollymauk is basically a cat, the way he behaves, the way he slinks around, the way he acts aloof but clearly craves affection.

Maybe that is why Frumpkin and him get along so well. 

Maybe it’s something else entirely.

Which, again, falls under things Caleb doesn’t want to think about too hard.

Molly lets Frumpkin lick his fingertips, and he pets him for hours while Caleb is busy with his books. 

When Caleb can’t sleep, which happens a lot, Frumpkin sometimes wanders into Molly’s bed during nights when they share a room, curling up against Molly’s neck as Caleb watches in the dark.

Molly opens his eyes, just briefly, glowing red in the dark as they meet Caleb’s. 

Then he puts a hand up, cupping Frumpkin’s little head, or pulls him close, and then they fall asleep together like that.

Because Frumpkin is braver than Caleb is. 

[firebird-inkheart]

Word Count: 1127

Summary: Only a couple hours before @shirorabu​‘s wedding and everything is almost ready for the big event when Ace finally returns from his travels― Bearing gifts of course.

1, 2, 3, 4…

The tapped out tempo gave way to chipper plinking of piano keys and its much brighter and airy accompaniment, the ocarina. All around the musical duo people bustled along, moving tables and setting up chairs or benches, hanging garlands of roses, making the deck of the Thousand Sunny look fit for a celebration of the century. If everyone was shuffling along in time with the music or joining in with the singing, well, no one was going to begrudge them of that.

“Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~! Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~!

Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~! Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~!”

Brook swayed with each lyric, cheerfully warbling as Honyo happily carried the tune with him. Honyo was a decent mezzo-soprano on her own, but her voice was best suited for harmonizing, allowing for more flexibility in her range. Although sometimes the higher notes would catch her off guard, she kept up with him beautifully. And even if it wasn’t a violin, as he was most used to hearing accompany this song, her ocarina breathed a new life into the timeless classic.

“Making a delivery, bringing it across the sea Bink’s sake in the hold as we sail through the breeze. Far across the eye can see, the sun is shining merrily As the birds fly in the sky as they sing out with glee!

Bid adieu to everyone as we sail under the sun Sailing on from dusk ‘til dawn and singing out as one. Cross the gold and silver waves, changing into water sprays Sailing out on our journey to the ends of the sea.”

The song had drawn others from their tasks, pulling everyone to the deck to join in. Work abandoned, the crew and company latched onto one another, dancing in jigs, voices steadily belting the lyrics out louder and louder still. As they moved onto the next verse Honyo carried on playing her small instrument, allowing Brook to lead the rest.

“Making a delivery of Bink’s sake through the sea Let be shown that we are known as pirates, sailing free. Time to raise the flags up high, of jolly roger in the sky Raise the sails and tell the tales that never pass you by.

Somewhere in the endless sky, a storm has started coming by Waves a-dancing, sails a-prancing through the wind and rain. If we let blow winds of fear, then the end of us is near Even so, tomorrow the sun will rise again!”

“Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~! Yohohoho, Yoho-ho-ho~!”

Several voices broke away from the song to call out surprised greetings to the new arrival. Brook glanced over his shoulder to see Ace strolling across the deck, a large, easy going grin spread across his face as he waved back to those that called to him. The ocarina instantly disappeared from the melody, leaving the skeleton with nothing more than a fleeting breeze. He watched as the green blur that was Honyo flew across the deck to leap into her sweetheart’s arms, smiling.

Ace spun around to bleed off the momentum of Honyo’s affectionate charge. He grinned into the soft lips that pressed against his own, slowly coming to a halt and lowering her to the ground. Keeping one arm around her waist, he slid his travel pack off his shoulder and gently onto a nearby table.

“Welcome back!” Honyo giggled, breathless.

“Glad to be back.” He glanced at his bag. “I wasn’t so sure I’d make it back in time. I was hoping I’d be able to help set up things here, but as I’ve been told, you can’t rush art. And, well, it looks like that part’s mostly covered anyhow. Guess all I’ve got to do is find an outfit.”

Ace couldn’t say he knew much about weddings; they were celebrations, of course, just a bit fancier, he supposed. He wasn’t, however, a stranger to a good party. Still, he didn’t feel it was the best idea to show up to a wedding as his usual scruffy self. This was something he needed to clean up for. At the very least he’d allowed Honyo to talk him into wearing a shirt for it.

“Don’t worry about it. I found you something nice. All you need to do is make sure it fits.” Honyo gave him a wry grin as she patted his shoulder.

Well that was two for two of things knocked out of his hands. Seemed all he had to do now was get dressed and show up.

“So are you gonna show me what’s in the bag or not?”

He gestured towards the bag with a chuckle. “Be my guest.”

A quick flip and she had the bag open, rifling past a few of the clothes he’d stuffed in there to hoist out a small chest. A soft and awed gasp escaped her the second she caught a glimpse of what was beneath the lid. 

Cushioned by a mound of plush velvet was a milky white shark eye moon shell which glimmered ardently like a pearl. The entirety of the shell had been carved to look like a bed of coral reef; as he watched Honyo gently run a finger over it he knew that it was textured similarly to one as well. Swimming along the surface of this reef were some of the great fishes found in all the Blues― flying swordfish, great daimyo sea turtles, star kings, even a blue-finned elephant tuna curled its way around the shell’s spiral. 

“To find the All Blue…,” Honyo mumbled, still tracing the outlines of the fish. A soft smile lit up her face. “Sanji will love that.”

Gingerly, she lifted the shell from its casing, that peering through the holes in the coral reef to admire it from every angle. When something rattled within her eyes grew wide.

“Are those―?”

“Heart cockles. Two of them to be precise.” Ace puffed his chest proudly. When he’d seen the pair of spotted shells he just knew they had to be added to the gift, and was subsequently glad that the fishman he’d commissioned had been able to work with him on that. The Love Cook and the Love Sniper were truly a matching pair.

Honyo returned the shell back to its protective nest and then turned to plant a kiss on his cheek. 

“It’s perfect! They’re going to love it!” she gushed. 

He hummed. “I’m glad. I hope that together they can find all the happiness in the world.”

Sanji and Shiro were good people. Their good friends. He was glad those two had found each other. 

Honyo rested her head against his chest and he tucked her under his chin. “I think that when they found each other, all the world's happiness found them too."

And wasn't that the most beautiful thought of all.

[kumeko]

spider

Prompt: konan-Nagato power swap

Character/Pairing: konan, nagato, zetsu, tobi

A/N: written for the @mixupnojutsuzine. It was interesting writing for Akatsuki, I’ve never really touched them before and it’s been an eternity since I’d even thought of ‘original, idiot’ tobi.

Summary: In another time, in another life, the people might have called Nagato saviour, called Konan angel. In this one, though, he was a spider and Konan was not allowed to exist.

...

...

...

...

“The spider is here,” a child shouted, hopping up and down excitedly.

 Briefly, Nagato glanced to the side, to the bedraggled boy gazing up at him in awe. His worn mother grabbed his hand, hushing him sternly. Turning to Nagato, she bowed apologetically. “Please ignore him, he means no harm.”

 “It’s fine.” His voice croaked from disuse. From his waist, four thin paper limbs jutted out, each ending in a sharp spike. Spider. Perhaps he did look like one. These fake limbs kept him high above the average citizen and now they bent down, lowering him to the woman’s eyesight. Glancing at the boy, he added, “No harm done.”

 “Thank you.” She smiled gratefully at him, pushing her son’s head down so he apologized. Then she quickly hurried him along, the scent of fear still strong on her despite Nagato’s reassurances. Around them, other citizens averted their eyes and perhaps the difference between awe and fear was a thin one.

 After the pair had disappeared, he rose once more, his long limbs slowly guiding him through the crowds. A ship on land, he swayed from side to side as he walked, each paper leg stabbing the ground to get a grip. The crowds parted like water before his wake. From up here, he watched a bird fly to an alcove, a worm in her mouth. Above them, the rain had paused, the clouds still heavy and pregnant, and Pain must have returned from his latest mission.

 Nagato turned to their headquarters, to the main hall that had become something akin to home.

 Home is where this is, Jiraiya had said long ago, poking Nagato in the chest. Yahiko’s and Konan’s smiles flashed through his memory and no, he was wrong. The building was just an abode. Home had died long ago.

 When he reached their headquarters, he lowered himself once more, his spindly legs thickening as paper transferred up to make him shorter. The tips of his feet brushed the ground but he couldn’t feel that anymore, couldn’t feel anything below his paper harness. Entering the dimly lit building, he blinked as his eyes adjusted.

 From the corner, he heard a chuckle. “Now you’re more of a tarantula.”

 Nagato squinted, adjusting to the light. Half-hidden in the shadows, Zetsu leaned against a pillar. Half-hidden if only because with his white half, it was nearly impossible for him to ever be entirely invisible. Standing straight now, he snorted. “A pest either way.”

 If it weren’t for the voice change, it’d be hard to tell which half of him spoke what. Even now, months after they’d first met, it was still unsettling to see this half black, half white man, a morality division come to life. “Your mission is done?” Nagato rasped, ignoring the insult.

 “Who do you think your talking to?” Zetsu’s brow narrowed in irritation, both halves of him united for once.  His arms crossed. “Of course it is!”

 Nagato contemplated if it was worth killing him, Madara be damned. Whatever uses he had, he was almost as much of a nuisance as ‘Tobi’ was. “I’ll inform Pain.”

 “Hurry to your master, puppy,” Zetsu sneered, his black half’s lip curling. His white half waved pleasantly and there was something unnerving about how both halves of his face had different expressions. About how both halves him were doing two entirely different motions, an impossible feat for humanity.

 No, if Nagato were honest, it was unsettling how Madara kept recruiting these unhinged strangers. Each one was stranger than the last and while he knew Pain could keep them under check, he still disliked the situation. There was something wrong about this, about all of this. His paper legs tapped quietly along the stone floor as he headed to Pain’s room, gibberish Morse code echoing off the walls.

 And even that made more sense than what they were doing.

 -x-

 We are stronger together, Yahiko had stated cheerfully, his smile as ethereal as the sun. Just like your papers, Nagato—alone they’re weak but together they’re indestructible.

 And when the sun finally set, when together they were unable to survive, Nagato lay infirm on his bed and stacked a sheet of papers. One by one, he layered them on top of each other, pouring his chakra in like glue. Grief, anger, joy, he pressed his emotions into the very fibres of the material until he was all emptied out.

 Spider, the people called his paper legs, called the emotions he had tried so hard to hide away. Maybe there was a truth to that, to this intricate web he was laying down to change the world. However, he wasn’t sure if he was the one trapping or being trapped.

 -x-

 “Welcome back.” Konan gave him a tired smile, sitting up on her bed. She looked paler than usual, thick black bags under her eyes, and her arm trembled as she waved. Only the blue paper flower in her hair gave her any colour. The big black Akatsuki robes engulfed her entirely, making her look smaller than usual.

 Frailty was on the tip of his tongue. Sitting down on her bed next to her, he clasped her hand, sandwiching it between his. Cold, her skin felt cold, and he wondered once more just what the cost of her powers were. The toll on her body. He could see her veins and perhaps the path they were taking was just as transparent. “Are you okay?”

 On a chair on the other side of the bed, Pain sat motionless, a puppet waiting for its next command. Yahiko had never been so still in his life and with the corpse’s blank expression, it was easy to think of him as ‘Pain’. As anyone but Yahiko. Only this body had such special treatment; on the floor across the room, three more bodies lay on the ground, waiting to spring into action.

  “I’m fine,” Konan replied unconvincingly, her voice stronger than the rest of her. She closed her ringed eyes, the damned circles that were both their saviour and their tragedy. Squeezing his fingers gently, she opened her eyes once more, her focus darting from one body to the next. Each one rose smoothly in turn, standing in attention. She was getting better at this. “It takes more energy than I expected.”

 Her hand shook in his, faint ripples on a pond. As it was, she could barely get out of bed without support, most of her energy expended on moving each of the corpses. A plan they both agreed to but his price was far smaller. Pressing his forehead to their joined hands, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

 Konan eyed him, a long moment. He remembered another time, another place, her brow furrowed as she glared down their enemies. Yahiko bled out, Nagato’s legs were crushed, and he was never certain if the resulting scream that came was from her or him. Only that everything melted into black fire immediately after, the normally cheerful girl a raging inferno. In the present, she was neither, just calm, still water. A dead lake. “Don’t be.” She patted his deadened legs, her eyes soft. “We both suffered.”

 It wasn’t the same, but he didn’t push the matter. Instead, he pulled out two sheets of paper from his pocket, creating a butterfly. With a small push of chakra, it flapped its wings and flew to her flower, landing on it lightly. “I found a candidate for the next path.”

 “Another one.” She surveyed the room, her expression grim. Her fingers twitched, moving all four puppets at once, before she dropped her hand with a weary sigh. “The room needs to be ready after that one.”

 “Oh.” Nagato watched the butterfly flap its wings slowly, each beat a breath. “It’s time?”

 “I can barely move as is,” she replied wryly, letting the bodies drop once more. Holding out a finger, she watched awestruck as the butterfly lighted on it. Light pink wings fluttered as it balanced on her skin. Her eyes softened. “This is beautiful.”

 “I saw it on my way back.” He was already pulling out more sheets of paper, constructing flowers from the orchard he’d visited. Each petal was a bright colour, a blood orange or a neon yellow or soft lavender, colours that Konan could not find in this room anymore. Finally, he made a small bird, a delicate creature with a head the size of a thumb. When his chakra breathed life into it, the bird cocked his head and flew around the room. “I thought you’d like it.”

 “Amazing.”  Konan gathered the flowers, her bony fingers pressing the blooms together. The bird twittered, gliding through the air until it landed on Pain’s head. She used to call his hair a bird’s nest and this merited a ghost of a smile. “You’ve gotten better at this.”

 Nagato gestured at the paper legs, his only method of movement. “I have to.”

 “That true.” She relaxed her posture, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her body is broken glass, all jagged edges, and he wasn’t sure how long it’d be before she was just skin and bones. For a moment they sat there, watching the bird fly about. When she spoke next, he could barely hear her, her voice low and serious. “Did Madara say anything else?”

 “Phase one is almost complete,” he answered, resting his chin her hair. Like everything else about her, it felt paper thin. Nagato frowned. “I have no idea how he can act like Tobi sometimes.”

 “Me neither.” There was a long pause and he waited for her next words. Everything was deliberate with her, slow. With nothing else to do, she spent a lot of time thinking. “I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.”

 No disagreements there. Though Nagato was not sure of just how much of what Madara had said was true, if that man even was actually Madara. “He probably is. But we can use him.”

 She pulled away, her ringed eyes boring into his. Her voice was soft, a warning. “Be careful not to be used yourself.”

 “I will.” He squeezed her hand, her bones as fragile as a bird’s. “I’ll protect you at least.”

 Konan’s brow furrowed. “Don’t worry about me.” At once the puppets were alert and Yahiko’s—no, Pain’s—body was standing protectively beside her. “I can protect myself.”

 If he were honest, he knew that all along. Her eyes which could change the world, which could save the world, they could do easily protect her. It was a small vice, a holdover thought from when they were younger and Konan refused to use her powers, terrified of the strength she had.

 (I wish I had yours, she had confessed once, in the cover of night. They were all huddled together, hiding form the rain. I wish I could control it, I wish I was normal, I wish I had yours.)

 Instead, he got up, gesturing at the Pain’s body. “Our meeting is soon.”

 “Be careful,” Konan repeated, her words coming out of Pain’s body as it rose. It was unsettling how silently he moved in death, how blank and empty his expressions were. There was none of Yahiko’s charisma, his cheer, his rage. There was nothing, an empty vessel that only served to mirror their plans.

 Pain headed to the door, holding it open for Nagato. Before they could exit, Konan called out to them, “Maybe you should try to smile more.”

 That stopped him dead in his tracks. Perplexed, he turned back to her. “What?”

 “The spider thing.” Konan clarified, the barest hints of a smile on her face. Just how she found out about he, he wasn’t sure. “They might say that less if you smile more.”

 Konan didn’t smile much either, but he didn’t point that out. Nor did he mention that was something he used to worry about, back when they were younger and he kept his hair long to hide his face. Young Nagato worried about how others thought of him.

 Older Nagato did not care about such things. Older Nagato knew that there were more important things out there. Still, humouring her, he nodded. “I’ll consider it.”

 It had been ages since he’d last smiled. He wasn’t sure if he remembered how to.

 -x-

 Tobi was waiting in the corridor, the only one of the Akatsuki members who ever ventured this far in. The only one they’d allow to venture this far in. There was a cheerful wave, and Nagato knew he was in his Tobi persona and not his Madara one.

 “It’s time for the meeting? Tobi almost forgot!” Tobi chirped, a creature of whimsy and inherent silliness. It made him even more dangerous, if possible, and Nagato gave him a wide berth as they passed.

 Konan’s fear was not unfounded, he knew. They might not be able to tame this monster, to subdue it and destroy it. But there were no other options, no other ways. He had already failed Yahiko once, he would not do it again. If this was the only way to peace, he would take it.

 “Don’t be late,” Pain replied, brushing past Tobi.

 “Of course!” Tobi’s voice shifted suddenly, deeper and more imposing. “And I will meet you soon for the next step.”

 Nagato repressed a shiver. Truly, it was a monster he was dealing with.

 -x-

 Nagato was an adult now. It was strange to think that, to realize that which each passing day he was turning an age Yahiko would never reach. Soon he would be older than his parents were, heading into a territory that was vastly new and unexplored.

 Only Jiraiya had reached these ages before and he was not here anymore.

 With his long spindly legs, he traversed the city once more. Konan had stopped the rain briefly, a rainbow arcing above him. A sight she would never see with her bare eyes but his papers could not replicate it nor the other beauties of the world.

 Below him, a child stared up, her mouth agape. “A spider,” she murmured.

 Smile, Konan had said. He lowered himself to the ground next to her, before her father could yank her away. His fingers already forming a paper flower. “For you.”

 The child stared at it before hesitantly grabbing it, her pudgy fingers crushing the petals. “For me?”

 “Yes.” Nagato did not smile. He had forgotten how to do so long ago.

 But the child, the child smiled, as broad at the rainbow above them. Maybe this time he could protect that smile. Maybe this time, becoming an adult, getting older, did not have to mean losing things.

 It was a small hope, but it was all he had left.

[worlds-within-words]

Chapter Five: Starting the Journey

I grabbed my bags and halberd and called for Sora. We figured she’d be useful for hunting and whatnot.

Hak and I set the pace, stumbling around, sore from the match yesterday. We hobbled along, and I risked a glance back at the house. The only thing I’d ever known except for my old village. It was home, I had grown up there, learned, and been loved there. But all birds have to leave the nest at some point.

Iksu stood on the doorstep, simply watching as we continued down the path. As I turned away, I could’ve sworn a stubborn tear ran down an otherwise smiling face.

We soon arrived at a village, and I helped Hak stuff Yona into a bag, although not unscathed. Who would’ve thought such a sweet little princess could be so vicious? I thought. We passed by an old farmer pulling a cart behind him. My face became damp from sweat as we drew near. Yoon stopped by to have a little chat, and I felt something poke my rib cage.

“Stop hiding your face in your cloak, it’s suspicious!” Hak hissed. I’ve been doing that? Hm. Must be a nervous habit.

“Says the man with a big hat to hide his face and a body-shaped bag over his shoulder!” I snapped back.

“Touché.”

“Stop bickering like an old married couple you two! Let’s go!” They all exchanged some words while I kept quiet.

Yoon led the way and we soon arrived at a forest. I helped Yona out of the bag and she immediately stomped off.

“Priiiiiiiiincess. Priiiiiiiincess.” Hak called in a monotone voice. “What are you mad about? Is it because I packed you in a bag and carried you over my shoulders? Is it because I said there were clothes in the bag and I treated you roughly? Or is it because I felt up the good stuff in the bag?”

Yona clenched her fist and growled, ”Everything.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Yona practically chase Hak up a tree and shrugged. I’m gonna have to get used to them eventually. Which reminds me, I still have to clear things up with Hak and his little ‘test’.

Yoon mumbled,”The bag that was supposed to have clothes in it started squirming around…...and I was really nervous that the old man had found us out.” He paused and eyed them. “Are you two alright?” I glanced at them in amusement. They were still at it.

He pointed at us consecutively. “Red-haired princess!” He pointed at Hak. “Ex-general beast Raijuu!” And lastly, me. “Stunningly terrify-I mean-beautiful sister! You guys stick out like a sore thumb! Especially you two, quiet it down, you’ll attract too much attention!”

They both nodded meekly. “Yes.” Ah, they’re already becoming obedient!

“Now then,” Yoon pulled out a map and continued,”The village of the Dragon Warrior should be right about...here.” He pointed at a set of mountain ranges. Finding a Dragon Warrior? What’s he talking about?

“Um, sorry, but what are you guys talking about?” I looked at them in confusion.

“Oh yeah, you weren’t there when Iksu explained.” Hak replied. “He spouted this weird prophecy which claimed that I would die if we didn’t find one of these warriors. I don’t buy it, but Yona seems pretty hard set on it.”

“You’re telling me the Dragon Warriors are real? I thought they were just made up.”

Yona gasped,”But your father is a priest, how could you not believe in them?”

“Er, I guess it doesn’t really make sense to me?” I fidgeted with the hem of my cloak.”I mean, this god person comes down and turns regular people into half-gods? It just doesn’t really seem possible to me.” Nobody spoke after that, but Yoon saved me when he said,

“Well anyways, one of them lives in these mountains right here.” He pointed on the map again.”It’s near the capital and the Fire Tribe though, so we should be careful.”

“It’s near the border too, huh?” Hak smirked,”Near Kaitei and the capital….” I half heartedly stroked Sora’s fur as I contemplated our problem. If we got too close to Kaitei, the capital, or the Fire Tribe, we’ll be in serious trouble. We need to find a safe route that isn't too hard to travel on. Yona could have some trouble getting up a steep path, not to mention Hak and I. I vaguely heard Yoon yelling at Hak for something, and snatched the map out of Yoon’s bag as he ran by.

I unrolled it and pointed a section of the map that showed a small valley. It was a little too close to the capital than I would’ve liked, but if we were careful it might work. “Hak! Stop messing around with my brother!” I jabbed him in the gut.”You know the area around Kuuto pretty well, right? Is this place safe to go through?” I pointed to the valley.

“It should be. Heh, unless they built a castle while I was resting.” He joked.”But yeah, it’s safe. Good eye Ōkami!” For a guy that will attack you in the woods as a ‘test’, he’s actually quite likable… But I still have to keep my guard up around him. Something about him just doesn’t sit right with me.

“Thanks….we have to head Northwest right?”

“Yeah. While we still have daylight, let’s get moving.”

We started to head down the trail when the footsteps behind me suddenly ceased.

“Will the soldiers attack us again?” Yona had a slight quiver in her voice, and was covering part of her face with her cloak. This poor girl. What exactly did they do to her? I wasn’t really listening when they explained, although I wish I had.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He said it with a smile, but I could tell he was worried about her.

Yoon quipped,”While you’re at it, protect me too, I’m weak.”

“I need to learn swordsmanship. You can teach me on the road Hak.” Coming from that small weak girl, it would’ve been ridiculous, if not for her circumstances. Hak’s eyes went from wide in surprise to narrow slits.

“Could you kill a person?” Hak’s voice was low and cold.”Even if you repel them, you can’t give enemies the chance to flee. You need to hurt them to the point where they’re beyond recovery and kill them. Could you do that?” Yona stood as still as a tree on a windless day.

I attempted to lighten the mood.

“Heh, no need for that Yona. You saw me fight Raiju right? Us together provide more than enough protection.” But they ignored me.

“At that time, even though you had a sword you didn’t use it at all.”

Yona’s face was scrunched up with unease as she replied,”Even if I can’t match up against them, or kill them, I want to at least create an opening for you and I to get away.”

Hak rubbed his chin.”Swordsmanship for self defense… Surely you’ll need that.”

Yona’s face brightened as she asked,”Does that mean you’ll teach me?”

“You’re upper body strength isn’t the greatest and I don’t want you to be on the front lines, so here.” He chucked the bow and quiver from his back to Yona. It landed in her arms with a dull thud and her arms struggled to hold it. A bow, huh? I suppose it would be easier for her to carry.

“Princess, I’m going against your father's wishes. King Il hated weapons. Think about why his majesty hated weapons.” Yona clutched the bow tightly.”But you might as well practice while we’re heading to the village.”

We walked along for a bit before Yoon asked,”I wonder if you can kill birds and rabbits with that. Sure, Sora can hunt a lot of things, but she would never be able to catch a bird. Would you be able to?” Yoon paused for a moment and continued.”I-if you don’t mind, of course.”

“If you don’t wanna, then I could go hunt with Sora. But I really think that it would give you great practice though.” I said. We walked for about an hour, Yona trying to shoot a bird the whole way. It was getting kind of annoying; the fwoosh and whack of the arrows creating an unsteady beat that drove me insane.

Hak, must’ve felt the same way, he grabbed the bow and arrow from her hands and shot an arrow straight at a bird. In three seconds it fell to the ground, the arrow directly piercing the heart. Show off. But it was pretty cool.

“How did you do that?!” Yona exclaimed. “I can’t even hit one!”

“I aimed.”

“I don’t get it Hak.”

“You’re a terrible teacher Hak! I can barely shoot an arrow fifteen feet, but I bet I could teach her better than you!” I was exasperated. How did the soldiers he trained ever learn anything?!

“I can! Look, I’ll show you!”He turned to face Yona.”Ok, so basically you don’t have enough strength. Your arms shake when you aim, and that’s why you’re missing. Draw the bow with full strength and aim on instinct. Some of the best archers close their eyes when they shoot, so they aren’t fooled by their eyes. For now though, focus on shooting the arrow straight.” Yona nodded.

“Alright, you might be able to teach her. But when you’re finished, I want lessons too.” I admitted begrudgingly.

He smirked at me and said,”I doubt I’d be able to teach you much, you’re as clumsy as a toad!” He chuckled, and as I lunged to tackle him, I tripped over my own feet, and his laugh turned into full on guffawing.

Night soon fell, and I let the sound of crickets lure me into sleep as I snuggled against Yoon to keep him warm. Well, maybe I was the one that needed the warmth. We usually slept like that at home too, the walls of the house sometimes let in a draft.

I was asleep for maybe four hours when I was roused by a noise. Fwap. Fwap. Fwap. What is that irksome noise?! It almost sounds like….arrows? Shit, are we under attack!? I threw the blanket off of me, much to the discomfort of Yoon, who curled in on himself as I prodded him to get him to wake up.

“Ugh, what-what is it Ōkami? It’s like three in the morning, sis!”

“Yoon, I think we’re under attack!”

“Hungh? Whaddya say?”

I lightly slapped him on the face.”Wake up Yoon! I think we’re under attack!” It took him a second to process my words, but his eyes soon widened in fear.

“Stay here while I check it out, okay?” I crept out of our makeshift bed and ruffled his hair in reassurance as I tiptoed around him. I rummaged through our stuff and took out my halberd. Every rustle if fabric as I unwrapped it grated against my ears.

I felt a disturbance behind me and whipped around with my weapon in hand, ready to fight. Hak held up his hands and my shoulders relaxed.

“Do you know what that noise is? It sounds like arrows, are we being attacked?!” My hands were shaking as I faced him.

“Hey, hey, calm down. It’s just Yona practicing her bow and arrows. Why are you so panicked? Did you see something?”

“It’s nothing…it just reminds me of something that happened in the past.”

He regarded me with a somewhat worried look, but went on,”Well, since you’re already up I need you watch over Yona for a bit. I need to go pee.”

“Um, okay. But I gotta go tell Yoon that everything’s ok.” Why did he even tell me that? I could understand if he said it if I asked. What a weird guy.

“Don’t worry about that, when I passed by him he was panicking like a little bird, and he told me that you thought we were being attacked, so I told him that it was just Yona.”

I looked at him.”You better not be lying. When I come back Yoon better be calm. The stress isn’t good for him.”

“Don’t worry, he’s fine. She’s over there by the way.” He pointed to a patch of undergrowth. “Keep her safe.”

I walked over to where Hak told me she was, and settled down in the bushes to watch. There was definitely some improvement from where she was the previous afternoon. Her arrows flew straighter, and she hit the tree about seven times out of ten, which was pretty amazing progress compared to her not even being able to shoot without her arms shaking. She must really love this country if she’s willing to take up the bow like this. She could’ve just given up and stayed in Fuuga, or let Hak protect her. I judged her wrong when we first met. I always thought that she was a lazy princess. But look at her. She’s becoming stronger, and I feel a strange sense of pride and an urge to protect her whenever I look at her.

I was so enthralled with her that I failed to notice the footsteps behind me. I only realized my mistake as I felt the cold edge of a blade against my throat.

I was wondering where chapter five was, but it turned out that I hadn’t even posted it yet, so here! I’m sorry it took such a long time! Chapter six is in progress I’m not so mean as to leave you on a cliffhanger for too long. No promises of when I’ll finish the next chapter though.......

[worldofjonsa]

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Ygritte is not the only character that can rightly be associated with “you know nothing”. We associate that line with Ygritte ALONE because she says it ALOT! But this might not be the only person that Jon has heard these words from, behind the scenes, and how Ygritte’s words are a reminder of someone, or someones, that could very well have said it to him too. (Just because we don’t get a POV narrative doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There are MANY clues regarding other characters that we don’t get all the information about, but we get hints everywhere! So “You know nothing, Jon Snow” are words he very possibly could heard from Catelyn, the ONLY mother figure he’s ever really known (and he desired motherly affection from) and from Sansa, a sister who tries to live up to the image of her mother. The two most important feminine figures in Jon Snow’s life. An interesting thing is that we see Catelyn Stark use this phrase in ACOK before we ever hear it from Ygritte in ASOS. Here is the one from Catelyn Stark: ‘She opened her hands to look down at the scars across her fingers. His dagger’s marks, she reminded herself. His dagger, in the hand of the killer he paid to open Bran’s throat. Though the dwarf denied it, to be sure. Even after Lysa locked him in one of her sky cells and threatened him with her moon door, he had still denied it. “He lied,” she said, rising abruptly. “The Lannisters are liars every one, and the dwarf is the worst of them. The killer was armed with his own knife.” Ser Cleos stared. “I know nothing of any—” “You know nothing,” she agreed, sweeping from the cell. Brienne fell in beside her, silent.’ -Catelyn ACOK chapter 45 But the most interesting thing is, the FIRST time we see Ygritte says these words, they are in a different order, AND they are the chapter JUST before Sansa’s chapter where she is thinking these words. The FIRST we see Ygritte say it, she says Jon Snow’s name first. ALL the other times AFTERWARDS she says his name last. “Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you t’prove it so.” “And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?” he objected. “Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.” “I don’t go in at all,” he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but never mind).” -Jon II ASOS THE VERY NEXT CHAPTER is Sansa’s POV: “Alyn said her favor made him fearless,” said Megga. “He says he shouted her name for his battle cry, isn’t that ever so gallant? Someday I want some champion to wear my favor, and kill a hundred men.” Elinor told her to hush, but looked pleased all the same. They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her father’s head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.” -Sansa II ASOS Do you think it a coincidence that the the very first time we see Ygritte use these words, it is immediately followed by Sansa thinking the same words? I don’t. No. Not coincidence. It gives a whole knew perspective to Jon’s thoughts before he gets stabbed at the end of ADWD. Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … ‘ ~ Jon XIII, ADWD chapter 69 1. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. (This is Jon’s last memory of Robb, when they said farewell before Jon left for the Wall. The last time he saw Robb) -Kill the boy and let the man be born. (Jon is associating Aemon’s words with his last memory of Robb. Why? This is why I think he does: “Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel,” the old man had said, “the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time......Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born.” -Jon II ADWD 2. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. (Here Jon doesn’t have ANY thoughts he associates with Bran) 3. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. (Again, no thoughts in connection to Rickon.) But then: 4. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. -You know nothing, Jon Snow. (Why does Jon associate Ygritte’s words with Sansa? Curiouser and curiouser...) Followed by: 5. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. -I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … (These are the words from the Pink Letter from Ramsay Bolton who married fArya. Direct connection/association with his thoughts of Arya.) Wasn’t it Arya who Ygritte reminded him of? Not Sansa. Or is the reader missing all the subtleties of how Ygritte actually reminds Jon of Sansa, he just doesn’t mention her name in his thoughts. Ygritte’s singing, and tears, and weeping, and her red hair kissed by fire, these are all things that are associated with Sansa’s character!) Here are some book quotes: One was asleep, curled up tight and buried beneath a great mound of skins. Jon could see nothing of him but his hair, bright red in the firelight. On the ground the sleeper sat up beneath his furs. Jon slid his dirk free, grabbing the man by the hair and jamming the point of the knife up under his chin as he reached for his—no, her—His hand froze. “A girl.” He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. “Will you yield?” he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn’t? “I yield.” Her words steamed in the cold air. “You’re our captive, then.” He pulled the dirk away from the soft skin of her throat. -Jon ACOK chapter 51 Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he’d thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions. She looked plump as she crouched there, but most of that was layers of fur and wool and leather. Underneath all that she could be as skinny as Arya. -Jon ACOK chapter 51 “Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft … the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper. -Catelyn ACOK chapter 55 ‘The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte’s hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons. At a lord’s court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he’d seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn’t seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling … well, that stirred some things as well. -Jon II ASOS She reminded him a little of his sister Arya, though Arya was younger and probably skinnier. It was hard to tell how plump or thin Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. Do you know ‘The Last of the Giants’?” Without waiting for an answer Ygritte said, “You need a deeper voice than mine to do it proper.” Then she sang, “Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth. Tormund Giantsbane heard the words and grinned. “The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth,” he bellowed back through the snow. Longspear Ryk joined in, singing, “Oh, the smallfolk have stolen my forests, they’ve stolen my rivers and hills.” “And they’ve built a great wall through my valleys, and fished all the fish from my rills,” Ygritte and Tormund sang back at him in turn, in suitably gigantic voices. There were tears on Ygritte’s cheeks when the song ended. “Why are you weeping?” Jon asked. “It was only a song. There are hundreds of giants, I’ve just seen them.” “Oh, hundreds,” she said furiously. “You know nothing, Jon Snow..” -Jon II ASOS Jon had never met anyone so stubborn, except maybe for his little sister Arya. Is she still my sister? he wondered. Was she ever? He had never truly been a Stark, only Lord Eddard’s motherless bastard, with no more place at Winterfell than Theon Greyjoy. And even that he’d lost. When a man of the Night’s Watch said his words, he put aside his old family and joined a new one, but Jon Snow had lost those brothers too. -Jon III ASOS She bit his neck and he nuzzled hers, burying his nose in her thick red hair. Lucky, he thought, she is lucky, fire-kissed. “Isn’t that good?” she whispered as she guided him inside her. -Jon III ASOS “There’s naught to eat in the dark but flesh,” she whispered, biting at his neck. Jon nuzzled her hair and filled his nose with the smell of her. “You sound like Old Nan, telling Bran a monster story.” -Jon III ASOS “Were you a maid?” Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. “I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?” “Who was he?” “A boy at a feast, five years past. He’d come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t’ try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once.” “It wasn’t Longspear, then?” Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways. She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?” “Longspear’s not your brother.” “He’s of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow.” -Jon III ASOS “Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she had gone to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her.” -Arya I AGOT He woke to the sight of his own breath misting in the cold morning air. When he moved, his bones ached. Ghost was gone, the fire burnt out. Jon reached to pull aside the cloak he’d hung over the rock, and found it stiff and frozen. He crept beneath it and stood up in a forest turned to crystal. The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice. So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all. -Jon III ACOK So: Jon thinks that Ygritte reminds him of Arya because of her stubbornness and her tangled hair, and how skinny she is, but the things that Jon likes most about Ygritte is her singing, her tears, and he thinks of her red hair on multiple occasions. There really isn’t anything else that sticks out to him besides these two things during the time he is with the wildlings. Ygritte =Arya= tangled hair, skinny, stubborn When they looked nothing alike. But on an unconscious level: Ygritte =Sansa= singing, tears, red hair These are what Jon fell in love with. The ONLY things that stirred him. He was thinking of Sansa singing while brushing Lady’s fur. Singing. Then, you know nothing...

[kamilahswong]

Letting Go

Date written: January 24, 2020

Short story written for a Creative Writing course.

Word Count: 1,466

My hands are clammy and I don’t know why. There’s nothing to be nervous about. I smooth them over the front of my jeans, taking a deep breath as I keep my eyes peeled. A cup of hot chocolate sits in front of me, steam rising and curling in an entrancing dance. The air is warm in the café, a relief from the chilly wind outside. Chatter fills my ears, snippets of conversation that I may understand if I strain to hear, but I concentrate on nothing in particular. I let the noise caress me, let my mind wander to ease myself.

The chime of the bell warns me of a newcomer, and a stranger greets me with a smile. I blink, and I realize it’s not a stranger at all. I find my childhood in his features, the curl of his lips, the merry twinkle in his eyes. How can someone look so familiar and yet so different? He had obviously matured, his cheekbones more prominent, small wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. I return his smile, internally wincing when I feel myself act a little too stiff. Just relax, I tell myself, it’s fine. He pulls me into a one-armed hug, warm and comforting as I breathe him in. He smells of cinnamon and fireplaces, and suddenly I feel tears prick my eyes. My body relaxes into his on its own, fitting perfectly together like finding that one last puzzle piece you lost ages ago and seeing it slot into place.

I gesture for him to sit down opposite of me, my eyes darting everywhere, not daring to take a second glance at him. He scans the menu, ordering a cup of coffee for himself as I take my mug and sip my chocolate. Even his taste had matured, and my stomach sinks a little. My hot chocolate seems childish in comparison…what a silly thought to have.

“So,” he starts, his grin bright. “How are you? I heard you graduated?”

“Yeah, last year.” I answer, following the movements of the waitress as she brings his coffee. He thanks her, then blows the steam, taking a generous sip.

“That’s great!” He exclaims, sounding so proud, setting the cup back down. It clangs softly against the saucer. “Painting, right?”

“Yeah.” I ease into the conversation better now, my smile coming less forced. He gives off a comforting aura, a kind of warmth that makes people relax. “I’m thinking of organizing an exhibition sometime next month.”

“That’s amazing!” His eyes sparkle like fireflies. “Wow, it feels like yesterday when we were still just hanging out in the backyard, climbing trees.”

The memory makes my chest tighten, squeezing my heart until I can’t breathe. I let out a chuckle to lighten up. “Right. I remember you almost broke your arm.”

“It was your fault. You made me grab the weakest branch.” He makes a face at me.

“It’s what best friends are for.”

“Breaking each other’s arms?”

“Definitely.”

We both burst into a childish fit of giggles, and it feels good. It feels surreal to be sitting here with him, talking about our childhoods after so many years. Those days feel so long ago, but now it feels just like yesterday. Like nothing’s changed at all. Like we haven’t grown apart and time hadn’t escaped us.

Another chime and a woman walks in. She waves with her free hand as she walks over, a familiar gleaming golden band around her fourth finger, a sight that makes my stomach churn. I recognize her immediately; I’ve seen her perhaps once or twice before, in photos. She looks even prettier in person; I am dull beside her. Her dark hair falls over one shoulder, a warm smile on her face. She bounces a baby on her hip.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She greets him with a kiss on the cheek. He gets up to kiss her back, and I glance away, tasting bile.

He holds the baby in her place as she turns to me. I am nervous when I stand to greet her, and she offers me a hug like I’ve known her forever. “I’ve heard so much about you! He always brings you up.”

I stiffen in her embrace and let out a small laugh to hide it. I pray it doesn’t sound too forced. I glance at him as he grins back boyishly at me, almost shyly. It’s an expression that brings so much hope and despair at the same time. I curse him for it, for still being so kind and gentle. It would be easier if he had changed completely from that boy in my memories, but I find myself rejecting, detesting the idea. Even still, somehow his expression comforts me a little, knowing he hasn’t forgotten me. That our memories still live inside both of us. I am a walking contradiction. I hate myself.  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t attend your wedding.”

“Oh, no worries!” She exclaims, swatting it away easily. “I understand you were busy with school.” That’s what I told them. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either. I did everything I could to avoid going. I don’t think I would be able to congratulate them if I saw it with my own eyes. I might’ve done something stupid, crazy even, and I didn’t trust myself. I suppose I was being smart—or maybe I was just a coward. I have always been a coward. I had missed all my chances all those years ago, and it’s too late to regret now. She did not hesitate like me. In that regard alone, I have lost. I second-guess myself too much, and I know I am no good for him. He deserves someone much better than me. I have no right to complain. Even now, I am nothing but a coward. I am being punished for weakness.

The baby coos in his arms and I am unable to stop the smile from blooming on my face. I don’t have it in me to hate his child. The baby resembles them both, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s nose. I boop his little nose, giggling along as the baby squeals. “He’s so cute! How old is he?”

“He’s turning one next month.” She answers, tickling the baby’s stomach and beaming with so much love when he laughs, drool dribbling down his chin.

“…Wow.” I breathe out, momentarily stunned by the revelation. Had time really passed that quickly? It flies away from between my fingers like baby birds, and the nest is empty before I know it.

“Fast, huh?” He voices out my thoughts, always able to read my thoughts. “I can’t really believe it myself.”

“Yeah.” I murmur, still unable to shake myself from my daze. I see our childhood in his baby, and yet his very existence is irreversible proof that we can no longer go back. I raise a finger towards the baby, heart melting when he takes my finger in his tiny hands.

“Oh!” His wife exclaims, checking her phone. “Is it already that late? We need to go, sweetheart.” She flashes me an apologetic smile, pulling me in for one last quick hug before she takes her baby back from her husband’s arms, allowing him to say his goodbyes to me.

“Sorry I could only stay for a bit today. We’ll properly catch up next time. Be sure to invite me to your exhibition!”

“No worries.” I answer, nodding at both of them. “I know how busy you are with work.”

He wraps me in his arms, swaying me back and forth gently. He squeezes me tightly and I squeeze back, tears once again burning my eyes. It’s warm and safe and familiar. It’s filled with unfulfilled dreams and wishes. It’s bittersweet like chocolate, both addicting and painful, filled with regrets. I don’t want to let go, so I cling onto him for much too long to be completely innocent. She’s right there, I remind myself, but I find that I don’t really care. I want to be selfish, just this once. I close my eyes, breathing him in. I take a moment to make a silent promise to myself. I whisper, voice cracking the slightest bit, “I missed you.”

“Me too.” He breathes into my ear, a content sigh leaving his lips. “I’m really glad we met up today.”

I exhale deeply, swallowing a sob, finally loosening my grip on him and he does the same. My time with him is almost over. I breathe in the warm air, feeling a part of me die and a part of me reborn. I feel a little different now, a little lighter, a little older. I promise myself.

I smile at him, and let go.

©kamilahswong

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Do not re-post/re-upload/translate.

[kootenaygoon]

"Nanor and the River Eels" by Will Johnson The Adams River contains a queer magic only detectable to those who trouble to learn her song. There’s an electric undercurrent in even the most placid of eddies, and the roaring power of the rapids can be felt far beyond her seductive shorelines. She is the throbbing lifeblood of the Shuswap, a phantasmagoria of violence, chaos and intoxicating beauty, and she thunders along relentless while human beings live short and brutal lives under her beguiling influence. She barely notices each time her currents claim a life, as cold corpses bounce against the riverbed, and her machinations are beyond human comprehension. She has a grand plan, but nobody knows what it is. Shuswap Joe spent his formative years living among the Indigenous fisherfolk who had saved him as a baby, but the river was the closest thing he ever had to a mother. She woke him in the morning, whispered to him in a soothing susurrus all day long, then sang him to sleep in his solitary home high among the trees. Every night he would lay listening to the forest’s tumult of groaning, creaking conversation and wonder where he fit into this world. He had no way to know it, but he was quickly becoming the spitting image of his strapping gold miner father while adopting the lifestyle of his gypsy hermit mother. All he could do was imagine who they were, but he also understood that time only flows in one direction. It’s useless to fight the current for very long.

Long after sunset one night Shuswap Joe was pondering his parentage, at 12 years old, when the night came alive with a strange electricity. Above him the moon had a skeletal scowl, and the surrounding trees all stood silent, as if holding their breath. Instinctively he rolled on to his stomach and gazed down from his nest to the river, scanning the moon-glinting surface for any sign of intruders. Earlier that season he’d gotten into a friendly tussle with a black bear over a fresh salmon, so he had a healthy appreciation for the dangers of wildlife, but he knew that the true villains were always human. With their guns, their alcohol, their greed. He was entranced and frightened by these settlers, and wondered if one day he would join their sordid ranks. He looked down in the direction of the weir, a large wooden dam that had been recently constructed near the river’s mouth. Multiple sluice channels were open, allowing the lake to tumble through in tandem torrents, creating a soothing soundscape perfect for his sleeping hours. At first Joe could see nothing out of place, and he nearly disregarded the strange clench in his stomach. But then, from out of the darkness, came a slow-moving tree trunk that was half-submerged in the current. Its waving branches clawed maliciously at the sky. Mounted at the front was a flickering torch that illuminated the purple waters surrounding it, as well as the limp body of a dead logger lashed at its base. Perched atop the black wood like some giant arachnid was a hooded figure with long bone-white limbs. He manipulated the branches in slow, sweeping motions, and expertly guided the trunk around the bend without a sound. It was only a handful of moments before he was gone, leaving Joe to wonder if he’d been asleep or awake for this disturbing vision. Was he some sort of demon? A watery death spirit that lived on human flesh? The next night, as the moon took its rightful place among the stars, Joe waited crouched and shin-deep on the riverbank. He had become skilled at navigating the river using the detritus of the forest, careening through rapids atop a rolling log or swimming through the Canyon using a broken branch for flotation. That night he’d chosen an elbow-shaped branch, the bark peeled clean, to help him tail the spectre from the night before. And when he eventually appeared, his torch casting ominous shadows across the surface, Joe shoved into the current and allowed the river to talk hold of him. With the branch wrapped around his chest he bobbed in the darkness as the water lapped around his cheekbones. He gazed up at the silhouetted trees, which were all whispering with suspicious voices. They understood the danger he was in, whether or not he did. Eventually the current began to rumble and rage as they approached the rapid known as the Lion’s Head. Joe could see a billowing pillow of water pummelling a proud boulder directly ahead of the hellish raft, the waves hopelessly yearning for the exposed roots of a grove of trees at its zenith. His legs bounced against the jagged rocks beneath him and twice his branch was completely submerged. He fought to stay afloat. Far ahead he heard a high-pitched keening, like the song of some demented bird, echoing amidst the chaos. Was the man singing? Joe expected the man to pivot his trunk downstream, towards safety, but instead he seemed intent on driving it straight into the rock wall. Blinking through the waves, rivulets pouring from his face, he watched as multiple whirlpools gaped open on cue and swirled hungrily. The river’s grumble escalated to a thunderous roar and he kicked furiously, pointing towards the flickering flame. He was vaguely aware of the man’s skeletal arms waving towards the moon and then his body was forcibly yanked underwater. It was as if someone had grasped him by both ankles. He didn’t have time to scream or panic or fight before being consumed by the blackness. The next thing Joe knew he was retching the contents of his stomach on to wet stone. It was cool to the touch. Above him was a curved ceiling alive with dancing light, illuminated by a glowing pool beneath it. He wiped away bile with the back of his hand and examined his surroundings, dimly aware that the roar of the Lion’s Head waves were now on the other side of the wall. He rose to his feet and scanned his surroundings, his gaze eventually falling upon the snake-like limbs of the man he’d been chasing. Nestled into the twisted white roots of a tree and bathed in shadow, he looked exactly like some giant spider ready to devour him. As Joe stood agape, the man unfurled himself from his cross-legged perch and crawled towards him on all fours. His face was a horror to behold, with fiery red veins shooting through his ice white skin like river channels. His grin was a red ravage of broken teeth. “Why have you intruded upon my lair, boy? Do I not frighten you?” Joe considered for a moment, dripping. “Nothing frightens me.” He laughed. “That’s because you’re drunk on youth, and a stranger to the darkness. There’s plenty in this world that should frighten you, as it does me.” “And who are you, exactly?” “Most don’t even believe I’m real, and the rest wish I wasn’t. My name is Nanor, and it’s my job to ferry those the river claims to their final resting place. A gruesome job, perhaps, but one that needs to be done.” Nanor was perched above Joe on a rock ledge, dressed in nothing but a soiled loincloth, and his shoulder blades violently jutted out like sinister wings. He clambered down the rock on all fours until he was inches from Joe’s face, the stench of his breath thick with brimstone. His eyebrows and hair were bleached snow white but a few curled black whiskers hung from his chin. There was no way to judge how old he was, but it was clear he’d survived long past his natural lifespan. There was a strange twitch to his muscles, a jolting quality to his movements, that suggested he was being controlled by some power apart from himself. Joe forced himself to stand his ground, never backing away as the man swooped and spat his way through a meandering monologue. It was clear he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time. The story began decades earlier, when Nanor was a young man flush with mining ambitions. He’d grown up alongside a woman named Lenore, and upon reaching manhood had promised to save enough money for their marriage. He set out with his rucksack into the wilderness, and signed on with an outfit that was exploring deeper and deeper into a mountain rich with silver. At the end of each day he would take off his boots and marvel at how the mud sparkled, how this precious substance had been buried and hidden among all the worthless rock. He became addicted to its sheen, scrabbling ever harder and digging ever deeper in search of its lustre. By the time he’d saved enough for a ring he knew that it wouldn’t be enough, he had to keep accumulating. They could buy an acreage, with a nice little farmhouse, lousy with farm animals and screaming with life. It was this beautiful dream that kept him spelunking further and further into the black crevices far beneath the ground. Sometimes he would forget how it was above the surface, up in the sunshine, as he became increasingly acclimatized to his subterranean solitude. “Some people think this world is here for us to ransack, to rape, and I should’ve known all that time I was yearning for silver that it would have a cost one day. That’s what you’re going to learn, kid, is there’s a cost to everything. Especially dreams.” “What happened to that woman, then?” “She had her own dreams, I guess.” The day came eventually when Nanor returned to the surface with his bounty, only to find his skin had turned translucent from its time away from the daylight. When he turned his face to the sky, basking in the sun’s warm kiss, he instantly felt a sharp sting. His cheeks split open like bacon crackling on a spit, and furious red sores erupted across his forehead and down his neck. He retreated into the darkness with licks of grey smoke curling up from his burning flesh, and when he covered his face with his hands they came away covered in an oozing pus. For days he writhed in agony, applying wet bandages that made him look mummified and horrific, as he lamented Lenore’s imagined response to this condition. How could she love someone like him, a nocturnal ghoul incapable of living among the rest of society? He couldn’t and wouldn’t ask that of her, so he convinced the mining company to issue a letter in which they informed her of his death by tragic accident. It was kinder that way. For months Nanor lived in the wilds, traveling only by night and burrowing underground during the day. Eventually he happened upon a traveling circus, and shortly after sundown he approached a mad scientist by the name of Dr. Klondike. Nanor had been impressed by his performance the day earlier, in which he introduced a number of exotic animals procured from faraway lands. He whipped blankets off water tanks that housed not only giant fish, but also squids and stingrays and all manner of bizarre aquatic creatures. The stars of his little show, though, were the electric river eels he’d retrieved from the Amazon River. While the crowd hooted in delirious delight, Dr. Klondike danced across the stage with an intricately carved flute that produced a trance-like, elegiac melody. It roused the river eels to the surface slowly, until they began to leap into the air shooting bursts of electricity and singing in their otherworldly voices. Nanor watched those river eels dance, transfixed, and knew he had to claim them for himself. It was rumoured that their electricity could cure all kinds of afflictions, why not his? “How do you kidnap a river eel, though?” Joe asked, genuinely interested. “Can they survive out of water?” Nanor shook his head. “I couldn’t steal the eels themselves, but I could steal their eggs. That night I brought Dr. Klondike a jug of his favourite hooch, and together we drank long into the night. That was when he confessed that he had a new clutch of eggs, fresh, that he’d nestled away for safekeeping. Before the liquor swept him off to unconsciousness I convinced him to show me the hiding spot. He had them swaddled in a blanket, like the baby Christ, three dark green eggs with white spots. I stole off into the night with them hidden beneath my cloak.” As Nanor spoke the pool behind him began to swirl, and Joe saw the twisted spines of river eels beginning to break the surface. One of them leaped into the air and belched up a lightning storm, illuminating the cavern, but his master barely noticed. He was too caught up in his story-telling, describing to Joe the healing effect the eels’ electricity had on him. He’d hatched the eggs beneath the Lion’s Head and watched as they grew and multiplied, growing ever smarter. He would wring their bodies in his hands until they fired their electricity straight into his veins. Under the influence of the eel’s magic he felt like he understood the world in a way he couldn’t otherwise, like the drab darkness of his existence was suddenly shot through with rainbows of throbbing energy. Eventually he couldn’t stand ordinary reality, and he returned more and more often to the river eels for his next jolt of life-giving inspiration. “What’s it feel like?” Joe asked. “The electricity, I mean.” Nanor flashed his broken teeth. “If you want to understand, you have to experience it for yourself. It’s different for everyone. The river eels know what lesson you need to learn, and how to teach it to you.” “Is it dangerous?” “Of course it is. It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t.” Joe stood above the pool and watched in wonder as the river eels slithered and slid over each other. Behind him Nanor produced a flute, just like the one he’d described Dr. Klondike having, and lifted it to his lips. Music filled the chamber as Joe plunged his hands into the water and grabbed two of the dark green creatures. They struggled and writhed as he lifted them from the water, their mouths gaping open in panic. He watched with fascination as white flashes crackled from his palms, making his hair stand on end. Then one of them turned towards him and spoke a single word: “slave”. The vision that appeared before Joe’s eyes in that moment has long been immortalized in song. Untethered from time, and released from the restrictions of his mortal body, he felt himself fighting through the current of the Adams River as a spawning salmon. He felt the pinch of talons and flew dripping above the trees in the clutches of an eagle. The earth hummed as men chopped rhythmically at trees hundreds of years older than them, as they ferried the bobbing logs down the current and out to Shuswap Lake. He saw whiskey-fuelled street brawls and danced manic to the ragtime tomfoolery of the nearby settlements. He saw himself bearded and proud, commanding other men, then saw an explosion in the forest that left his cohorts blackened and coughing. Finally he saw a woman, looking over her shoulder at him, her light brown hair flapping in the wind. She was braced on a makeshift raft that was approaching the Adams Canyon, and on her face was a look of fearful determination. She was ready for whatever was coming. “The future is coming whether you’re ready for it or not,” the woman said. “You already know what you’re supposed to do.” “No, I don’t.” “You do, boy. Listen to the river.” Joe closed his eyes, allowing the current to drown out these visions, and the scene transformed. He was in the midst of circus tents billowing in the evening wind, turning in circles to get his bearings. Suddenly a much younger, much more human-looking version of Nanor bulled into him. He rushed past with an unfriendly growl, his cloak flapping, and moments later Joe found himself in the tent of Dr. Klondike. The river eels banged against their tank walls as Nanor chased the crazed scientist around the room, ultimately pinning him to the dirt and strangling the life from him while they shrieked. He watched as Nanor tipped the body into the tank, watched the eels tear their master into tiny wriggling pieces, and watched as the murderer cackled. Human blood dribbled from the edges of his mouth, and in his eyes was a deranged intoxication — he was now hooked on death. The dreams began to come more rapidly, swirling storm-like before his eyes before dissipating just as quickly. Nanor swept from the darkness, clutching unsuspecting humans and quickly dispatching them with his wormy fingers around their throats. Joe watched as he grabbed first a fancily dressed courtesan, and then a wealthy businessman, and finally a drunken logger. He didn’t discriminate when it came to class or gender or profession — he chose his victims at random, and came without warning. Repeatedly Joe saw the ghostly death trunk floating down the river, a fresh body lashed to it, ready to be fed to the river eels. It was true, what Nanor had told him, that he was addicted to their aquatic electricity, but he hadn’t mentioned the cost. To keep himself alive, others needed to die. Joe’s eyes filled with tears as he felt the grief of countless families, as he witnessed rainy funerals with empty coffins. From among the crowd of mourners came the woman again, his love, and she took his face in her hands. “Don’t be afraid now. Trust the river, it will bring you to me.” “He’s killing people, though. He’s feeding people to his river eels.” “There’s no shortage of darkness in this world, Joe. You don’t have to fight every battle. You’re just a boy.” “Soon I’ll be a man.” She smiled sadly. “I was worried you might say that.” Their conversation was suddenly interrupted when Nanor’s teeth sunk into his shoulder, abruptly ending his reverie. The river eels were screeching with delight, splashing in their pool, as he reeled forward and shook off his foe. They grappled then, clutching at one another in a macabre dance, their bare feet slipping on the wet stone. Lightning flashed, the light bouncing prismatic off the cavern walls. A few times Nanor’s teeth came chomping within inches of Joe’s face, but finally he hoisted the man over his head and hurled him against the wall with a mighty crash. Pebbles and then rocks began to bounce around them, the walls of their cave trembling, and then the Adams River came crashing in. Nanor surged through the racing water and they tussled amidst the waves, punching and grunting. The water rose around their stomachs, and then their chests, until finally they were being sucked into the early morning light. All around them the river eels cheered as they soared past, free from their dank confines. Joe nearly lost consciousness, but then his head broke the surface. Nanor was nowhere to be seen. Shortly later Joe dragged himself on to a rocky beach, crawling on hands and knees until he collapsed in the sand bleeding and exhausted. Just behind him came the logger’s corpse, which bumped along limp in the shallows. The sky was baby blue overhead, and for a long time he lay listening to the stoic creak of the trees. He was alive, on purpose, and suddenly his surroundings seemed that much more beautiful. He’d felt the seductive allure of death, looked her in Nanor’s ravaged face, and come out the other side. The woman from his dream was right; the future was coming whether he liked it or not, and the time had come for him to leave the Adams River behind. He was done with all its tragedy, all its pageantry and bizarre magic. He wanted to find his place amidst the rest of humanity, a place that didn’t include vampires or river eels. The woman had told him to listen to the river, and the river was telling him to run away as fast as he could. And so it came to pass that Joe lugged the dead logger’s body on to the beach and stripped it of its clothing. He pulled on a pair of patched blue jeans, stuffed them into a soggy pair of black boots, then donned the man’s red flannel shirt. He didn’t know it at the time, but this would be his outfit for the remainder of his days on this planet. Running his fingers through his hair and admiring his reflection in the river’s surface, he said a quick prayer to the power that had sustained him until this moment. “One day I will return, but until then I ask that you carry me to whatever future awaits. I am not afraid, nor will I ever be. Nanor was wrong; I’ve seen the darkness but still believe in the light.” The river didn’t answer with human words, but Joe understood them all the same. He stood and began making his way into the trees as behind him the morning came alive with the song of river eels.

The Kootenay Goon