#sometimes i forget it exists in the real world and not just in fairy tales and books

[pinchofhoney]

every single one of my works can be found in the list down below. if you enjoy any of these, please consider reblogging ♡

last updated on: 19/02/2024

most recent work: perfectly flawed, bridgerton

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disclaimer: my works are intended for entertainment and do not represent any real person in any way!!

special events masterlist

ALEXANDER CALVERT

alex calvert as...

BELPHEGOR

on the verge of a fever - ever wondered if hell hosts monopoly nights?

JACK KLINE

like real people do - ever had one of those days when life just can't get any worse?

BEN BARNES

off my mind (part one) - you’re crazy in love with ben, but what if deep down he knows he still has feelings for his past lover? he’s trying to convince himself he is over the past, because he doesn’t want to hurt you, not knowing you’re already hurted┆︎angst

the sun is up but you’re not shining (part two) - although taking a break from a relationship is generally not recommended, what if you suggested it as a way to cope with your own intrusive thoughts? unfortunately, this approach ended up having the opposite effect┆︎angst with happy ending

valentine's day special: unexpected valentine - how would ben barnes confess his feelings to his love interest?

yellow lights - recently, ben has been burdened with an excessive workload. despite appearing tired and agitated, he attempted to conceal his feelings. due to his busy schedule, he could not even take a day off. what will occur when, after a challenging day at work, he returns home and a trivial question leads to an argument that would not typically happen?┆︎angst with happy end

invidia - initially, your former boyfriend appeared to be the perfect partner, and the time spent with him felt like a fairy tale come true. however, your intuition proved accurate as he eventually revealed his true colors. following the breakup, he struggled to cope and became envious upon discovering you were dating famous ben barnes┆︎fluff

my own worst enemy - sometimes all you need is to lie in silence as your person holds you together. especially when the world is once again flooded with gray and you see nothing on the horizon to herald a uncloud┆︎hurt/comfort

fou amoureux - in a world where you respect everyone and where you treat everyone the way you would like to be treated yourself, it's hard to get under your skin. for some, however, it comes with exceptional ease, as if they were born with this gift. one of these people is ben's former partner, whom you had the (un)pleasure to meet at a party celebrating the success of the yves saint laurent fashion show in which you played the first fiddle

white lies - the saying goes that a lie has no legs, and this rings especially true when it is caught on camera┆︎fluff

BRIDGERTON

BENEDICT BRIDGERTON

perfectly flawed - finding love as a princess comes with its challenges, but becoming a mistress was never part of the plan┆︎hurt without comfort

MARAUDERS

SIRIUS BLACK

pretty please - in which sirius doesn’t take no as an answer

searchin’ for understanding - maybe there are wounds that prove resistant to the time

MOON KNIGHT

just one word - you may not be aware of their existence having only met steven, but no marc spector alter will let anything happen to you┆︎hurt/comfort

PEDRO PASCAL

the last goodbye

the last goodbye, part one - can love really be turned off just like that?┆︎angst

the last goodbye, part two - all men do is messing with your head┆︎angst

pedro pascal as...

JOEL MILLER

love don’t last in the dark (part one) - being alone for the last few years, you haven't had the opportunity to fall in love, so it's not your fault you developed feelings for a man who showed you at slightest bit of care┆︎angst

the warmest light is you (part two) - there is no such thing as right person, wrong time because with a right person you are able to surmount all the difficulties┆︎fluff

six feet in the ground - during a difficult time when your partner has let you down and broken your trust, it's reassuring to remember that you have other people in your life whom you can rely on no matter what┆︎platonic relationship

spring is a season when more than just flowers bloom - spring brings with it more than just the beauty of blooming flowers. as the sun starts to shine a little brighter, it also has its own way of awakening deeply hidden emotions. the world feels brighter, and everything seems a little bit more beautiful. especially in the right company┆︎fluff

SUPERNATURAL

castiel...

at day's close

dean winchester...

honey pie - amidst autumn rain and a cozy cottage, a honey pie surprise kindles love and warmth in the perfect moment

frozen fear - life has a way of humbling even the bravest, and it's not always a gentle lesson

THE HUNGER GAMES

the ballad of songbirds and snakes...

broken promises - in snow's world, only one thing mattered more than his family's reputation—you. but that was before he met lucy gray

part one

part two

part three

crack in the mirror - many cling to the belief of their own goodness, until they meet someone who's just like them

be careful what you wish for - turning in a district boy to the authorities felt like the right thing to do for coriolanus. but what if, in doing so, he betrayed you as well?

THE TWILIGHT SAGA

carlisle cullen...

the broken self - if i could start again, i would find a way. now, you've been given the chance, so what's your next move?

THE WALKING DEAD

rick grimes...

tell me that you'll keep me safe - you're not the one who needs to be helped, yet pretending you do? surprisingly fun

[themoontaxi]

hellooo, i love your café so much i just couldn’t stay away ☺️

🍷cyma - detailed moments where time/life doesn’t feel real (i.e. leaving the cinema; going outside at night while it’s snowing and hearing absolutely nothing while there’s a pinkish-orange hue to the sky, visiting the gas station at 1 am, etc) thought that would be a little different for ya ;)

🍷cyma - as studio ghibli movies if you watch them, if not, then just animated movies

🫐 category: interests/hobbies

take your time with my order and feel no pressure to serve little ole me. you have the right to refuse service after all 😌

tiana!! i finally did it! those were so original, i loved wracking my brain! beware of the madness under the cut <33

🍷 - cyma detailed moments where time/life doesn’t feel real:

you as deep talks that come at such random moments so neither you or your interlocutor are prepared but the convo is so good you end up putting your whole schedule on hold and never reget it even if you stood in the middle of a doorway for two hours and caught a cold from it

@ropoto as waking up in the morning having to fact check if any of the weird stuff you dreamed actually happened, realizing it didn’t and then being half glad half disappointed about it and having to continue with your day as if your existence wasn’t just turned upside down by your weirdly imaginative subconscious

@emforevermore as ascending into orbit thanks to a particularly otherworldly tune that makes you see stars and breathe in fairy dust while your body is lying motionless in bed not being able to cope with anything and if someone would speak to you you’d probably not notice

@sadgirlml as having just finishing a book that sucked you so far into another world that you feel disoriented for the rest of the day and try to decide if you wanna keep it to yourself and treasure it quietly or tell the whole world about it cause you’re so glad to have felt these emotions that you feel like others should too

@temilyrights as night walks alone in the city enjoying the peace and quiet and discovering how the streets look when only illuminated by lamps and moonlight while also always having to watch your back and thinking that every little sound is a bad omen

@originalvampireslut as driving at a deserted highway alone at night being able to finally forget just how many people there are on this fucking planet and using this opportunity to blast music on full volume and maybe even scream out all the pent up frustration

@ssabelova as days spent at the beach that simultaneously feel like an hour and like a whole lifetime spent watching people of every generation interact and enjoy their lives for once while the waves keep you grounded rhythmically crashing onto the shore and being sucked back into the ocean

🍷 - cyma studio ghibli movies:

i gave y’all some thoughts i had on them and how i feel they relate to you, then a letterboxd review i loved at the end that encapsulates the movie well and added some scenes to give you a general aesthetic in case you’re not familiar with the movies :)

you as the tale of the princess kaguya. the divine one. protagonist is from the moon. gets many marriage proposals but would rather stay alone with her garden. has a kind childhood friend who wants to run away with her. very cunning, sometimes a bit cold but feels deeply. review

@originalvampireslut as castle in the sky. the punk one. protagonist is an abducted princess. gets chased by pirates but later befriends them. has a cool friend who’d literally die for her and follow her anywhere. damn fearless, has trust issues but not regarding her own instincts. review

@ropoto as the wind rises. the sober one. protagonist is a kind workaholic. gets send to another country but returns for their loved one. has a talented partner who loves them unconditionally. determined, usually stoic but with a soft heart. review

@sadgirlml as my neighbor totoro. the tender one. protagonist is excited by everything. gets told to not be selfish but is a misunderstood selfless sunshine. has nice neighbors who’ll always help her out. busy bee, cutie pie and very very soft. review

@temilyrights as spirited away. the weird one. protagonist is on an acid trip. gets forced into labour but really only has to work for a day. has a friend who’s a dragon but also a river they once fell in as a child. open-minded, very shy but grows more confident in the process. review

@emforevermore as kiki’s delivery service. the sanguine one. protagonist is a witch. gets stranded in an unknown city but makes friends right away. has a lil black pessimistic cat who balances out her personality perfectly. very eager to learn, kind and generous. review

@ tiana my guess is that princess mononoke is your favorite so i refrained from assigning that to anyone hehe. i’ve only watched 11 ghibli movies as of now so this is not conclusive but i do feel like they fit quite well. let me know your thoughts!

🫐 - a bingo witht the category interests/hobbies:

ahhh i finally did it! thanks for sending something in, it was a blast! the movies were so good ugh thanks for making me appreciate them again or for the first time <33

[nnugatoryextravagance]

Thats it, my friends gave me the slightest crumb of validation im ffucjing posting the massive pile of bullshit oc worldbuilding summaries I mentioned before, none of this is in order by the way (its almost midnight) I tried color coding it though if that helps in any regard (also sorry if anythings phrased weird im so tired)

Every living thing is made of four relatively enigmatic elements (Meat, Magic, Color, and Sugar) that are related to all kinds of bullshit with some having the potential to bend reality itself in large enough quantity

Earth does not exist and rather its been replaced by a planet named Phonia thats inhabited by Humans and Monsters

Clowns are an alien species that live for centuries (at MINIMUM)

The majority of america is uninhabitable nuclear wasteland with only the east coast remaining

Phonia in general has been so thoroughly mined out of resources that only a few landmasses and "Oceanbowls" remain and are being held up by large near-indestructable cave systems known as the Nov'ish caverns

Inanimate objects have the tendancy to just sometimes gain sentience and come to life because of magic (like, literally)

Trolls also exist dont forget that either, and their planet is Returnia instead

The planet that Clowns live on (J-Sibler) has become so unlivable to biological life aside from them that the planet is now populated by almost exclusively living balloon animals

Speaking of the sentient objects thing a landfill in one of Phonia's oceans has become an island home to living objects after centuries of garbage had been dumped there and just kinda made it their home

Those caves I mentioned too are home to unbelievably powerful and weird as fuck looking monsters and to some kingdom thats been in dissaray for like the past 5000 years because the three kings ruling it wont get along

Theres literally so many subtypes of "Monster" That I'd be here even longer listing them off, I think right now theres like, eight I think ??? fuck me dude

Other space fairing races are implied to exist as well I just havent gone too far into that yet (if you can beleive that)

Phonia is in a dual star system alongside J-Sibler, rather than one little yellow sun they both orbit two Blue Giant stars, that are also orbiting eachother (and one is somewhat smaller than the other, and as a result it sorta orbits like the planets do)

The suns are also not exactly REGULAR suns neither (in fact none of them are, anywhere) the ones Phonia and J-Sibler orbit are a lightbulb (larger star) and a whale nightlight (smaller star), The "star" that Returnia orbits appears more like a massive fucking firefly (hashtag just bug alien things, yknow)

If im gonna be honest a lot about Trolls is relatively the same I just developed the world with more bullshit but thats for later too theres a lot there

Speaking of h*mestuck related things, all those concepts from the comic are just, every day real shit, including class and aspect alignments- although those tend to have the most cultural relevance to Trolls, Cherubs, and Carapacians specifically, to other races they're mostly written off as just silly fairy tales

And just like a shitty infomercial once told me: "but wait, theres more!"- But also its getting late and im exhausted so you'll have to wait on that a bit probably, I could keep going like this all day under any other circumstance but hbbhhghg sleepy

[angryfaery]

Lessons in Ethics in Fairy tales

There are many moral lessons hidden within fairy tales, educating us about the repercussions of things like greed, jealously, and hubris. For instance, the fable known as "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of lying. These teachings, although being cloaked in captivating fiction, strike a chord with the audience.

The stories that make up fairy tales are often brief and straightforward, and they all convey some kind of valuable lesson to their readers. I've never given much attention to where fairy tales came from, nor have I given much thought to the ways in which they were adapted and retold in order to conform to the norms of the society that existed during the era in which they were written. I am aware that children's fairy tales are written just for them and that they are frequently read out loud during preschool by both parents and instructors.

My mother used to tell me Charles Perrault's fairy stories when I was a small child growing up in the suburbs of the Orlando region. I was an American and I was from the state of Florida. Due to the fact that I have a membership to the nearby theme park, Walt Disney World, I was able to witness the characters from the books being brought to life in a unique manner. The connections that may be formed with the characters from Perrault's stories and the applications that are able to be made to real life events have always been something that has captivated me. The purpose of this article is to conduct an in-depth investigation of the application of the lessons that are depicted in the tales.

The tale of Alice in Wonderland, which is widely considered to be one of the most beloved fairy tales with moral teachings, teaches us to be brave and to not be afraid of the unknown. The fact that she chose to descend down the rabbit hole and enter the magical realm despite the magnitude of her choice is significant. Sometimes there is magic waiting for you on the other side of the risk that you are hesitant to take. Alice has the ability to accept other individuals as she progresses through this enchanted realm. We are lovely precisely because of the singular qualities that set us apart. Celebrating these diversity allows us to be exposed to newer ways of life, which may help us better grasp who we are as individuals.

Who could ever forget the timeless tale of the three pigs in the big city? The three pigs, who are the protagonists of this tale, are responsible for the construction of three distinct homes: one made of brick, one made of wood, and one made of straw. A large wolf is making an effort to blast these buildings down. Even though he is successful in destroying two of the houses, he is unable to demolish the one that is constructed of bricks, which results in all of the pigs being saved. One thing that may be learned from this narrative is the importance of having faith in one's own efforts. Even though the other pigs who constructed their homes out of straw and wood appeared to be having a better time, it was the hard-working pig that constructed the house out of bricks that finally ended up saving everyone's lives. The answer to your question "What do fairy tales teach us?" is that we should work hard and avoid taking shortcuts if we want to achieve our goals. Putting forth the effort to perform well can help your efforts pay off in the long run.

[signalwatch]

Hallmark Watch: A Holiday Spectacular (2022)

Watched:  11/27/2022

Format:  Hallmark Channel

Viewing:  First

Director:  John Putch

It's easy to forget that before they had a cable channel and the need to fill programming 24/7, Hallmark started making movies for network television.  Back in the day, Hallmark used to deliver semi-prestige Sunday-night movies with name talent.  I don't think this happens anymore as they've moved these movies to The Hallmark Channel and the budgets have taken a hit of sorts, but the DNA of those "Hallmark Presents" movies still exists.  So, every Christmas, tucked amongst the usual low-budget fare of the Hallmark movie season, you do get a movie or three with name actors or big set pieces. 

One of this year's offerings is A Holiday Spectacular (2022), which has only two name actors, one of whom is Eve Plumb, which blew my mind, and Ann-Margret.  Ann-Margret mostly only appears in a framing sequence and probably knocked her part out in 2-3 days of shooting, but it's still a delight to see her.  

In a way, the big star of the film aside from Ann-Margret is the world famous precision dance team, The Rockettes, who somehow I've still never seen perform, which seems impossible.  But the movie does a neat trick of tying the legacy and history of the Rockettes (who have existed in some form since the 1920's) to the modern era by having Ann-Margret appear as a former dancer telling her grand-daughter about her own history as they wander around Rockefeller Center which doesn't need any set dressing, really, to play itself in mid-Century America.

The real star of the film is Ginna Claire Mason, who is really a Broadway star (Wicked, Flashdance) playing the young Maggie of the 1950's.  So, yes, not only did Hallmark go all in on The Rockettes, shooting in NYC here and there, this is a period piece.  Mason hasn't done much screen work, but I think maybe she could do more?  She has no problem carrying the film.  She just does much less shimmying than you will remember Ann-Margret doing in a similar period.

The basic plot is a sort of League of Their Own meets Poor Little Rich Girl story about a society gal running away to the big city to become a dancer while lying to her family and dull-as-hell fiancee about why she's in New York for 3 months.  Along the way she makes lifelong friends and finds love with a Navy photographer? who is also defying his parents' expectations.  (Eve Plumb, btw, plays the boyfriends' mom, and veteran Broadway performer Carolyn McCormick plays our leads' mom.)

I won't oversell it.  It's fine!  You might enjoy it.  If I had a little kid I wanted to understand that sometimes parental expectations don't align with personal passion, I'd think this movie does it as well as many.  It actually does try to give all of the supporting characters arcs, from the lead's romantic interest to her roommate, to their close friends within the Rockettes.

We are treated to some Rockettes numbers (with them cutting in our leads in some close-ups, but good luck spotting them in wide shots) - and this is clearly an ad for you to come see The Rockettes while in New York.  Which I would!  But.  I have not.

The twitter-riffic criticism of the film is that the movie tries to pave over the Rockettes' less than ideal history of resisting desegregation into the 1980's and instead casts race-blind for some roles.  And, of course, includes the modern Rockettes line-up.  There's probably a movie out there one could make about the real-life integration of the Rockettes, but I don't know if a fairy tale about finding friends along the way is that movie.  We're in some weird territory here, but I choose to think Hallmark is presenting an ideal we should have had, just as the Rockettes work is seen as tough but basically a big family - and that may be far from the truth.  That work looks hard, man.

Anyway.  

https://ift.tt/uqOK1EZ

from The Signal Watch https://ift.tt/dmFACV9

[sadprosed]

𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑶  𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺.

↬   OF  FAIRYTALES,  FOLKLORE  AND  FAEKIND.

scenarios  inspired  by  various  settings,  encounters  &  magic  tucked  between  pages,  fashioned  by  the  author.

+   feel  free  to  change  pronouns  /  roles  !

FAIRYTALES.

‘  let  me  guess,  you  thought  a  true  love’s  kiss  would  help  you.  ’

‘  you  will  always  follow  the  trail  in  the  wood,  and  it  will  guide  you  on  the  same  path,  to  the  same  cottage,  the  same  witch.  it  will  always  be  your  undoing.  ’

‘  i  have  never  seen  a  more  tragic  creature.  how  might  i  help  you  ?  ’

‘  you  must  take  this  knife  and  plunge  it  into  his  /  her  /  their  heart.  ’

‘  forget  yourself.  that  is  how  you  break  your  curse.  ’

‘  remove  this  thorn  from  my  hand,  and  you  will  be  rewarded.  ’

‘  i’m  tired  of  being  a  prince.  i  think  i  would  actually  enjoy  being  a  frog.  ’

‘  tell  me  of  the  beast,  and  i  will  hunt  it  for  you.  ’

‘  mice  are  never  just  mice,  and  pumpkins  are  rarely  just  pumpkins.  ’

‘  i  don’t  think  breaking  a  spell  should  be  this  simple.  ’

‘  i  never  thought  i’d  return  here,  to  the  site  where  it  all  began.  ’

‘  are  you  an  orphan  ?  it’s  just  that  they’re  always  finding  themselves  in  magical  predicaments.  ’

‘  the  mirror  speaks  falsely  in  your  ear.  it  is  your  true  curse.  ’

‘  my  heart  feels  uneasy,  although  i  am  free.  is  it  supposed  to  ?  ’

‘  i’m  sorry,  it’s  just  that  i  thought  this  is  the  part  of  the  quest  where  the  animals  ought  to  start  talking  to  me.  ’

‘  of  course  i  plan  on  going  to  the  ball.  why  wouldn’t  i  ?  ’

‘  jealousy  has  made  more  witches  out  of  women  than  adam’s  rib.  ’

‘  where  has  choosing  goodheartedness  and  having  golden  hair  ever  gotten  you  ?  ’

 ‘  are  you  a  helpful  wizard,  or  the  kind  that  sits  in  a  tower  reading  moldy  books  ?  ’

‘  i’m  dreadfully  bored.  who  knew  waiting  for  a  prince  was  so  strenuous  ?  ’

‘  we  all  have  towers  we  must  leave,  and  magic  that  will  try  to  thwart  us.  ’

‘  i’m  afraid  for  the  clock  to  strike.  the  hour  will  ring  in  the  place  of  my  heartbeat  when  we  must  be  parted.  ’

‘  i  had  no  idea  carpets  could  fly.  or  pigs  for  that  matter.  ’  

‘  what  would  happen  if  the  knight  did  not  arrive  to  the  castle,  and  the  dragon  made  a  den  of  it  and  a  hoard  of  its  people  and  prize  of  its  princess  ?  ’

‘  i  sometimes  think  i  was  switched  out  at  birth,  like  a  lizard  in  a  bird’s  nest.  i  belong  somewhere  else.  ’

‘   in  another  kingdom  exists  a  throne  and  a  crown  that  is  mine  by  right.  ’

‘  if  i  did  not  wake  up  one  day,  i  would  still  be  waiting  on  a spinning  wheel,  dutifully  bored.  ’  

‘  something  in  me  knows  you  are  here  for  my  heart.  ’

FOLKLORE.

‘  in  all  the  myths  i’ve  heard,  it’s  never  been  worthwhile  to  approach  strange  sights.  it’s  best  to  turn  around  and  pretend  you  never  saw  them.  ’

‘  nothing  is  folklore  until  it  exists  longer  than  consciousness  remembers,  and  lives  in  spite  of  it.  ’

‘  i’ve  heard  your  name  before,  in  songs  and  lengthy  ballads.  ’

‘  whatever  has  led  you  here  to  me,  there  is  destiny  in  its  making.  ’

‘  the  beast  returns  every  century  or  so,  and  tries  to  devour  us.  it  will  come  again  before  long.  ’

‘  a  pretty  face  is  not  nothing.  it  earns  you  a  hearth  and  a  kind  hand,  after  all.  ’

‘  their  lips  are  red  as  blood,  and  their  teeth  carve  ruin  into  throats.  ’

‘  aren’t  dragons  supposed  to  breathe  fire  and  make  a  fuss  about  having  their  treasure  found  ?  ’

‘  someday  you  will  become  a  pilgrim,  a  saint,  or  a  favored  story,  while  i  will  be  a  voice  on  the  wind.  ’

‘  the  stories  say  brides  don’t  live  to  the  light  before  demons  devour  them.  why  should  i  become  one  ?  ’

‘  there  was  another  girl  like  you  once,  in  a  small  town  like  this  one.  i  can’t  remember  if  she  became  the  monster  or  died  trying  to  escape  it.  ’

‘  remember  to  festoon  the  hearth  with  garlic,  or  rosemary,  or  one  of  those  mundane  herbs  that  keep  evil  out.  ’

‘  that  sounds  like  nothing  but  a  tall  tale,  but  i’m  certain  smaller  minds  would  eat  it  up.  ’

‘  to  cross  this  bridge,  you’ll  have  to  pay  a  heavy  toll.  ’

‘  don’t  stray  too  far  from  the  path  set  before  you,  or  something  interesting  might  happen.  ’

‘  i’ve  passed  that  yard  of  crops  a  million  times,  but  the  crow  never  moved  from  its  post  until  this  morning.  ’

‘   it  is  as  though  ancient  fears  are  still  in  us  like  scars  or  stitches.  ’

‘  graveyards  aren’t  where  you  find  ghosts.  look  for  them  in  places  that  feel  like  memories  you  shouldn’t  have.  ’

‘  stories  reap  princes  from  peasants  as  if  their  skins  were  crops  in  the  ground.  ’

‘  what  form  does  your  fear  take  ?  surely  not  that  of  a  bear  or  a  lion.  such  things  are  too  assuring.  ’

‘  i  found  myself  where  everything  was  too  familiar  to  be  real.  ’

‘  in  safe  beds  on  cold  dark  nights,  we  learn  to  face  the  monsters  in  our  own  minds.  ’

FAEKIND.

‘  you’re  not  to  partake  in  a  fairy  feast.  don’t  you  know  it’s  the  food  that  will  devour  you  ?  ’

‘  i’m  sorry  you  did  not  read  the  eyes  of  the  trees  before  finding  yourself  here.  ’

‘  i  wish  to  go  back.  i  want  to  forget  everything.  ’

‘  you  think  that  believing  in  us  is  enough  to  protect  you  ?  that  it  will  kill  us  if  you  forget,  and  we  prey  upon  your  unknowing  ?  ’

‘  step  around  the  ring  three  times,  like  a  backwards  clock.  that’s  how  you  get  to  fairyland.  ’  

‘  i’ve  never  heard  such  sweet  music  before.  ’

‘  where  the  trees  begin  to  twist  and  groan  in  their  roots,  remember  you  must  not  make  a  right  turn.  ’

‘  i  didn’t  feel  like  i’d  stepped  into  another  world,  but  like  it  stepped  into  me.  i  knew  i  was  there  and  forgot  i’d  left  anything  behind.  ’

‘  how  amusing.  a  human  !  ’

‘  would  you  be  my  bride  if  i  were  to  take  you  into  the  ground  ?  ’

‘  i  know  of  tunnels  you  might  take,  the  burrows  of  trolls  and  rabbits.  ’

‘  don’t  take  anything  from  this  realm,  none  of  it  is  worth  the  price  of  keeping.  ’

‘  there  are  courts  by  many  titles  in  the  lands  beyond  the  veil,  all  of  them  other.  ’

‘  names  are  not  like  currency  here;  they  are  more  precious  than  diamonds  and  legacies.  ’

‘  did  you  think  all  of  us  looked  like  goblins  ?  ’

‘  getting  here  is  easy,  but  getting  home  is  quite  the  trick.  ’

‘  i  shall  give  you  a  riddle,  and  it  will  puzzle  you  until  you  know  the  answer  but  forget  your  own  soul.  ’

‘  a  bloodline  is  nothing  when  you’ve  outlived  civilizations.  ’

‘  refusing  my  hospitality  is  like  human  sin,  and  it  will  bring  worse  upon  you.  ’

‘  everything  here  is  and  isn’t,  and  things  are  and  aren’t.  ’

‘  on  lonely  nights  i  stare  into  the  trees,  and  a  strange  face  leers  back.  ’

‘  the  thrones  here  are  made  of  bones  and  blood,  and  built  upon  decay.  ’

‘  a  third  time  is  not  a  charm,  but  a  bargain.  it  says  that  you  want  something  enough  to  wager  your  sense.  ’

‘  it  is  dangerous  to  think  that  magical  beings  do  not  have  human  intensities.  ’

[edenmemes]

misc poetry sentence starters

❝  one gets so used to one’s own horrors, one forgets how they must seem to other people.  ❞ ❝  you remind me what love lives in this skin.  ❞ ❝  you are the most phantom-like of all; you are a mere dream.  ❞ ❝  i’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck—the places floating, finally legible.  ❞ ❝  the world was made so we can find each other in it.  ❞ ❝  the night isn’t dark; the world is dark. stay with me a little longer.  ❞ ❝  i want you desperately. i want your strength and your softness, your hands, all of you.  ❞ ❝  is that too much to expect? that i would name the stars for you?  ❞ ❝  against your cheek my hand is warm and full of tenderness.  ❞ ❝  the world grows green again when you smile.  ❞ ❝  your share of pains would fill a sea.  ❞ ❝  i’m so stuck on the ‘was’ of people.  ❞ ❝  what i love in you is your power of loving, a bit wild, a bit primitive, but absolute.  ❞ ❝  i like figuring you out. you are so human and puzzling.  ❞ ❝  the unwillingness to try is worse than any failure.  ❞ ❝  you wanted happiness. i can’t blame you for that.  ❞ ❝  i did violence to my own heart.  ❞ ❝  i don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth.  ❞ ❝  like a magpie, i am a scavenger of shiny things: fairy tales and dead languages.  ❞ ❝  and here you come with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue.  ❞ ❝  you kiss the back of my legs and i want to cry.    only the sun has come this close, only the sun.  ❞ ❝  sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof you’ve been ruined.  ❞ ❝  when will it cease, this monstrous rage of yours?  ❞ ❝  i will plant my hands in the garden. i will grow, i know, i know.  ❞ ❝  i had it all and i want it back again.  ❞ ❝  i don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.  ❞ ❝  we are two reflections that cross swords with each other.  ❞ ❝  as for me, i am a watercolour. i wash off.  ❞ ❝  do you dare send me away as though you were were waiting for something better?  ❞ ❝  my dear, you are in danger of being burned by your own flame.  ❞ ❝  i am three oceans away from my soul.  ❞ ❝  you, occasionally, glimmer with a light i’ve never seen before. it frightens me.  ❞ ❝  i went to sleep last night so i could see you.  ❞ ❝  even the eyes of gods must adjust to light. even gods have gods.  ❞ ❝  how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?  ❞ ❝  it does me no good to be good to me now.  ❞ ❝  i may look alright, but if you were to look more closely you wouldn’t find a single healthy bit in me.  ❞ ❝  i must clothe myself in other worlds.  ❞ ❝  suffering is the privilege of those who feel.  ❞ ❝  sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine.  ❞ ❝  the vigor, the fire, that enables you to love and create. when you lose that, you’ve lost everything.  ❞ ❝  i can be bold, because i have you with me always.  ❞ ❝  you are shaking fists and trembling teeth. i know: you did not mean to be cruel. that does not mean you were kind.  ❞ ❝  not that i want to be a god or a hero, just to change into a tree,  grow for ages, not hurt anyone.  ❞ ❝  i laughed today. for a second i was unhaunted.  ❞ ❝  you are sunlight through a window, which i stand in, warmed.  ❞ ❝  there’s something electric in your blood.  ❞ ❝  you say you are broken,   but broken mirrors like you create the most beautiful patterns of light.  ❞ ❝  time doesn’t obey our commands.  ❞ ❝  i love you quite passionately, and with a touch of tragedy.  ❞ ❝  to feel anything deranges you. to be seen feeling anything strips you naked.  ❞ ❝  i love you --- like a storm bursts overhead --- i must confess it; all the more fiercely because you burn and bite.  ❞ ❝  and i have seen rivers, not unlike you, that failed to find their way back.  ❞ ❝  i am less a god now that you’ve touched me.  ❞ ❝  your words are gentle; but my blood runs cold to think what plots you may be nursing deep within your heart.  ❞ ❝  you said i killed you --- haunt me then.  ❞ ❝  your soul is frail and solemn, loyal and spring-like.  ❞ ❝  you look like you’ve eaten the sun, like you drank so much sunlight you’re drowning in it.  ❞ ❝  strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty.  ❞ ❝  you will hear thunder and remember me.  ❞ ❝  ever think it’s possible for us to be happy?  ❞ ❝  and i would wonder across all the deserts of this world, even after death, to search for you.  ❞ ❝  since we’re bound to be something, why not together?  ❞ ❝  i am ashes were once i was fire.  ❞ ❝  this mouth will destroy you the moment you mistake it for something soft, for something that is yours.  ❞ ❝  it’s no easy thing to bear, the weight of sweetness.  ❞ ❝  kill the light! i’d rather wallow in the dark.  ❞ ❝  i have thought of you often since the darkness.  ❞ ❝  with your presence the sun becomes irrelevant.  ❞ ❝  there is no god left in this skin. there’s just the ash. just the ash.  ❞ ❝  open your eyes, look more sharply, see me as i am.  ❞ ❝  what the hell is tragedy? i am.  ❞ ❝  i’ve got a lot of feeling for you. you’re kind.  ❞ ❝  how beautiful it is, how beautiful, that glow before the stars break.  ❞ ❝  so much to do today: kill memory, kill pain, turn heart into a stone, and yet prepare to live again.  ❞ ❝  i am myself. that is not enough.  ❞ ❝  i may be mad, god-seized, but i will stand outside my madness.  ❞ ❝  my power, which to me is still a curse ---  ❞ ❝  ocean sea with its caressing swell; it has so often cooled my heart.  ❞ ❝  do you bathe in perfume, and dry yourself in light?  ❞ ❝  i like you; your eyes are full of language.  ❞ ❝  let me tell you what i do know.    i am more than one thing and not all of those things are good.  ❞ ❝  you are the cause and the cure --- both.  ❞ ❝  i have kisses for the back of your neck.  ❞ ❝  your beautiful glance is unbearably cruel.  ❞ ❝  we might meet again, someday between dreams at dawn.  ❞ ❝  suffering is a terrible fire; it either purifies or destroys.  ❞ ❝  lately it hurts more to imagine you are a stranger rather than a destroyer.  ❞ ❝  and i say to myself: a moon will rise from my darkness.  ❞ ❝  since you walked out on me, i’m getting lovelier by the hour. i glow like a corpse in the dark.  ❞ ❝  i will not whine. i will obey and be forever still.  ❞ ❝  you move like the moon.  ❞ ❝  my eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears.  ❞ ❝  in your eyes, the fires of twilight.  ❞ ❝  do not haunt my soul; i have done well forgetting you.  ❞ ❝  i am no one. i cannot love. it’s in my blood.  ❞ ❝  you’re wearing your armor to protect your heart. who can blame you? it only makes sense in a world like this one.  ❞ ❝  you are not real. you are a dream of a dream.  ❞ ❝  there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you.  ❞ ❝  i am indeed a shameless, evil-minded and abominable creature.  ❞ ❝  come this evening --- i am eager for stars.  ❞ ❝  i am on fire with that soft sound you make, in uttering my name.  ❞ ❝  i want you mostly in the morning when my soul is weak from dreaming.  ❞ ❝  to me you are the desert and the sea; everything secretive.  ❞ ❝  i thought i was wounded to the core but i was only bruised.  ❞ ❝  it is a dead heart. it is inside of me. it is a stranger.  ❞ ❝  i live --- but i’m mutilated.  ❞ ❝  if there is a light then i am going to swallow it.    if there is a god then i’m going to make him cry.  ❞ ❝  i am condemned to be a saint or a monster: unable to be the one, unwilling to be the other.  ❞ ❝  you will open your wounds and make them a garden.  ❞ ❝  i come home --- and i feel like a ghost returning its haunt.  ❞ ❝  i planted roses, but without you they were thorns.  ❞ ❝  everything inside me is in revolt.  ❞ ❝  how this darkness soaks me through and through.  ❞ ❝  give me my robe, put on my crown; i have immortal longings in me.  ❞ ❝  say something dangerous like i love you.  ❞ ❝  listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?  ❞ ❝  in times of crisis, we must decide again and again whom we love.  ❞ ❝  breathe the scent of little, earthly things. let the twilight touch you.  ❞ ❝  my heart is just like the ocean, has storm and calm and tides.  ❞ ❝  you became for me a sacred being, not to be touched save in adoring thoughts.  ❞ ❝  gods are stubborn. so am i.  ❞ ❝  is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?  ❞ ❝  there’s something soft in me. i killed it and it’s rotting.  ❞ ❝  beware. beware. there is a tenderness.  ❞ ❝  half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. real gods require blood.  ❞ ❝  i’m alive. like a wound, a flower in the flesh, the path of aching blood is open within me.  ❞ ❝  you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.  ❞ ❝  i have it in me...to scare myself with my own desert places.  ❞ ❝  my mouth still houses century-old magic.     in my ears i hear a ringing and singing and no god.  ❞ ❝  keep talking. i’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.  ❞ ❝  i’m full of poetry now. rot and poetry. rotten poetry.  ❞ ❝  this skin is sick with loneliness.  ❞ ❝  memories are sharp. they bite. i have spent most of my life trying to grow a thicker skin just to make sure i would not bleed out whenever i felt those teeth scrape up against me.  ❞ ❝  i wonder if i will ever find a language to speak of the things that haunt me the most.  ❞ ❝  after fury, what do you do with the remains?  ❞ ❝  come on, dance with me. the earth is spinning. we can’t just stand on it.  ❞ ❝  let’s admit, without apology, what we do together.  ❞ ❝  try to find the right place for yourself. if you can’t find it, at least dream of it.  ❞ ❝  it takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations.  ❞ ❝  i am too full of life to be half-loved.  ❞ ❝  today you want nothing because wanting comes too close to feeling.  ❞ ❝  there’s nothing more terrible, more alluring, more mysterious than love.  ❞ ❝  heavenly wine and roses seem to whisper to me when you smile.  ❞ ❝  my soul is devoutly and wholly under your spell.  ❞ ❝  will you see the human in my being?  ❞ ❝  if i had a flower for every time i thought of you…i could walk through my garden forever.  ❞ ❝  part broken part whole, you begin again.  ❞ ❝  i don’t know if love’s a feeling. sometimes i think it’s a matter of seeing. seeing you.  ❞ ❝  i wonder which will get you killed faster, your loyalty or your stubbornness?  ❞ ❝  whether you come as a lover or an exeutioner, i am ready to receive you.  ❞ ❝  i think i understand your longing. it looks so much like mine.  ❞ ❝  i’ve had so many knives stuck into me. when they hand me a flower, i can’t quite make out what it is.  ❞ ❝  i like the sea: we understand one another. it is always yearning, sighing for something it cannot have; so am i.  ❞ ❝  do i not live? badly, i know, but i live.  ❞ ❝  something of you stuck with me. a splinter.  ❞ ❝  i clung to your hands so that something human might exist in the chaos.  ❞ ❝  sometimes i shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away. oh you never will.  ❞ ❝  my golden love, if only you knew, what precious honey you are for me.  ❞ ❝  i had an old wound once, but it is healing.  ❞ ❝  always this in-betweenness, this almost, this it might be that...  ❞ ❝  when i close my eyes, i see you. when i open my eyes i want to see you.  ❞ ❝  dark as it is --- you see, that little flickering, is the light of my soul.  ❞ ❝  am i a monster or is this what it means to be a person?  ❞ ❝  i am talking about evil. it blooms. it eats. it grins.  ❞ ❝  sapphires are those eyes of yours, ravishingly sweet.  ❞

[cancerjupiter]

astro notes: neptune edition (pt. 1)

neptune represents issues which are frequently unconscious, so all of this may operate without your awareness. if projected, the negative aspects of neptune become more emphasised. the more you reject it in your own life, the more likely it is that you’ll meet it in exaggerated ways outside yourself.

neptune in the 1st house

tends to be the kind of person who waits and sees, but your outward behavior doesn’t begin to describe what goes on inside. you feel connected to your environment because you’re aware of subtle energies, you pick up impressions from others they’re usually unaware to be giving. you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of knowing (beyond a verbal level) what others’ unconscious motivations are, what’s hidden behind their civility. you tend to be very idealistic, preferring to live in harmony: peaceful non-demanding relationships and quiet and aesthetically pleasing surroundings. you choose to think kindly of others, whether they reciprocate or not; your sensitivity gives you a natural compassion. you can be most charming, often whimsical, sometimes romantic, and usually empathic. you seem approachable and often receptive to a degree others find startling and deeply gratifying (if not a little scary lol). you want life to be perfect for yourself and others, and your desire for a better world can be channeled into artistic creative pursuits, social work, or mere daydreaming.

you often struggle with personal identity. you may be so open to others that you pick up their moods without realising it. you tend to mimic, unconsciously, the strong characteristics of the last person you were with. don’t become an emotional sponge; define your emotional boundaries and accept it is necessary for your growth to establish a firm identity. another thing i noticed about you is that you guys don’t mind suffering; no, i’m not saying you don’t hate it (everyone does!) but you seem to accept it when you don’t have to. you put others first and feel that it’s best to sacrifice your own well-being than to be responsible for someone else’s suffering.

there’s almost always a strong awareness of and interest in spiritual energies with this placement. you may actually be psychic, whether or not you’re comfortable with the ability. you may deeply religious, although not conventionally since institutions don’t satisfy you; you feel at home with a belief system you know, from personal experience, exists. your lack of interest in the real world can lead you into seriously bad habits like drug abuse or eating disorders and due to your dislike of physical activity, this can quickly damage your (often sensitive) health. alternatively, this placement can also lead to arrogance, depending on the sun and midheaven placements/aspects.

neptune in the 2nd house

you tend to be idealistic with the use of money and personal resources, not terribly attached to them. you look at them as temporary and although sad to part with something you own, you can let it go where others simply cannot. there’s an indifferent attitude towards finances, income and etc. some of you are v generous and will give things away to people who can truly admire it, believing nothing truly belongs to anyone. this outlook satisfies you greatly, making you easygoing but also easily being taken advantage of. this sort of gives you a fairy-tale attitude towards your money - it’s either always there when needed, or simply one of the world’s idiotic, materialistic preoccupations. you may be unpractical or simply forgetful with resources; not willing to sit down and figure what’s the best buy and choosing to go with intuition. purchases usually go by what you want rather than what you can afford (my friend has no idea how much is on her bank acc and doesn’t care to figure it out. she just doesn’t care lol). you should actually read the small print in contracts and not trust just anyone with your money.

alternatively, there may be a strong tendency to overvalue material things (neptune = beliefs in the house of money and possessions), specially if there’s an earth emphasis in the chart, making you inclined to putting great care and time into upkeep. you usually want your things to look aesthetic™️. 

there’s also a strong creative tendency; it may be expressed in various forms but it will certainly be inherent. you need at least periodic access to music and inspiration, including the outdoors where you can soak up peace and serenity. since the 2nd house also relates to sensual pleasures, you probably expect these to provide a kind of ultimate ecstasy. in short, this placement forces you to face up to your tendencies to create illusions about money, possessions, sex, or creative pursuits. don’t expect more from them than they can provide.

neptune in the 3rd house

on one level, this placement can confuse and scatter the brain, giving it vagueness and disorganized thinking. sometimes, however, the mind exhibits uncanny insights into the subtleties of the environment. you sense the hidden nuances and meanings behind what’s being said. what you miss in terms of precise analytical ability, you can by being able to view the big-picture more clearly. there’s a danger to this however; your desire to view what’s beautiful and ideal around you can give a kind of selective perception in which only the good is seen and what doesn’t fit into that is ignored.

you don’t usually feel comfortable expressing yourself through normal channels of communication. what you have to say can be better demonstrated through dance, poetry, song, or picture (painted or taken). there’s often a shyness in the early school situation, which manifested in mental illness (my friend has dyslexia and this was a hard time for her) or simply confusion.

since this house also rules siblings, there may be some sacrifices to be made in relation to them; they may be a problem or have difficulties. since neptune fuses the boundary between the self and others, you may feel you’re responsible for their problems or everything which happens in the immediate environment (also ruled by the 3rd). if you don’t have siblings, you probably longed for the companionship of it, an idealized vision of what a sibling is. i also noticed this neptune placement showing exceptional ability as teachers - specially working w children who have learning difficulties. they can understand ways to communicate with and understand the child better than anyone else.

neptune in the 4th house

i have this one and it’s a loaded position: an unconscious planet in an unconscious house. to feel safe in a secure nest is fundamental, though that’s often quite unconscious. your idea of haven includes a lovely home, w lots of food and someone who will take care of your needs. there’s an assumption that the mother, early home life and emotional security all need to be perfect. that is, all needs will be met with ease, and there’s no upset or disappointment in these areas. the mom or other primary caregiver, is supposed to be there when needed, regardless of other commitments. the illusions connected to the 4th house (remember, neptune refers to illusions which must be exposed and released) are deeply intimate; and any threat to them is profoundly threatening to you.

neptune in the 4th generally has to overcome the strong need for the nurturing parent to not only be perfect but to continue being so into your adulthood. you have great difficulty separating from them; you may never fully do it. it doesn’t matter if they actually lived to your expectations, for their importance is in your head - the parent you idealized or pretended they were. sometimes, however, this desire focuses on the home rather than the parent. in this case, the childhood home was either perfect, or mysterious and elusive. you can react by trying to re-create the exact same nest.

with this placement, nurturing yourself becomes the ultimate value, a way to find supreme satisfaction. you can also make the most amazing caretakers and companions. your need to nurture others is a complicated expression of your own hunger to be taken care of; you give too much and eventually become resentful when no one appreciates your (not asked for) sacrifices. you might also project neptunian traits onto your parent; they may be v spiritual and loving, vague and confusing, or even absent, so you were left w only a fantasy of what they could - and should - have been. they might have also been a victim (similar to pisces moon) and you might’ve felt obligated to save them. 

you feel like caring involves being swallowed up completely, and it’s something you either constantly yearn or are terrified of. you also feel if your (unrealistic) emotional security needs aren’t met, you won’t survive the disappointment (you did, and you will again). neptune in the 4th can make the most patient and loving parents, w a strong sense of their emotional bonding and spiritual responsibilities. you will do more to create an ideal parent/child relationship than anyone else and constantly remind others of how important it is to strive to be the best parent one can be.

neptune in the 5th house

this combo leads to a definite charisma, an aura of charm and power and importance (timothee, angelina, mlk, drake, etc). it’s a strong indication of some kind of acting ability, though it may be used as a teacher or a salesman rather than on stage. you’re likely to work in some area where applause and respect can be immediate and experienced personally. you need this; neptune undermines the self-confidence so you depend on others’ feedback to measure your worth. this can be a deadly dependency because even the highest praise and respect can truly fulfill the yearning to be loved unconditionally, only provide a temporary high, making you forever vulnerable.

some of the illusions related to this placement include the need to have perfect relationships and children, and the perfect artistic creation. whenever one expects perfection, they’re doomed to disappoitment, although the process of disillusionment may be needed to rethink your outlook on life. you may expect your love life to provide a complete sense of fulfillment. you can make a v romantic partner, the type to love cheesy romantic things and music, who can surround your lover with utmost affection. however, you might also expect them to sense your wishes and always meet them; or expect yourself to always be sensitive and caring at al times, regadless of your moods and/or needs.

you need to re-evaluate your tendency to romanticize lovers instead of seeing them for who they are. you may also harbor illusions towards children, your own or all, which hamper your ability to deal w them realistically and effectively. there’s a difficulty in developing a strong sense of self-worth, or maybe fancying yourself to be far more important than you really are. this placement is associated w a great deal of inspired creativity, however, and if other chart factors support it, it indicates exceptional artistic talent. with humility and self-awareness, you can use your magnetism to uplift those who have lost all confidence.

neptune in the 6th house

w this placement, neptune is in its polar opposite, since 6th house relates to virgo and neptune relates to pisces. this house is about the world as it is and how to manage it in a day-to-day basis. neptunian energy is the opposite: it yearns for and seeks to unite w the cosmos, which transcends this world. how can these two work this out?

when they’re well integrated in the chart, you can dream of neptune while using the practical 6th house skills to plan and organise the dream you wish to make true some day. it can direct the neptunian energy to envision something better, prettier, more creative and inspiring. without this, the 6th house is merely a housekeeping unit - a drive to organise and plan, but for what purpose? neptune supplies it with purpose and the house repays it with practical skills, usually related to some artistic work.

however, if the energies are at odds, there is the need to dream vs. the need to be practical and realistic. you feel a strong need to busy yourself w details and make everything as efficient as possible, tidying up and even criticising others (negative virgo energy). you may expect far too much from others and yourself, never able to say “no” when more work is piled on you. another expression is not being able to keep your shit together; you forget, are disorganized, feel tired and drained of energy, get sick often, or feel generally unfulfilled. my friend, for example, often seeks jobs for its glamorous aspects, only to get swamped by details and routine. 

[otomes-world]

Together for eternity

Anon says: May I ask for a oneshot with the prompt: 27. “If rebirth exists, I would like to meet you again” for Lilia with fem!mc, please?  

Thank you! Now I collected all diasomnia |･ω･)

"If rebirth exists, I would like to meet you again, darling"

Lilia's words took you by surprise. He never ceased to amaze you, but this time he managed to surpass himself. When you look at him with suspicion, not a spark of doubt flickered in the ruby ​​eyes, which made you even more confused.

Realizing that your beloved isn`t joking, you breathed in, closing your eyelids. Neither Silver, nor even Malleus, whom you once mustered up the courage to ask, knew Vanrouge's age. The fae himself also never mentioned how old he really was, however, the fact that he raised Draconia already said a lot.

You weren`t stupid, despite the fact that next to the third year you constantly felt yourself like a child who is learning to walk. Perhaps this is how you looked in his eyes: a child who had just left the cradle. Perhaps this is how your strange couple looked in other people's eyes.

A wise fae, behind whom there are years, centuries of experience, and an ordinary girl from another world without a drop of magic.

However, as the saying goes, opposites do attract. The same thing happened to both of you. Fate brought you together, knowing well of the cruel parting that awaited at the end. The best you could count on was to become a part of his life for the next century.

You tried not to think about the bad, enjoying the present, until in this very present Lilia brought you back to reality. Apparently, he, like you, didn`t forget about the inevitable future.

You couldn't hold back another heavy sigh. The phrase could seem romantic and beautiful, if you read it in a novel or see it in a film. However, life is far from ideal, and a fairy tale with happy ever after was clearly not intended for you.

Of course, Vanrouge suggested to you "extend"... your life, but you refused every time. It seemed wrong, artificial, and not real. You decided to spend with him all the time allotted to you on earth, and his proposal made your actions meaningless, impoverished. However even if you never spoke about it, you knew that Lilia guessed about your premises and reasons.

You didn`t succeed in plunging further into the abyss of depression: you felt a hand touching your shoulder soothingly. Raising your head, you again met with crimson eyes, which looked at you calmly and surely.

“Lilia... sometimes I envy how self-confident you can be.” At your words, the fae chuckled softly, still not looking away. "Share with me"

“My love, you know perfectly well. If it was possible, I would have done it a long time ago."

Then you couldn't help laughing. On the one hand, you were a little annoyed by his ability to joke and be serious at the same time, but on the other hand, it was one of his traits that you fell in love with.

“If rebirth exists, I would like to meet you again, dear.” Lilia repeated, as if the first time you didn`t hear him, touching your cheek. “Even if the whole world becomes my enemy, I will still find you, wherever you are. Your hair may become white like fallen snow, and charming wrinkles may appear around your beautiful eyes. You may look completely different, or you may no longer be yourself. No matter what will happen to us, I will still love you"

The words of your beloved warmed your heart and drove a little anxiety, which, as you knew, would soon return. At the moment, you were ready to plunge into an unknown future. Closing your eyes again, you put your hand over his and sighed.

"Me too"

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (2/5)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don’t fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~16.5k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One

A/N: I’m back! Thanks for your patience in waiting for the latest chapter of my @cssns​ piece. My apologies for the wait; these chapters are slow in coming due to my own overthinking and perfectionism, what I know where everything is going and this Will Be Finished. 

Special thanks to my betas, @snidgetsafan​ and @ohmightydevviepuu​, and to @eirabach for the absolutely gorgeous art she created for this chapter. Seriously, it’s like she climbs right inside my head to see what I’m picturing. Give her a BUNCH of love for all this. 

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​, @spartanguard​, @phiralovesloki​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @winterbythesea​​

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Henry is six the first time he visits the Circus. 

It’s a special treat for an orphaned boy like him; the nuns who run the Storybrooke Children’s Home, just outside of Portland, Maine, aren’t much given to frivolous entertainments like this. But a generous monetary donation had been made to the home when the Circus had set up just over the next hill, and tickets for all the children along with it. The nuns may not be much for frivolity, but they’re not ones for waste, either, especially where gifts are concerned. The next night, Sister Astrid and Sister Theodora collect all the children who want to go, and bring them to what, to Henry, feels like a whole other world. 

Henry is a boy the adults already say lives in his imagination too much, and the magic of the Circus only enchants him further, calling to him in a way he doesn’t yet have the words to understand, let alone describe. There are trapeze artists who soar through the air, and jugglers, and lions and tigers and wolves so tame that they’ll take treats from his hands. Kindly confectioners slip him pieces of praline and boxes of popcorn to snack on through the night with a wink and a smile. It’s treatment such as he’s never experienced before, and it’s easy to wonder if he’s just wandered into some kind of dream.

(Even at six, Henry knows better than to disrupt such a lovely dream.)

It’s easy to get separated from the rest of the children in the dazzle of it all, and Henry finds himself wandering the curved paths alone as the clock strikes one, when the others in his group are preparing to return to the Home. Not that he knows it; he’s far too occupied by staring wide-eyed at the black and white tents where they soar to meet the stars and peeking beyond their entrance flaps.

That’s how the lady finds him - gawking with a craned neck at everything around him. 

“Have you lost your group, young man?” she asks with a gentle voice. Henry likes being called young man; it makes him feel important. 

“It’s okay,” he tells her earnestly. “They like to go faster than me. I can do it by myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” the lady laughs. She looks really pretty; her hair is yellow and curly and she wears a poofy white dress with black swirly bits and a black, long-sleeved jacket, the lack of color making it obvious she’s part of the Circus somehow. If this was one of the fairy tales Henry likes so much, she’d be the princess in hiding; here, at the Circus, that just might be true. “I was just planning to walk to the front gates. Would you care to escort me, young sir?”

Henry eagerly takes the hand the lady offers. “I’m Henry,” he tells her as they walk. “What’s your name?”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Emma.”

“That’s a princess name. Are you a princess?”

“No,” she laughs, “but thank you very much, Henry. I appreciate the compliment. Are you enjoying the circus?”

“Yeah!” As they walk, Henry eagerly tells the lady - Emma, his new friend - about all his favorite bits - the animals and the dancers and especially the magician. Emma has a funny little smile when he talks about that, but Henry doesn’t think to ask about it.

When the front gates are finally in sight, Henry tugs on Emma’s hand. “I like it here,” he whispers. “Do I have to go?”

Emma crouches down, her skirts pooling around her and threatening to envelop him too. “Yes, Henry, you have to leave for now.”

“But why? I want to stay here. I could stay with you!”

“Oh, Henry, I’d like that so much,” she tells him, pulling him into a hug. “You need to go for now, until you’re older, but the Circus will always be here for you, okay? You’ll come back.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Henry dreams of the circus that night, and for many nights after, though the visions his mind conjures up never quite match the mysticism of the real thing.

A week later, the Circus is gone.

(But here, in a small room in a cold, gloomy children’s home - a young boy remembers.)

———

Belle, unsurprisingly, proves to be a determined and reliable correspondent. She’s like his little window into the Circus, even when he can’t be there himself, as is so often the case - especially in those first few years. Five years pass of letters and far-too-rare visits, and yet Killian never feels left in the dark. That’s the magic of what Belle can accomplish with her words - let him feel as if he is present even when he can’t be. 

Her missives contain the important things he asked for, of course - reports of new tents and changes in operations and unusual things his opponent, Miss Swan, is doing. They’re useful words, words that help him plan his own next moves. More than that, though, her letters are filled with wonderful little mundane details that make him smile. Belle tells him about the latest book she’s read and how fast the Zimmer twins are growing up and particularly funny anecdotes she’s heard. There are complaints about the weather, and discussions of the interesting or ominous things she reads in the cards. Always, always, there are chronicles of all the many places she has seen as the Circus crisscrosses the world, recountings of wondrous sights and marvelous people. Belle had wanted to see the world, and she’s getting to, five times over. It’s everything she deserves, only wrapped in an unusual and often demanding package. 

“It’s not too much, is it?” Killian asks on one of the rare instances their paths cross - in Paris, this time, where Killian has come on an errand for Jefferson, sitting in a little cafe in the shadow of Notre Dame. “I never want to ask more of you than you can manage.”

“Don’t be silly,” Belle says, waving off his concerns like the steam from their coffee. “They’re merely letters, Killian. It’s no great bother - especially for something I’d be doing anyways. I’d be writing to you regardless, Killian - you’re my best friend in the world, and I’ll be terribly put out if you ever stop writing me back.”

And that’s that.

(Most days, Killian believes that Belle is a much better friend than he could ever possibly deserve. He makes a mental note to say something of the sort in his next letter back to her.)

(Of course, he forgets - but then again, he can’t imagine she doesn’t already know.)

———

As a child, growing up knowing she was destined for some magical contest, Emma had always been told that she’d understand what she needed to do once her competition actually started. As an adult, now smack in the middle of it all, she finds that is decidedly not the case. Emma does her best, but it still feels like she has no idea what in the world she’s supposed to be doing.

The Circus is meant to be a canvas for her abilities, hers and her opponent’s; that much is obvious. What exactly that means is… more up for debate. Emma tries to take on more of the Circus in little pieces, bit by bit, so that more of its operations run on magic than on man power. It’s more enjoyable to try and come up with new attractions, drawing upon her imagination to come up with something new. It’s not a particularly quick process - Emma spends a lot of time planning each idea, to make sure she doesn’t miss anything, and it means that she can only create maybe two new tents each year. It’s worth it, though, to wander through the finished product, and see the way her most fanciful ideas have come to life. 

(“You need to be doing more,” Regina always scolds her on those rare occasions she makes the effort to visit her student. “This isn’t playtime. You can’t just make the effort when you feel like it, silly girl. Don’t you want to win this?”

“Of course, Regina,” Emma always says, making whatever promises she needs to in order to appease the other woman - all the while knowing that she will continue to act in her own way.)

(For Emma, the best thing about the Circus may be the separation from the woman who took her in. Regina does not often make the effort to check in on how her student is doing - and Emma more than likes it that way.)

There are traces of her mysterious opponent’s work, too. Sometimes it’s in the form of dramatic new attractions, things that push the bounds of possibility and perception; sometimes, it’s with more mundane things, like a wine-sampling tent tucked along a path that Emma is certain never existed before. 

His or her greatest feat, however, is on the members of the Circus themselves. As the years pass by, Emma can’t help but notice that time doesn’t affect everyone who brings the Circus to life, with the exception of the Zimmer twins. It’s been more than half a decade, but Granny Lucas is still as hale and hearty as ever. Not a single face has gained extra creases, or a single head extra grey hairs. Something this unknown competitor did has stopped the clock for all of them within the iron fence, even as the grand timepiece above the front gates ticks on.

It’s an impressive piece of magic - one that must take a considerable amount of skill and effort. It’s the first time Emma wonders if maybe this is a contest of endurance, rather than skill.

Regina won’t tell her, however, and Emma puts the matter out of her mind while she turns her attention towards the night’s performances and the germ of an idea blooming in her head. Something fantastical. Something striking - and icy. 

There’s always room for imagination and for creation at the Circus, after all - and despite her opponent’s impressive efforts, that’s exactly what Emma is counting on to one day prevail in this competition. 

——— 

The Zimmer twins are special, Emma discovers, and not just in the way anyone who has loved a child claims them to be exceptional. In Ava and Nicholas’ case, it’s true. 

There had been something in the air the night the circus opened, the night after the twins were born - something crackling and pervasive and magical. Emma has suspected for years - since that very moment - that the energy was something created by her still-unknown opponent. It’d been like a wave, rippling through them all at once and creating unknown effects. She thinks this might be one of those - powers growing in two children who, by all indication, shouldn’t have received them.

It’s especially noticeable to Emma, who not only has the ability to sense the powers running through their veins, but spends a considerable amount of time with the six-year-old twins. Ava and Nicholas grow up like the beloved niece and nephew of everyone involved with the circus, as though everyone communally agreed to test the proverb it takes a village. While the circus is open to visitors, and the children’s parents responsible for their little cart of carved treasures, everyone else watches the little boy and girl in shifts when they’re not performing - and Emma quickly becomes a particular favorite. She’s never been sure why; maybe they sensed the magic in her own veins, even as babies, and latched onto it. Maybe they simply like the way she thoughtfully humors every flight of fancy. Whatever the case - Emma knows her life would be far less interesting without the two in it. 

Ava has magic that likes to shake out and twinkle at the edges of her soft hair, similar in a way to Emma’s own powers. Unusual things happen around her, if you’re paying attention; lost things are more easily found, snacks and sweets turn up in unlikely places, and on one impressive occasion, a pair of fluffy orange and white kittens crawled out from beneath her bunk. 

“I can fix that,” she tells Emma innocently one day as Emma moves to throw a vase of wilted flowers out. She hasn’t prodded Ava about her powers before - it doesn’t seem the time to bring to the forefront all the things she can likely do, not when she’s still a little girl, not when Emma’s own childhood was largely sacrificed because of her own powers - but it’s a hard opportunity to pass up. It’s worth demonstrating to Ava, anyways, that her powers are simply a part of her, and nothing to make a fuss about.

“Can you show me?” Emma asks. It’s impossible not to smile when the little girl nods eagerly and furrows her brow in concentration, staring fixedly at the wilted daisies. Slowly but surely, the browned tips disappear, the petals straightening from their shrivelled state and the flowers once again lifting upright to seek the sun.

“That’s very well done, Ava,” Emma makes sure to tell her. 

“I know,” Ava replies seriously with all the intensity of a child her age. “Can you do that too?”

“I can.” Emma doesn’t tell people about her magic, usually, but Ava seems like a necessary exception - to let the little girl know she’s not entirely alone in her special, unusual skills.

“I thought so,” the little girl nods sagely. “I could feel it.”

It doesn’t surprise Emma in the least. 

Nicholas knows things that he shouldn’t - knows things that no one should know. Somehow, the stars speak to him in a language only he can understand. Nick sees things to come and things that have already happened, and sometimes divulges them readily and at the most unlikely times. 

“Is the scary lady with the dark hair your mama?” he asks one day out of the blue, startling Emma before she collects herself.

“No. She was my teacher,” Emma explains. 

“Oh.” His question asked, Nick happily goes back to playing quietly with his wooden lion. He’s less prone to chatter than his sister, happy to keep to his own thoughts when Ava isn’t pulling him into some other adventure. Emma rather wonders if it’s not because he has all the things he sees in the stars to keep him company. 

“Is there a reason you asked?” she inquires as casually as she can. “Did you… was there something you saw?”

“She hurt you,” is all he’ll say. “Before you were here.”

Something from the past, then - not so immediately alarming, though a sign she’ll need to be vigilant about hiding certain portions of her memories that young, impressionable and trusting minds shouldn’t be seeing.

“It’s alright, Nickie,” she tells him. “She isn’t around to bother me very often.”

He nods decisively. “Good.”

As he turns his attention back to his wooden lion, bringing a tiger in as well, Emma reaches out for the magic constantly humming about her and draws it into herself, directing to play through her mind and cast something almost like her invisibility cloak around her more traumatic memories to keep Nicholas from seeing. 

“Is there anything else?” she prods, mostly to test and see if the charm is effective.

Sure enough, the little boy’s face twists into a frown. “I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I can’t see.”

“Ah, well,” Emma replies in a purposefully light tone. “Maybe some other time.”

(She is not entirely sure she means it.)

Truth be told, Ava and Nicholas and their wondrous gifts are a beautiful mystery. All Emma knows is that it’s her responsibility to protect them from more sinister influences, the way she wishes someone had done for her. They deserve that. She deserved that. And she’ll be damned if they’re turned into pawns the way she was. 

There are many good things to come out of the Circus - friendship and wonder and home - but Emma thinks the Zimmer twins, and the powers they should be able to wield for good without the interference of people like Regina - are one of the best. 

——— 

There are attractions at the Circus unlike anything you’ve seen before, that you think may only exist within these iron gates. The Circus is a place where the otherworldly and impossible come to life.

This tent contains one such wonder, advertised with simple but mysterious words. This marker swirls and glistens in the moonlight, coaxing you inside to discover its secrets.

Stepping through the tent flap, brisk air tickles at your face - the first sign of what’s to come. Twisting through the interior are all manner of transparent structures, arranged in neat beds. The Ice Garden - just as promised. Each creation appears impossibly delicate and fragile, and by all logic, should be impossible on a warm summer’s night. There are lilies and roses and daisies, sculpted topiaries, winding vines, flowers that remind you of an illustration you once saw of tropical flora. A raised bed of cacti and succulents sprawls along one wall. Opposite, an apple tree, laden with fruit, arches gracefully at the edge of a silver-stoned path. There are little crystalline plaques, too, for all the plants whose names you’d never begin to guess: Shooting Star. Gayfeather. Anemones. Candelabra Primrose.

Every inch, every label, every petal, is made of ice.

Even at the Circus, such a thing should be impossible, This tent may be slightly, inexplicably cooler, but it’s by no means chilled enough to maintain this icy wonder. Though you know you shouldn’t touch, you can’t help but graze your fingers along an icy petal, just to make sure it isn’t cleverly blown glass. It’s a joyous mystery when they come away cold and wet, the sculptures revealed as ice in truth.

There’s no explanation for the Ice Garden - how it can exist at this edge of the Circus, seemingly unburdened by the laws of nature.

The longer you spend in the sparkling, colorless chill, the more you come to realize that beauty doesn’t need an explanation anyways.

———

Killian - 

I know it’s not quite the update you were asking for, but I still feel compelled to share - something wonderful and charming and amusing, and so delightfully human. I couldn’t quite resist writing to tell you. 

I could be wrong - but I believe a little fanclub has sprung up to trail the Circus. You’ll think it silly, Killian, but I am starting to recognize faces here - not of Circus members (I am not nearly so unobservant, or so rude not to recognize them by name after all these years!) but of visitors. There are a handful I could swear are coming over and over again. I’ll have to ask, next time I notice.

(Not that I can begrudge them of such - I certainly would be doing the same, in their shoes! It’s just that the fortunes get rather repetitive. I should probably let them know that the stars of fate do not change nearly as quickly as they seem to believe…)

There’s a certain awe, or maybe more like peace, that they wear on their faces as they move about the grounds that’s unique from all the other looks I see - almost like they’re coming home. I certainly know something about that - I think so many of us do. It’s wonderful, really - the way these visitors love the Circus so much that they feel compelled to return time and time again, joyously retracing the same paths over and over. It’s clear they love this place the way we do. Isn’t that just what we wanted, anyways? To make something for others to love, to play a part in bringing it to life? 

(Yes, I obviously remember that you’re also doing this for your mysterious competition - but I don’t believe someone makes something so beautiful without a generous dose of love as well. Don’t try to deny it, Killian - you know I’m always right.)

I hope you are well; no other news from here. As always, I’ll let you know if anything changes. 

Best wishes,

Belle

——— 

In time, the Circus gains followers.

It was probably inevitable, in a way; as the Circus winds its way across the world, through large cities and small towns, it touches countless lives as it goes, some more impactfully than others. There are those who visit once, and remember it fondly; those who take the opportunity to visit whenever the Circus is in their area, and look forward to it; and those who hold the memories close to one day tell their disbelieving grandchildren.

And then - there are the Rêveurs.

The Rêveurs start almost like a book club - groups of people who meet to reminisce about their favorite attractions, all the sights and smells and tastes that make the whole experience unforgettable. In time, the groups morph; they begin to go to the Circus together, and then travel to visit other Rêveurs when the Circus comes to their area. Particularly eloquent members begin to write into their local newspapers and magazines, beautiful editorials that convey love and wonder and coax thousands of others through the twisted iron gates. It becomes an entire movement, based off of a shared love, of people coming together to experience the Circus over and over again.

It is easy to spot the Rêveurs, if you know what you are looking for. In one of the editorials, an adherent mentions his own preferred way to experience the Circus - to blend in as much as he can, in all black and white, while still setting himself apart from those who bring the experience to life by adding a single touch of red. The trend catches on quickly; wandering the grounds, it is easy to spot splashes of red in the crowd, handkerchiefs peeking from pockets and roses or carnations in lapels and gloves and ribbons in hair. 

Some Rêveurs make sure to visit new attractions each time they visit; some prefer to see the same over and over, lingering in the acrobat tent or on the carousel for hours. In a way, they prove that there is no right or wrong way to experience the Circus - there will always be new things to see, and old favorites to return to. 

The members of the Circus are aware of the Rêveurs, too. Indeed, there are benefits to being in the same audience with that little flash of red, as performers bring out their best, most dazzling tricks and attempt new daring feats. Watching carefully, one might see a vendor slip a cup of cocoa or an extra serving of toasted nuts to a man or woman with that bare hint of color. All visitors to the Circus are valued, but the Rêveurs are treasured, in a different way, that makes every person involved in the endeavor want to do just the slightest bit more to bring the experience to life in a new way. 

The performers and vendors and other members of the Circus are its engine, in many ways - but the Rêveurs just might be its heart. 

———

Killian - 

I just realized that it’s been a while since my last letter - two months, I believe! Everything is perfectly fine here, I assure you. In fact, I haven’t written because there’s been nothing particularly notable to report. I’ve been watching for new additions, just as I always do, but nothing has appeared. Ah, well. We must be in a quiet stretch on that front.

Meanwhile, the Circus trundles onward, as it so often does. This week, we’re in Morocco. I’ve never been - and oh Killian, it is wonderful. The air is hot and dry and tinged with all kinds of spices that I can’t quite identify. And the food! A little group of us went and wandered in one of the markets, trying things from the stands. I’ve never tasted anything like it. What boring lives so many people lead, happy to stay on their own little island and pretend they know everything. This is so much preferable. The weather is a wonderful respite, too, from the cold I know must be sweeping through now that December is well and truly here.

I do not know if we’ll be home for Christmas; I rather doubt it. I’ll miss our usual holiday feast, but I trust that you’ll have a lovely time with your brother instead. My regards to Liam, as always.

Yours &c.,

Belle

———

Killian is lucky, in a way. After all, he has Belle and Liam, who both know about this competition. They’re his support system, the people who keep him grounded to life outside of all this - especially Liam. Lord knows Mr. Gold has never sought to do that. He doubts Miss Swan has that. Maybe he’s wrong; for her sake, he hopes he is. How lonely it must be to keep that secret, otherwise. 

Liam’s apartment is like a sanctuary at the end of a long day, where his brother waits with dark spiced rum and a roaring fire. Sometimes they venture out for dinner; some nights they stay in, and have the landlady send up something to eat. Mostly, Killian enjoys the peace of being in company that never expects more of him than he’s sure he can give. All Liam expects is companionship, and maybe for Killian to come with a nice bottle of spirits every so often. Killian can more than handle that. 

(They do not mention that Liam does not seem to age, the same way all those attached to the Circus do not. If his brother has even noticed, he remains blessedly silent on the subject.)

“Do you wonder sometimes,” Liam asks one night, “what would have happened if you hadn’t been selected by Gold? If you had turned him down?”

Killian shrugs. They’re in the middle of their third drinks - just the time for philosophical questions like these. “Not really,” he admits. “What’s the use? It happened like it happened. You wouldn’t have as nice a place as this, that’s for damn sure.”

Liam snorts, and the atmosphere turns more jovial for a few minutes as both men indulge in a drunken laugh before things turn thoughtful again. “If you had to do it all over again… would you?”

“I would,” Killian agrees. “We were a couple of scrappy orphans, no prospects, nothing. I’ve never been given a reason to truly regret it.”

“Then I’m happy for you, brother.” Liam tops off their glasses and raises his drink in a toast. “To good decisions, then!”

“To good decisions,” Killian echoes. “Or at least ones we haven’t yet regretted.”

———

Some attractions are more conventional in name, their promises familiar and comforting in that way that the expected can be. But this is the Circus, and conventional simply doesn’t exist here in the same way. 

You enter another tent to discover a hall of mirrors. It is a common enough attraction, at its core, one you have seen in other carnivals and street fairs. But true to the promise of the Circus, this version of such a fun house classic is more than you’ve ever seen. There are tall, full length mirrors, as you’ve come to expect, but small mirrors too, clustered on tables in every nook between their larger counterparts to reflect the lantern light in every direction. The mirrors don’t just distort your own reflection either; in addition to mirrors that cause your reflection to look taller or shorter or wider, there are mirrors to make you look older or younger, mirrors which change your hair, mirrors which duplicate your visage over and over again until you appear to be surrounded by a crowd of your own self in the mirror. There are even mirrors which somehow make it appear that you are someplace else entirely - by the seaside, the water slowly soaking your shoes, or in a fragrant flower garden, or wandering amidst ancient ruins. It is a clever trick, and one you won’t pretend to understand. In your heart, you never want to, for fear of ruining the illusion.

The world feels bright and new under the moonlight as you exit back outside the tent, like the hall of mirrors has helped you find a new way of seeing.

(And maybe, you realize, that’s the entire point.)

———

Killian takes small comfort in the fact that Mr. Gold seems pleased with his efforts. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows that somehow he’s supposed to demonstrate his abilities and magical knowledge on the canvas that is the Circus, but that only tells him so much. Killian adds attractions when he can, crafting things like the Hall of Mirrors in careful dioramas before sewing the plans into his master book, but it’s so hard to know if he’s on the right track. 

Mr. Gold has never been particularly involved in Killian’s life, and that doesn’t change now that the competition has well and truly begun. As a child, Killian had been largely self-taught, relying on the books that his teacher provided and the man himself only dropping in periodically to test his knowledge and comprehension. This feels like much the same thing; once a year, Mr. Gold will appear in Killian’s office after one of the Circus dinners, or outside his flat door without warning. There may be a polite inquiry about what Killian is currently working on, especially if the visit occurs in his cramped and ruthlessly organized office; more often than not, there isn’t. Killian will make polite inquiries about his mentor’s health and business, all of which are carefully avoided. Mr. Gold will state that he is satisfied with the work of his student - exactly that, and nothing more. 

Killian never expects an expression of pride; after all, he’s never received anything of the sort in all the years he’s been under his teacher’s direction. Theirs has always been a distant relationship, if it can even be called that. 

“How will I know I’ve won?” Killian dares to ask on one of these visits. “What do I have to do?”

“You’ll know, dearie,” is all his teacher will say. “Trust me, it will be very obvious.”

It is not. 

But Killian works onward, carefully building and manipulating things. Who knows? Maybe, one day, he’ll understand. 

———

The relationship between the members of the Circus and the Rêveurs has always been unusual. If it weren’t for the fact that the two groups are inextricably linked, and indeed obviously treasure one another, the interaction almost might be called respectfully distant. There exists an unspoken, but obviously adhered to, separation between the two - that there are Circus folks and there are Rêveurs, and they do not socially interact. Though a vendor or performer might, surreptitiously and casually, mention an anticipated next stop to an awed visitor with that single splash of red, they will not be found together in the light of day, strolling in the public parks or sharing a coffee in one of the cafés. The Rêveurs, largely, prefer it that way; the mystical quality is somehow kept alive when the people of the Circus only seem to dwell within its gates.

Of course, Emma has never been one for formality, or fitting in with the rest of the crowd. 

If pressed, she’ll claim that Marco is an anomaly - a man who fits between both worlds, and therefore special. It’s her own kind of loophole in the intricate rituals of the Circus and the Rêveurs. 

(No one ever presses, though - to do that, they’d need to know that Emma writes to Marco in the first place.)

Marco, in truth, has been involved in the Circus since the very beginning - though he did not always know it. An Italian by birth, living in Germany and creating exquisitely crafted cuckoo clocks, Mr. Marco Gepetto had been the very man contracted by Mr. Booth, the architect, to build the massive timepiece at the front gates, back when this whole endeavor was still coming together. Marco hadn’t been aware of that, at the time; all he’d known was that an Englishman had offered him a frankly absurd amount of money and next to no direction, only to create something unusual and extraordinary for a circus venue he was helping produce. With his rambling imagination and careful craftsman’s hands, Marco had more than delivered, creating the masterpiece Emma has found comfort in watching many times. 

That clock had always haunted him, he’s tried to explain to her many times during their correspondence, his mind running wild wondering exactly where it had been installed. Mr. Booth had sent a note declaring the producers delighted by the result, and Marco had never heard a peep again. Emma cannot blame him for wondering, truly, after all the months he had invested in the clock and all the personal touches he had poured in. The truth, he confides, is that he believed - nay, believes it to be his greatest work, all the while unaware that so many others were similarly touched. It was only years later that Marco had realized the grand project he had unknowingly helped bring to life, when an acquaintance had insisted they visit the traveling circus setting up just outside of Munich. 

“It was wonderful,” he gushes to Emma as they walk down the streets of Naples several years later, the older man happily pointing out the location of all the haunts of his younger days. “It was more than I ever could have imagined - and so well situated! So perfectly blended with the rest of the design! I must tip my cap to Signore Booth for his work, and all his compatriots.”

Marco had fallen in love with the circus on that first night, as a venue for his masterpiece and as a creation all its own. It was impossible not to, he had claimed later in the first of many editorials and subsequent letters - it was like the Circus called to him, begging him to uncover all its secrets. It may be the work of several lifetimes; perhaps, that’s just the appeal. 

He didn’t particularly mean to spearhead the Rêveurs movement, he’d explained to Emma in one letter. It was simply that he’d fallen in love, with a place and an experience, and wanted to share that with everyone else. It was just that he was the first, the first to not just talk about the Circus but publish his thoughts, that had made him the unexpected figurehead of the group. He’d been the one to come up with the idea of that touch of red, too, though he never admits it unless pressed. 

Letters flood in, from across Europe and the globe, wanting to compare experiences and share in the joy of the Circus. Marco gladly responds; many, indeed, become friends. But none is quite like Emma, who he only first knows as a woman with unusual insight into the Circus when she first begins writing, just another person who reaches out after one of his editorials. He assumes she’s just another of his Rêveur correspondents at first, but her thoughts, so carefully measured but fond, strike a chord somewhere in Marco. A friendship blossoms over dozens of letters exchanged, comparing experiences and details noticed and treasured - until, finally, this summit, as Marco had visited an elderly aunt while the Circus docked along the Italian coast. 

He takes the revelation that Emma isn’t merely some visitor, but a core member of the Circus, with an unexpected lack of surprise. “I wondered if you were rather closer to the matter than you let on,” Marco explains, patting her hand before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “I shall consider myself uniquely lucky to have earned your friendship.”

And he has. Marco possesses a sharp mind and an affection for the little details that Emma loves, and an easy-going manner it proves near-impossible not to be charmed by. He fills something like a fatherly role, for Emma - always encouraging and delighted to hear about the latest improvements to her show. She doesn’t tell him that all the magic she does is real - but somehow feels that he understands, anyways. Marco is special like that, and perceptive. Somehow, Emma doubts that he’d be much surprised if she revealed the whole mess of the competition.

Marco may be physically distant from the ever-changing Circus grounds, and may not fully know what’s going on - but he’s a pillar of support, all the same, like Emma has never known.

(She only hopes he isn’t one more thing that’s just too good to last.)

——— 

Killian - 

At long last - an update! I feel like it’s been so long since I’ve had anything to report to you. Not that I don’t enjoy our correspondence, of course - it’s always so wonderful to share with you a little slice of my life here and hear from you in return. I simply feel so much better when I have something concrete to report to you, as we agreed.

I’m stalling, though. The truth is… I’m not entirely sure how to put into words exactly what this latest tent contains. It defies description, I find. The little sign along the path reads ‘Wishing Tree’, but that doesn’t describe much, does it? That could be anything. The Wishing Tree, in truth, is… oh, where do I start? It is somehow both earthly and otherworldly. It is both wondrously fantastical and firmly rooted in the soil. It exists both on this plane and in the world of dreams and aspirations. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that it is a contradiction, in the most spectacular way. Most simply put, if I stop beating around the bush, it is like a living, growing wishing well - but so much better than that, in its symbolism. There are no words to do it justice.

If you couldn’t tell already, Killian, I am insisting that you come and visit the Circus grounds next time it is convenient. There is no other way to fully grasp the delight of this latest addition. If I were not so terribly fond of you, I’d offer a hearty ‘Bravo!’ to your competitor - so count yourself lucky!

Yours,

-Belle

———

The Circus’ tents are filled with wonders - large and small, loud and quiet, and everything in between. What unites all the disparate attractions is a mystical quality - one that’s hard to put into words, but that makes every move and every moment greater and more magical than any similar display you may have seen before.

The particular tent in front of you is tall, but narrow, with a delicate wooden sign carefully placed to the side of the silvery-paved path leading beneath the entrance flap. Wishing Tree, it reads in a painted cursive script. An attraction you’ve never heard of.

Lifting the tent flap reveals just what was promised on the placard - a tall, elegant tree, all in the colors of the circus, with white bark and black leaves. The tree’s branches twist and curve around the tent, creating a structure almost reminiscent of a basket. Where it could be grotesque, the way branches stretch and dip around your body, but the effect is somehow comforting - like the tree protects all that it surrounds. It is otherworldly, in the truest sense of the word, an effect only heightened by the clusters of pearly white candles on each branch. By the entrance sits a small table, with a basket of candles and a crisp white card, embossed with a simple instruction:

Make a wish.

A wish is a sacred thing, and this is a place that respects that. After making your own wish, lighting your candle with one of the many already waiting on the tree’s branches, you place it in the highest nook you can reach where two branches join. There’s a profound symbolism to it all - one wish ignited by another, left to become part of a beautiful mass of light, illuminating this little corner of the world in soft and beautiful light. 

(That light will stay with you long after you slip back through the flap of the tent.)

———

At Belle’s urging, Killian makes the trip to see the Circus, and especially this new attraction, when they pass through Edinburgh. It is not precisely convenient - there are multiple trains involved from London, after all - but there’s no real telling when it will next be in the city, and he trusts Belle’s judgement that he must see this Wishing Tree for himself.

She’s right, of course. The Wishing Tree defies all conventional description. There’s a sense of possibility, and hope that just can’t be captured in a simple letter. Killian is sorely tempted to take a candle and light a wish of his own, but ultimately resists. The Wishing Tree isn’t just for some passing fancy - it is for the deepest dreams of one’s heart. As long as Killian is still unsure as to what his own dearest dream might be, it feels more appropriate to refrain from adding his own candle to the glowing branches. There will be time, later. 

His immediate business for the evening concluded, Killian takes the time just to wander the grounds. It’s something he hasn’t had the opportunity to do in far too long - there’s always been something to worry about, something to take care of when he comes to the Circus. This is a bit of a chance to try and experience things the way all their unknowing visitors do - to see the beauty, and the wonder, without analyzing anything further. Once he clears his mind, it’s easy to see the things the way that normal visitors do, the way something special sparkles in the very air.

There are still stops to make, of course; Belle would never forgive him if he didn’t pop into her tent. The fortune teller’s tent is made up to be an eye-catching oddity, but there’s still something welcoming about it that always soothes Killian - though maybe that’s just the knowledge of his dearest friend waiting just inside. Just inside the tent flap, dark curtains speckled with silver flecks like stars drape, giving way to a beaded fringe that softly clicks when touched. He’s been known to fiddle with those beads as he sits and talks with Belle, like a soothing sort of fidget. Beyond the beaded curtains sit three comfortable armchairs with a draped table at their center; Belle always does like the romance of reading for couples. There are no crystal balls, or posters about lines on palms; just Belle, the table and chairs, and her deck of tarot cards. Killian knows one of the curtains stretched behind her hides the entrance into her private quarters, where she’s been known to duck for a quick cup of tea, but no one else who didn’t know would see that. The whole effect is decidedly unusual, even mystical, but in a way that feels cozy. It’s like sitting in someone’s living room, sharing a bit of conversation - but the conversation concerns all manner of possible futures, and how they’ll come to pass.

Belle looks like herself, mostly, elegant in shades of white and grey and black and silver. She hasn’t leaned into any of the stereotypes or cliches - no scarf around her head or massive gold earrings or patchwork skirts. She looks like she could be any shop girl, or personal secretary, or even a beloved female relation in her neat dresses in playful patterns, accentuated with pretty bits of lace. There are more formal options in her closet too, he knows, provided by the Circus organizers for her use, but she likes this better; it makes her feel more like herself, and not entirely subsumed by the role she plays. 

“You came!” she crows with delight when he ducks his head past the beaded drapery. He hadn’t let her know he was coming, this time, happy to let it remain a pleasant surprise. Not that it matters much - Belle’s face would light up in delight in the same way, even if he had warned her to expect his visit.

“Of course I did, love,” he assures her with a grin. “You insisted, didn’t you? I seem to remember a very commanding letter, telling me I must come see this wishing tree for myself.”

“Yes, but there was always the chance you would get stubborn on me, or get called away on business for Jefferson, and I’d have to send another three to five letters until I finally guilted you here.”

“Alright, I suppose that’s true,” he admits. He does tend to get rather sidetracked much of the time, especially when there is work to be done and new, exciting ideas to explore.

“Instead, here you are! Only weeks after I wrote. A rare instance of agreeability - there’s hope for you yet,” she continues, only to plow forward before he even has a chance to defend himself. “But tell me - have you seen the Wishing Tree yet? Or did you come straight here first? I’m touched, of course, but really, you must —”

“I’m not nearly so foolish as to come here first, knowing you’d demand my own opinions on the tent just as soon as I arrived,” he teases fondly.

“Wise man. Tell me then - what did you think?”

“It’s everything you promised,” he tells her. “Utterly indescribable. I’m glad you insisted I come.”

The beam that graces Belle’s face at that simple agreement is a sight to behold.

“You’ll stay for a few days, won’t you?” she asks - cajoles, really, though Killian won’t take  any convincing. “It’s been so long.”

“Of course. We’ll have dinner tomorrow, and you can tell me everything you’ve seen since I last saw you.” It’s an easy promise to make, and one he’ll be even happier to keep.

Though Belle is an expected friendly face, one Killian had already built into his loose plans for tonight, the person he runs into as he wanders down the path away from her little tent is rather more unexpected.

“Mr. Jones,” Miss Elsa Frost smiles warmly - a member of the creative team of the circus, whose eye for details had been invaluable in creating this world so many have fallen in love with. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor did I,” Killian admits, executing a short and polite bow of greeting. “Especially not here, so far from London. May I escort you around the grounds, if I may be so bold?”

“You may,” Miss Frost says, slipping her delicate hand into the crook of his proffered arm. “I was just about to go see the magician - Miss Swan, was it? I’m told she should have a performance starting soon.”

“Then it will be my honor to accompany you.”

Though Killian has visited the Circus on several occasions in the past years, on business and to see Belle and to examine the creations of his competitor, he’s avoided this tent. It somehow feels like cheating, to watch Miss Swan like this with full awareness that she’s his competitor when she hasn’t been privy to the same knowledge. That’s not to say he hasn’t been tempted; across all the spiraling stone paths, her magic calls to his own like a siren’s song, drawing him in. Tonight, with a companion on his arm, he finally has the excuse to cave. As they approach her tent as others trickle in ahead of them, Killian makes sure to draw a spell around him to mask his own magic like a cloak, the same one he’d used that first day he’d seen her. Even if he feels guilt at the advantage, Killian isn’t quite sure he’s willing to tip his hand yet, no matter how often he’s been tempted. It’s not the time for such a revelation. 

(He doesn’t notice, beside him, the way Miss Frost’s forehead briefly creases as the spell settles around his body; it would not matter if he had, anyways, and the lady is more than happy to hold her tongue on the matter.)

The magician’s tent is small, intimate - a small clearing surrounded by a double ring of chairs. It’s a subtly ingenious way of heightening the drama and the enchantment of the performance: there is, quite literally, nowhere to hide, every angle visible to spectators as they space themselves around the center ring. A lesser magician would never be able to pull it off; it’s lucky, then that Miss Swan doesn’t have to rely on tricks.

Killian is the only one that notices that the tent flap has disappeared, two minutes past the hour. Everyone else is too busy whispering to each other, speculating about where the illusionist is and when the show will start. Unlike the rest of them, Killian waits patiently, knowing that the show has already begun.

No one misses the next trick, as a stream of flame chases around the tent above their heads. Gasps echo from the crowd, in excitement and wonder and no small dose of fear. A handful turn towards where the exit once was, only to discover that the way has been sealed and blocked by chairs during their inattention. Gasps turn to screams, panic quickly catching, until - 

A single figure stands from the audience, a woman with dramatic black skirts and what appears to be a men’s top hat. As she moves towards the center of the ring, she casually tosses the hat onto the seat she had occupied - and as if on cue, the streams of fire chase around the tent once more before plunging downwards, downwards into the hat, which somehow serves to contain the flames instead of catching on fire. As the rest of the audience comes back to their senses, turning their attention towards the slight blonde woman now at the center of the tent, she flicks a finger, sending the hat tumbling through the air to land in her hand, where she jauntily tips the black felt back onto her head and takes a dramatic bow.

And like that, the magician begins her show.

The displays that follow exceed Killian’s feeble memory of her audition, those several years ago. There are little miraculous bits she’s still using - the chairs still levitate, and the hat replaces the jacket as it turns into a beautiful black raven to fly about their heads - but there are new bits, too, as items disappear and reappear and visitors discover all manner of unexpected items in purses and pockets. Somehow, it all flows together seamlessly, one display of ability and control into another. At the very end, the fire returns again, chasing around and around and around her body until she can’t be seen anymore —

And when the flames disperse, all on their own, there is no one to be seen at all. The tent flap appears once again, and they all file out, awed in a way they hadn’t expected. 

It’s beautiful, mysterious, magnificent - just like the woman herself. And Killian can’t remember why he ever stayed away. 

———

Wandering the grounds of the Circus, it is impossible not to notice the statues scattered along the path. Some are monochromatic, fully pristine white or glistening black; some are so vividly realistic, in black and white and flesh tones, as to seem almost lifelike. There are single figures and couples, male portrayals and female, all beautifully detailed and caught mid-action. There is something mystical about them, something you can’t quite put your finger on but know separates them from anything else you’ve ever seen - a feeling that saturates the very air within the iron fencing. 

Examining the statues reveals that the life-like state of the statues is no trick, no clever construction of hard stone and a steady chisel - no, these are merely people mimicking statues by standing so still and moving so slowly as to trick the eye. This isn’t some mere street performer, either, like you might see near the buildings tourists frequent en masse. No, this is something more special, more deliberate, more enchanting. It is almost like a dance, performed on a timeframe only the dancer can perceive. Watching closely, it is possible to see the movement - though it will take much patience. It is easier, in some ways, to pay careful attention to the stance of the living statue at the beginning of a set period, and then see how it has changed some minutes later.

It is said that if you wait long enough, the statues will bend enough to pluck an offering from your very hand. However, it takes a certain kind of person, with a certain kind of fascination, to even try. After all, why spend so long examining statues, when there are so many other wonders to see? 

(Just before you walk away, you could swear the living statue of a young man winks an eye, all in impeccable slow motion - just one more memory of the Circus to treasure in your mind for years to come.)

——— 

The Circus returns when Henry is ten.

Ten is a sensitive age; it’s an age where one is still young enough to be excited about simple, playful things, but believe oneself to be too old to show it. Perceived maturity is beginning to be tantamount at this age, as is the idea of being cool.

Henry, for all his efforts (and a good bit of maturity, in truth), is perceived as neither. 

“The circus is for babies,” Jack Hastings declares in the schoolyard when Henry makes the mistake of mentioning that he’d seen the tents. A keen observer might find humor in the fact that Jack’s proclamation was made as he and the boys played with a collection of small wooden soldiers; the boys, however, are not yet adult enough to see the irony. “I’m not going.”

“I don’t know,” Henry ventures cautiously. “I think I might like to go. It isn’t very often something like the circus comes to town.”

“That’s because you’re a baby,” Jack taunts. “Henry’s a baby! Henry’s a baby!”

“Am not!” Henry bites back hotly before anyone else takes up the chant. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then prove it.”

That’s how Henry finds himself examining the black iron bars that encircle the circus tents, searching for a way to slip in. It’s a dare - to sneak in, in daylight hours, and come back with something to prove it. Henry had agreed in the heat of the moment. Now, with school over, Henry’s got to do the deed, while all the other boys wait back in the schoolyard.

While Henry remembers the Circus practically crackling with its own special energy, things are quiet in the light of day. He supposes that makes sense; the Circus operates from sunset to sunrise, and it’s still an hour until dusk. Its performers need to rest and prepare and the like, like anyone else, and this is the time they get to do that.

After spending far more time than necessary carefully examining the outer fence, Henry finally finds a little out of the way stretch, framed by the back of two tents with no one in sight. The bars will be a tight squeeze, but he sucks in his stomach and holds his breath, and after a little bit of wiggling, manages to twist his way through. Quickly brushing himself off, Henry searches around for something he can bring back as proof for the other boys. The easiest thing to do would be to tear off a bit of fabric from one of the tents, but he struggles to bring himself to do it. The tents feel special, nearly sacred, somehow; it would be the worst kind of crime to ruin them in any way. Maybe, if he ventures a little further in, he can find something else —

“What are you doing?” a girl’s voice sounds, interrupting Henry’s thoughts. 

Whirling around, Henry is met by a blonde girl he could have sworn wasn’t there before, about his age, dressed in a black and silver striped dress. He didn’t know people his age were allowed to join the circus; it catches his attention nearly as much as the look on her face. Though her words are accusing, her face only shows curiosity. 

That does nothing to temper Henry’s shame, for better or worse. He didn’t exactly count on getting caught, after all. “There was a dare,” he blurts out. “To sneak into the circus.”

“Well, you managed that,” she observes. 

“Yes.” The silence sits heavy between them. Henry knows he ought to leave, but also feels like he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he finally cuts in - practically begs - once the quiet gets too much and he can’t take that curious stare anymore. “I can slip back out again, or pay the admission, or —”

That finally makes her smile - a bright, lovely thing that makes something stir within Henry that he’s never felt before. “It’s quite alright, Henry. You don’t need to leave. Nick saw you coming.”

He has many questions about that - how she knew his name, what in the world saw you coming means - but he reaches for the easiest first. “Who’s Nick?”

“My brother,” the girl beams. “Twin brother, really. I’m Ava.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” It’s obvious that there’s no real point in offering his name; Henry is curiously less concerned about her unnatural knowledge than he figures he really ought to be. 

“Likewise,” Ava replies with that same smile, offering her hand for Henry to awkwardly shake. 

(For the first time in his life, he’s left wondering if he should have kissed the back of her offered hand instead. Then again - that sounds gross.)

“Come with me,” she commands with a little nod of her head. Even knowing he ought to slip back through the fence, Henry can’t help but follow, pulled along in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. “You picked a good day to come - Nick says the Circus will be closed tonight for inclement weather,” she adds with a hand waved towards the quickly gathering clouds.

“Yes, they just called it,” adds a different voice - another boy, this one also their age and with a remarkable resemblance to Ava. The biggest difference, really, is the boy’s light brown hair, a contrast to her cheery blonde. It’s obvious this is the twin brother she mentioned - Nick, who somehow knows things.

“He was there, just like you said, Nickie,” she laughs. “I don’t know why anyone bothers to doubt you.”

“They don’t know better,” Nick shrugs.

“Nick has a gift,” Ava explains. “He sees things that others don’t - and they always come true.”

“Oh.” Henry isn’t really sure what to say to that, honestly. He doesn’t disbelieve it, really - Ava did know things she shouldn’t have, without what they claim being true - but he’s a little too flabbergasted at it all to say anything more comprehensible. Besides, if such a thing were to be true - well, it makes sense that it’d happen at the Circus. Where else is magical enough to shelter people with such talents?

Ava breezes right past it though. That must be characteristic of her, if the way her brother stifles a smile is any indication. “There’s always a party in the acrobats’ tent whenever the weather is too bad to open. It’s the biggest, you know.”

“You can come too, if you want,” Nick adds.

Despite the tempting offer, Henry frowns. “I’m not part of the Circus, though. Won’t anyone mind?”

“Circus people are welcoming,” Nick shrugs. “They won’t mind.”

“Besides, everyone thinks we need friends our own age,” Ava chimes in. 

As the sun starts to creep below the horizon, Henry lets the twins lead him across the circus grounds. He wants to go, really - besides, there’s no reason not to. There’s no one waiting who will care if he doesn’t show up for dinner, or even for bedtime. 

(Nick probably already knows that as well; perhaps that’s why neither of them ask whether he needs to be home.)

The inclement weather party is a different kind of marvel than the otherworldly splendor of the open circus that Henry remembers. It seems like everyone is crowded into the tent as raindrops start to patter down upon the canvas, yet somehow the space never seems claustrophobic. Half the collected mass is in their black and white and silver circus clothes, while the other half wears street clothes in all manner of colors and styles. Laughter colors the air, as small groups congregate only to disperse and remingle again. It feels like a family, like a great big reunion, even though Henry is sure they’re not all related. 

(Then again, maybe family doesn’t have to be linked by blood and genealogical trees; maybe family is something that can be crafted with those you choose and care for.)

Ava tugs on his arm before he can get too lost in his thoughts and marvelling at the spectacle of the tent. “You should meet Emma,” she says. At her side, Nick nods in genial agreement. “You’ll like her. She’s the magician.”

She doesn’t quite bodily haul him across the tent space, but it’s close. Henry would complain, but it isn’t hurting; he can tell she’s just eager to share her and Nick’s world in a way she hasn’t with outsiders before. At least, Henry hopes she hasn’t shared all this with outsiders before; Henry’s never really had the chance to be special. It’d be a nice change. 

Eventually, she halts in front of a cluster of women - three brunettes and a blonde. All smile fondly as Ava approaches with Henry in tow. “Emma, I want you to meet someone!” Ava bursts out as they pull to a stop.

“I can see that,” the blonde chuckles as her companions move away. Henry’s distracted for a moment by the movement of the other three ladies, but forces his attention back to meet the magician’s eyes.

And it’s her - the nice lady from the last time he was here. Henry’s face flushes red as he remembers his youthful question - Are you a princess?. She still looks like a princess, four years later, only in a burgundy dress with her hair in a simple bun instead of her sumptuous black and white dress from the last time they met. He can see the moment recognition sweeps across Emma’s face, and knows she remembers too. 

“Henry, was it?” Emma smiles down at him. Somehow, he manages a nod of confirmation. “It’s lovely to see you again, Henry.”

Ava’s face drops a little in disappointment, and a hint of confusion. Seems this is one thing her brother’s visions didn’t reveal - or at least one thing he didn’t share with her. “You know each other already?”

“Only a little,” Henry hastens to explain. It somehow feels very important that Ava know he didn’t deceive her in this way. 

“Henry and I briefly crossed paths the last time the Circus was here - what, four years ago?” Henry nods again. Emma and Ava and Nick and the rest of the Circus may have been to so many places since them that they don’t remember exactly how long it’s been, but Henry could probably tell them down to the day if he just had a couple of minutes to think. “He was kind enough to let me escort him back to the front gates. I must say, I didn’t expect to see him here tonight, though… is there anything I ought to know?”

“No!” Ava assures quickly. It’s not remotely convincing; Henry barely manages to smother a smile as she continues her blatant evasion. “We should go get a little something to eat. Come on, Henry, let’s go!”

To be fair, the spread that Ava leads him to - Nick pulling up the rear, laughing - is very impressive. There are all manner of little finger foods to carry with him, savory and sweet, and an older lady the twins call Granny who presides over the whole thing and makes Henry take another sandwich. All of the circus members - and it feels like Henry’s introduced to every single one - seem to treat the twins like a niece and nephew, or maybe even children. There’s an affection in the air amongst everyone that’s almost palpable, and like nothing he’s ever encountered before. It’s hard not to feel a little jealous of his new friends; it’s everything he’s ever wished for himself. 

Eventually, he’s dragged across the grounds to what they’ll only call the cloud room after a stop by Emma again for a set of umbrellas that seem to actively repel water. 

“It’s my favorite spot,” Nick explains as they shake off their umbrellas just inside the tent flap in a dim antechamber. Henry had barely caught a glimpse of the signage before he’d been bustled inside; Atmospheric Wonders had been less than illuminating a descriptor. “Ava’s is the carousel.”

“I like the animals,” she shrugs. “They’re interesting.”

“Yeah, well, so is this,” her brother quips back. “Henry, look.”

And when Henry does - it’s more than his imagination ever expected.

Somehow, there are dozens of fluffy clouds floating within the confines of the tent, the top of the peaked canvas not even visible for all the clouds in the way. They come in all sizes, all winding around a central, silvery structure with a platform at the top and a slide spiraling back down to the ground. Somehow along the stretch from the ground to the indiscernible peak, the stripes shift into a night sky gently dappled with stars. It’s mystical, and marvelous, and unlike anything he’s ever imagined. 

Henry has barely processed what he’s seeing before Nick takes a flying leap onto a cloud hovering at chest height. Miraculously, it somehow holds his weight, bobbing gently in the air under the change of balance but showing no signs of capsizing.

“It’s really very sturdy,” he calls from his perch, grinning with glee. “There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Carefully, Henry steps onto a different cloud hovering about his knees; that’s less distance to fall if there’s any problem. Under his feet, the cloud isn’t exactly firm, or stable - it’s more like if you try to step onto a mattress - but he can also feel that he’s not at risk of crashing down. Somehow, it’s just as safe as Nick promised. 

(How did he miss this before? Now that Henry’s here, he’s not sure he ever wants to leave.)

Ava clambers up onto a cloud somewhere between him and Nick, abandoning grace to pull herself to standing. “It’s a newer tent,” she explains, brushing her skirt free of imaginary cloud dust and casually reading Henry’s mind. Maybe her brother isn’t the only one with special powers of sight. “It only went up a couple months ago, right, Nick?”

“January,” he confirms. “Just after the new year’s party.”

“Not a lot of people know about it yet - but it’s one of our favorites now. Nick and I like to come on the nights we’re not busy with other things.”

Across from them both, Nick obviously grows impatient with all the chatter, leaping to another, higher cloud. “Race you to the top!” he yells back, quickly becoming obscured from sight as he scrambles higher and higher.

Ava stretches her hand across the divide to help him forward. “You’re going to love it,” she beams.

Henry takes her hand, gladly, and lets a smile crease his face even as hers stretches impossibly wider. 

He does love it, just as she promised. The view from the top is spectacular, like something out of a fairy tale, an impression only magnified by small tufts of cloud still hovering around, inviting them to lounge. It would be a good place just to sit and think, Henry thinks, if you lived with the Circus and had that chance. 

Time passes both quickly and slowly at the top of the tower as the three of them sit and talk for what must be hours. Henry feels as if he’s known the twins forever, not just a night - like he fits with them, somehow, in a way he never has with his schoolmates or the other children at the Home, and can’t explain.

(It’s the same feeling he remembers from the first time he visited the Circus, four years before. Of belonging. Of home.)

All too soon, things much end, however. As the conversation encounters a rare lull, Henry sighs heavily, knowing he must draw this to a close. 

“I have to go,” he tells his companions - now friends, he thinks - with the kind of regret that’s practically palpable. 

Ava nods sadly; Henry scrambles to his feet to help her do the same. It’s what a gentleman would do. “We know. But this was lovely.”

“And you’ll be back,” Nick says decisively. “I know it.”

It’s not worth arguing with the boy with a gift. 

Getting down from their perch takes a little more boldness. Technically, there is a slide they could all take advantage of, but Nick won’t let that stand. 

“You’ve got to jump, Henry,” he cajoles. “It’s so much more fun. You feel like you’re flying!”

“More like falling,” Henry mutters. Even if he knows that Nick wouldn’t try to hurt him, like some of the boys at school might, looking down from this height makes his stomach turn. 

Suddenly, a soft hand slips into his own. Ava, who slipped up beside him while he was distracted by the height. “We’ll do it together,” she promises, and somehow - Henry finds himself nodding.

Nick lets out a wild whoop and throws himself off the platform, gleefully tumbling down and down. Ava squeezes his hand tight, just the once, and then she’s running too, bringing Henry with her as they leap. It feels like he’s left his stomach up at the top, but it’s a little freeing too. At the bottom, a particularly soft cloud cushions their fall, surrounding them like a hug. Henry even finds himself laughing along with Ava and Nick as they pick themselves back up. 

Ava walks him back to the main gates under the marvelous umbrella, Nick letting them go on their own after offering Henry a jolly wave goodbye. The door in the iron bars opens without even a squeak, letting the both of them slip through. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Henry confides, the words spilling out of him almost without permission. “I don’t want to go back to the real world out there.”

“You’ll be back,” Ava promises. “We’ll see each other again - I promise.”

He wants to believe her - he does. But it’s a mean world out there, and he’s long since learned that nothing is guaranteed, and —

Ava presses up on her toes to drop a quick kiss on Henry’s lips - his first. It’s just a little peck, really, but it makes them both blush and sends something hopeful in his soul soaring above all the other negativity. 

“To seal it. The promise,” she explains.

No explanation was needed, really - not to the perfect ending to this dream of a night.

(He does not return to the Circus this time, the Sisters punishing him with extra chores when he sneaks back into the Home long after bed checks. Though he would like nothing more than to return back to the Circus and his new friends, he somehow can’t regret it. Every moment was worth it.

Later, he finds a single glove, white with shiny black buttons, tucked into his pocket - proof for his dare. He never shows it off to the other boys; the little scrap of fabric is too personal, and too precious. Instead, he tucks it into the old cigar box he keeps all his treasures in, amongst the perfectly round stones and colored bits of glass and a brightly colored birds’ feather. Let them think he never managed it. They’ll forget soon enough anyways. 

We’ll see each other again, Ava had promised - and Henry intends to wait.)

——— 

There’s a new attraction at the Circus again, Killian - the most wonderful carousel. There’s the usual carved horses, of course, all wonderfully detailed, but there’s all manner of other creatures too - giraffes and elephants and a particularly clever ostrich. There’s even some mythical creatures too. I’m particularly fond of the gryphon, though I suspect you might prefer the dragon. There’s even a bench seat with a kraken twining around it! It’s truly charming; the kids love it, obviously, but it’s wonderful to see the delight of grown men and women too. I believe I saw a young couple squabbling over the cow yesterday; the lady won, of course. Wise man. 

If you hadn’t guessed already, the carousel is very obviously a creation of your winsome competitor. The ride travels through an enclosed portion at the back, ostensibly to parade the figures and their riders past a scrolling display of landscapes; however, having ridden the thing myself (I couldn’t resist, Killian! And obviously chose the gryphon, though I was tempted by a polar bear), it’s obvious that this tunnel somehow bends reality, stretches the track much further than it should ever go. Magic is obviously at play, here, though I believe the visitors are too enthralled (and, as usual, too oblivious) to realize. 

There’s something else a little unusual about the carousel: Mr. Booth’s part in bringing it to life. He was here in Brussels to oversee installation, or I might not have believed it. You know as well as I that usually, new installments just… pop up, without explanation. His craftsmanship is evident in the construction, too, if you know to look - the smooth curves and the intricate carvings and the way the peak of the striped roof stretches up towards the sky. It’s lovely, really, and undeniably a joint effort between Mr. Booth and Miss Swan. 

Does that mean he’s aware of her abilities? I can’t say for certain, but I have trouble imagining otherwise. It could be interesting to see if you could enlist him in a similar effort - though of course, that’s entirely up to you. I’m merely reporting your opponent’s most recent move on the chessboard, so to speak.

(Do come see the carousel, though; I promise you won’t regret it.)

Affectionately yours,

Belle

———

Killian folds Belle’s latest letter carefully, considering her words as he meticulously files the pages away, just as he always does. The new carousel sounds beautiful, of course; Miss Swan’s creations always are. The fact that she enlisted August Booth to create it captures his attention the same way it had Belle’s. That’s something he never considered - drawing upon others’ skills to create something that is not entirely mechanical, but not fully dependent on magic either. He should have thought of it sooner - after all, the Circus as a whole operates in a similar way, weaving enchantments in amongst all the physical manpower needed to bring the whole thing to life. It sets Killian’s mind running in other directions, other ideas that could be brought to life in the same way. And if Booth is aware of the things Miss Swan can do… perhaps he can serve as an intermediary, of sorts, in a way that could bring this competition to a new level.

But Killian is a patient man, a planner through and through. It’s his greatest advantage in his employment and in this game. So before he lets his imagination run away with him, drafting things that can never come to fruition, he calls upon Booth at his office to test the waters of what is possible. 

“I didn’t expect to see you, Jones,” the other man says, smiling genially as he comes out from around the back of his heavy wooden desk to offer a handshake of greeting. 

“It was a bit of an unplanned visit,” Killian admits as he seats himself in the offered chair. 

“Well that’s quite alright. What can I do for you? Is this about the Circus, or are you finally looking to build something more comfortable than that little flat of yours?”

“It’s about the Circus.” Killian lets his gaze glance around the room before he speaks further, considering his next words. Though the furniture in the office at Booth’s architecture firm is heavy, with dark wood and intricate carvings and tall bookshelves lining two walls, the whole thing manages to avoid a feeling of claustrophobia due to a stretch of tall windows along one wall. A panel of stained glass is installed in the middle, with beautiful swirling patterns in all kinds of colors. The whole effect is a little whimsical, while somehow still ordered and elegant. In that moment, Killian can see exactly why August Booth was chosen as a partner to produce the Circus. 

Drawing his attention back to Booth, Killian finds the man patiently waiting for him to start speaking, prompting him to gather his thoughts. “I understand you had a hand in creating a new attraction - a carousel.”

“Ah yes,” August smiles. His tone is fond, almost like a parent speaking of a favorite child. “Marvelous, isn’t it? Though, of course, I can’t take full credit - or even most of the credit, really.”

“So you’re aware of others’... unusual contributions, shall we say.”

Booth makes an amused, guttural noise from the back of his throat. “I may be a skilled designer, but not nearly enough to create space that’s not there. And I’m not nearly oblivious or egotistical enough to believe I can. Besides, Miss Swan was involved from the beginning. The carousel was her idea.”

That’s one question answered. “So how much did Miss Swan tell you about her… abilities, I suppose? And her influence on the Circus?”

“A rudimentary explanation, I believe - just as much as I needed to agree to assist her. All her illusions are real, true magic, and she’s engaged in a competition to be played out at the Circus.” Realization suddenly lights his eyes. “I suppose that makes you the competitor, then? She didn’t seem to know who they were.”

“Aye, I am. And I would appreciate it if you would keep that fact between us. This particular game doesn’t precisely encourage familiarity between contestants.”

August waves him off. “Of course. Now, are you here just to talk about the carousel - or do you have something else in mind?”

“You read my mind,” Killian says, letting a smile spread across his face. “I have an unusual idea, one that I think you can be of assistance with.”

———

Emma should have known that her opponent would hear of the carousel, and of her partnership with Mr. Booth. What she hadn’t expected was for Mr. Booth to send her a letter, detailing an idea her competitor had brought to him.

One they want her involvement in as well.

It’s a simple idea, on the surface - a maze of rooms. Its brilliance is in how it allows the two of them to interact and compete directly as they build off of each others’ ideas. Once the maze is brought to life, once visitors enter the tent, they reach a hallway lined with doors, each leading into other rooms with other doors, and so on. Some will be hidden; some will be obvious. It is entirely up to Emma and whoever she is competing against to build out each room, testing the limits of imagination and reality and magic. 

It’s like a puzzle on a massive scale - each piece fitting into others which in turn fit into others. It’s fascinating to see the things her opponent comes up with over time - creations that play with structure, with scale, like golden bird cages and a room where everything appears so large as to dwarf the viewer. She treasures exploring each one, finding all the hidden doors and discerning the way everything fits together. 

Emma has a niggling feeling that this is not exactly how their competition is supposed to play out - but as she opens another door, she can’t bring herself to care. 

——— 

Maybe it’s ridiculous - but Killian feels like he comes to know the lovely Miss Swan a little better through the room maze and each addition she crafts from her imagination.

She focuses on creating an atmosphere, he finds - the little things that make each space feel like an environment, rather than a room. There are lush green jungles and arid desertscapes and the illusion of a lovely rose garden. He wonders if she feels trapped; all the illusions of open spaces make him think she might. 

He can tell she truly loves the circus in all the little details she weaves in, too. It must take her incredible effort, but it’s worth it to see how leaves glisten with dew and the barest scent of earth or flowers tickles his nose and heat or chill dances along his skin. There’s pride to be found in the work she creates - all the things that take each room of the maze from the illusion of a space into something tangible and believable as its own natural world.

She’s smart, too: the hatches and doors out of her rooms are cleverly hidden, and often require searching for a key first. Killian thinks she might be trying to stump him, for all the time he spends searching for the way out in some rooms. Would she laugh if she could see him? Is he reacting in exactly the way she anticipated, or even intended?

(Would he even mind?)

He’s not such a fool as to fall a little in love with his opponent in the rooms that she builds, but he does delight in receiving these little insights to her personality. It reminds him that Miss Swan is more than his opponent - she’s a person, and one he’d love to know under other circumstances.

Only time will tell whether that makes things easier or harder.

———

To no one’s particular surprise, Regina does not approve of the maze.

“This is a waste of your time,” she proclaims to Emma on one of her rare (and never welcomed) visits. “You’re supposed to be competing, not… collaborating.” She spits out the word like it’s a profanity; who knows, it likely is in her mind. Emma wouldn’t be entirely surprised. 

“Isn’t this just a different way of competing?” Emma asks. Truthfully, she doesn’t see the fuss. “I’d think it would be easier to compare, when we have to share the same structure. Well, even more than we usually do.”

“This is not how things are supposed to work,” Regina snaps. “I didn’t train you to be so stupid about this, Emma. You know better - this is… frivolous!”

“I like it,” Emma says, letting her voice display a quiet defiance. “I think it’s wonderful.”

That’s why she’d led Regina to the maze in the first place, instead of simply taking tea in her compartment as usual - a little childish thought that maybe her mentor would see all the careful crafting she had put into each chamber. That maybe she would appreciate this unusual way in which Emma was stretching her abilities beyond what she thought was possible, challenged by the necessity of working around someone else’s ideas in the most literal, compressed way. That maybe she would be proud.

Pride, at least for others, is not something that’s in Regina’s vocabulary, however - something that Emma has never been more aware of than in this moment, standing amongst the hedges of a shifting maze within a maze. It’s an ever-changing creation, one that Emma had been particularly proud of.

It’s easier simply to wind their way to the closest exit than to attempt to convince Regina any further; Emma has long since learned her mentor is an immovable force. If Regina hasn’t been swayed by the creativity and brilliance of seeing the maze in person, no words will do it. So they’ll exit the maze and slip back into the backstage rooms, where Regina can berate her about her work ethic and how it seems like Emma doesn’t even want this while still failing to offer any concrete details or advice, until Emma can make her escape to perform another show, displaying her abilities to a kinder audience. That’s how these things always seem to go, and now that her foolishly hopeful little bubble has been broken, there’s no reason they won’t go that way again. 

Then again, there’s alway room for surprises and changes from the norm; Emma should know that, after so many years here at the Circus. As they exit into the chilled night air, Emma - and more importantly, Regina - clearly didn’t expect to run into Mulan as the sword swallower wandered back towards her own lodgings.

Most days, Emma almost forgets this other source of magic buzzing around the circus. It’s like white noise, almost; something Emma is subconsciously aware of, and can focus on when she chooses, but fades into the background most of the time. They’re friendly, but not quite friends - happy to spend time with one another, but rarely seeking each other out. Mulan is closer with Ruby, or with Belle. It’s easy, in that way, for Emma to forget the higher force that binds the two of them together - Regina herself, who has been a teacher to both of them. 

It is visibly obvious the moment they catch sight of one another: both straighten to their most rigid posture, Regina’s face shifting into something even more haughty than her usual mien, and Mulan shifting to something cool and dangerous. The air between them practically crackles with restrained magical energy, sending the hair on Emma’s arms to stand on end. Emma sends a silent thanks to whomever may be listening that this meeting occurred firmly in public; while the confrontation is primed to be bad as it is, she wouldn’t relish being forced between them in a private setting. Or a dark alley.

For all of the danger sparking the air, it is almost anticlimactic when each party finally finds their words. “Regina,” Mulan says, coolly polite and with the barest incline of her head. Regina only jerks her chin in a broken nod in response. 

And then they’re moving their separate ways, the whole thing over. Maybe it’s better that way; it would be a pity if the Circus was razed to the ground, after they’ve all put so much effort into the venue. There’s a story there, though, one Emma doesn’t know but can’t help but wonder about. She’ll have to ask Mulan, later; she knows very well that asking Regina will bear no fruit. 

(She never does, of course, just another intention lost to time and her mentor’s berating. Not that it would have done any good, anyways. Mulan keeps her secrets locked as tight as the most impressive safe.)

———

Emma knows Belle, of course - they’ve both been with the Circus for more than a decade, and Emma isn’t entirely self absorbed. They’re even friendly, in that way two people who work together but aren’t particularly close can be. But never once in all that time can Emma remember actively seeking the other woman out - for her skills or anything else. 

Belle’s particular skill unsettles Emma, she supposes. It feels a little hypocritical - Emma has magic, after all, she shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable about fortune-telling. There’s something about the talent to see glimpses of the future, however, that has never sat quite right in her mind - that has always made her ever so slightly uncomfortable. It’s not Belle’s fault; Emma knows as well as anyone that sometimes, these kinds of gifts choose their recipient instead of the other way around. 

There’s something in the air, though, something Emma can’t quite identify. There’s a niggling feeling of anticipation, like a reverse deja vu, where Emma knows something is coming, but doesn’t know what or how or when. She’s never been particularly good with that kind of uncertainty, searching for control wherever possible. It’s that search for control that brings her to Belle, seeking answers anywhere she can find them. Unusual times call for unusual measures, or some other such cliché. 

Emma goes at night, while the Circus is open, in between her own performances - just like any other querrant. It’s a simple thing to blend into the crowd - after all, no one is expecting  the illusionist to wander among them, especially in a dark coat and skirts turned crimson red with the touch of a finger. It takes no magic at all to slip down the silvery paths and duck into a tent labeled Fortune Teller: Feats of Fate and Prophecy. 

Belle snaps into character as soon as Emma brushes past the beaded curtain welcoming visitors into her space, only to relax again as she recognizes Emma’s face. “What a lovely surprise,” she comments with a pleased smile. “Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, Emma?”

“I was hoping for a reading,” Emma explains as casually as possible - as if this is no great favor. Still, it shoots the brunette’s eyebrows up towards her hairline in surprise. 

“I must say, I didn’t expect that,” she comments. “I don’t believe you’ve asked such a thing of me before.”

“I haven’t felt the desire before.”

“Ah. You must face some kind of crossroads, then.” 

“Truthfully, I am not even sure enough to say that much,” Emma admits. Summoning a few coins into her hand, she pushes them across the table - payment for services rendered, as is typically custom in Belle’s little nook. “I hoped you might be able to shed more light on the matter than I can currently discern.”

Belle pushes the coins back. “Keep your money. Consider this a gift for a friend. Now, shall we?” As soon as Emma nods, Belle begins shuffling the cards - a quick, hypnotic motion, as each card flies past again and again. Once she’s satisfied with the shuffle, she carefully fans the cards across her table, face down. “Pick a card to represent yourself, if you please.”

Emma contemplates her options; truthfully, the tarot has never called to her, and this moment is no different. After some short examination, she selects one barely visible towards the left-hand side.

Belle chuckles a little as she turns the card over - and Emma can see exactly why, as soon as she sees the card. The Magician. 

“Now, this card often represents a plethora of abilities or options you may not be fully aware of, especially in the face of impending change or disaster,” Belle explains. “And that may still be the case. However, under the circumstances, I suspect this card is supposed to be taken rather more literally in this particular reading, Madame Magician.”

Belle shuffles again, before cutting the deck into three portions and directing Emma to select one. Replacing the selected stack back at the top at the pile, she quickly doles the cards back out, in practiced patterns and an unexpected elegance. There are flashes of cups and swords on the cards between them, interspersed with picture cards of women and wheels and a couple reaching for one another.

(Emma does not think she has the time for whatever a card like The Lovers may symbolize.)

“I see what you mean,” Belle says after a long moment. “There are significant changes here - in circumstance, in thinking, and in feelings. Whatever knot you have been working at in your mind will begin to unravel - one change that will spur many more. Now these changes - they seem imminent.”

“How imminent?”

Belle cocks her head, examining again. “There’s rarely an evident timeline that I can see,” she admits, “but I would wager in the coming weeks or months.”

Emma nods. It’s not really an answer - but it feels like validation, somehow. Like someone else can sense that something is on the horizon. 

“Now, I asked about a crossroads, before we started,” Belle continues. “The changes that are coming - they will not be your crossroads. This will not be the moment you have to make that decision. But each change will compound upon each other until it leads you to that crossroads - a choice you’ll make that will change everything, again. It will not be for some time yet, but those seeds are being sown now.”

Emma nods slowly, taking it all in. There is an odd comfort in Belle’s words, even as Emma tells herself not to put too much stock in it. “Thank you,” she finally says. “Is there anything else you can see?”

Belle shakes her head ruefully. “Not that I can see now, no. But I’ll keep looking. Sometimes, these things make themselves clearer given a few hours to think on them.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

Emma ponders the words as she emerges back into the night. A momentous change to come seems inevitable - both from her instincts and Belle’s own readings. All that’s left to do is brace herself and face that change with an open mind and courage.

The weeks and months to come may change everything - and Emma intends to be ready for it. 

———

We’ll be back in England next month - just in time for the rains, I’m sure. As if they ever stop. I anticipate many inclement weather parties in my future, and I don’t even need the cards to tell me that. 

Speaking of which - be on the lookout for something, Killian. Change is in the cards and in the air. Something is on the horizon, and I think it’s best you be ready for whatever that might be.

We’ll have tea one afternoon next time I’m in town, and you can buy me an absurd amount of books. I have several recommendations to give you from the last batch. I expect you’ll feign interest and the time to read, just as always, but I don’t particularly care. You’ll do it because I’m your friend, and you love me.

Yours &c., 

Belle

———

That same feeling of anticipation, of something in the air, only intensifies when the Circus returns to London for a short stretch. It’s been growing ever since Emma spoke with Belle, becoming more urgent as time goes by. A breaking point must come soon - though what that will herald, Emma doesn’t pretend to know. There’s no use continuing to worry over something that will only reveal itself at the right time.

Emma throws herself into rediscovery instead, wandering all those places she used to know. It’s hard to call London home, even though she grew up here - that designation has only ever belonged to her cramped and cozy little train compartment - but the city is familiar in a way that’s comforting. She spent the first 24 years of her life here, after all; even trapped under Regina’s thumb, she was able to discover little corners of the city all her own, park benches and cafe tables and backstage theater rooms. 

(She doesn’t intend to visit her benefactor during this stop, if she can at all help it; bringing Regina into things always invites trouble that Emma would rather avoid.)

It’s raining on their first day in town, of course, like her own meteorological welcome. Emma smiles a bit at the thought of the clouds and raindrops and wind whispering a hello - though truthfully, she’s seen odder things. She’s orchestrated odder things. The soft patter of raindrops on her umbrella is almost soothing as she walks down the cobbled streets to a favorite remembered cafe. Emma loves the Circus with every fiber of her being, both as her creation and as her home; still, sometimes it’s nice to escape for an afternoon and enjoy the anonymity of people watching or reading a nice book. Some days, she wants that distance; to be just another face in the crowd.

The afternoon passes quietly and uneventfully with her tea and scone and a silly novel. It’s easy to blend into this little corner of London, tucked into the corner of a quiet street off the main road. Emma has always liked this place, and tries to visit whenever she’s in the city; it’s something about the way that light dapples through the wide windows at the front, always perpetually just the slightest bit grimy, like dirt had accumulated just as soon as some poor soul had taken the efforts to clean them off. The used bookstore just across the street is a wonderful bonus too, where Emma sometimes finds unexpected treasures. Here, she can be just anyone else - no expectations, no grand fate. Just a woman at a weathered table. 

All too soon, the clock on the wall chimes 4pm, prompting Emma to gather her things to leave. This time of year, even though spring approaches, the sun still sets early, heralding the opening of the circus’ wide gates. Emma is lucky enough to set her own performance hours during the night, generally aiming to do three or four shows in an evening; however, it’s still important that she’s fully ready for the evening by the time the first visitors trickle into the grounds, regardless of the fact that she won’t make her own dramatic entrance for at least another half hour. 

As she bustles out the door, she mentally runs through her checklist for the night of tricks she might like to perform. That’s the freeing thing about performing with real magic; not having to depend on mechanics means that she can improvise, that every single show can be different as she feeds off the audience and her current whims. 

She’s so busy running through her possibilities for the night that she doesn’t notice she’s grabbed the wrong umbrella - not at first, at least. It’s just one amongst a cluster of black fabric in the umbrella stand, each nearly identical to each other. Emma’s put a special charm on hers that repels the rain; that slight buzz of magic is the only thing that differentiates hers from all the others. She picks it out by the feel alone, absentmindedly, before exiting into the deluge.

Something is off, though - something she realizes the further she walks from the cafe and comes back to full awareness. The charm on the umbrella is wonderfully effective, as always, but there’s something… wrong about the magic. Emma’s own magic has a particular warm feel to it, one that largely fades into the background of her mind until she barely notices it. This, though… the buzz continues, like a pricking or a tickle under her skin. Foreign.

Not hers.

Realization draws her up short. This umbrella - clearly imbued with powerful magic - magic like her opponent would possess - in the cafe at the same time - 

A polite clearing of the throat causes Emma to whip around, revealing an unexpectedly familiar face: Jefferson’s assistant, the handsome one, who she remembers lurking at the edges of ballrooms and the back of theatres and in the densest of crowds. Jones - something with a K. Or a C? Kelvin? Carson? No —

“Excuse me, Miss Swan,” Killian Jones smiles warmly, “but I believe you have my umbrella.”

[flowersoldier]

THE FLOWER GIRL AND THE WOLF

Chapter 3: Midgar

ff.net  AO3

Aerith took Cloud for a walk in the slums the next day. Okay, maybe he shouldn't say it this way, it sounded like he's a dog to her. The blonde still wore his coat to hide his ears and tail from the people and Aerith wore the same pink summer dress and red jacket.

“So, what do you think of my home?“ Asked Aerith then and to be honest the wolf didn't know how to answer.

“Uh...well, your place is great. But the rest of the slums...“

“I know, it's not the best place to live in. But it's my home.“ The girl shrugged.

To be honest Cloud couldn't understand how anyone wanted to live here. It's dirty, it's stinky...It's just not a good place to live. “It's weird not being able to see the sky.“

“I don't mind that.“ Said Aerith with a quieter voice. “The sky's kinda...scary.“ The blonde tilted his head, confused, before looking up at the plate. He didn't understand what she meant. “I mean...it's so endless...you never know what might come from it.“ Cloud couldn't say that he understood what she's talking about, but he nodded anyway.

Then, the flower girl was as cheery as ever and dragged him though the slums. They had a snack here and there and Cloud learned to appreciate the humans cooking skills. In the end they had something they called ice-cream. That, too, was really delicious and from all the sweet things people ate this might be his favorite. As Aerith told him more about the human way of life, he noticed a drop of ice-cream running down her jaw. He stopped listening and only stared at the drop, while fighting the urge to lick it off. But this time the urge was too strong and he leaned in to lick it off her face. Aerith stopped talking and only stared at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks once he pulled back.

Only then did he realize his mistake and looked away, his face growing hotter by the second. “S-sorry. Wolf habit...“ He mumbled embarrassed, pulling his hood down to hide his face completely.

“It's okay.“ He heard Aerith say, before he felt her pushing the hood away. And then something soft touched his cheek. Cloud didn't have to look to know what it was. He felt his face getting even hotter then and he turned away from Aerith and pulled his hood back over his face to hide it. Aerith giggled behind his back.

Then they decided to go back to the church. There were flowers she had to take care of, too. Her words. Cloud protected her the whole way there, scaring away all the monsters that wanted to attack Aerith.

Inside the church, the blonde just sat on the ground and watched the girl tending to her flowers. He watched her fingers, using her magic touch on the plants, and his mind went back to the time she petted him when he was in his wolf form. How soft and warm they felt, as she gently ran it through his fur. The thought alone caused a cold shiver to run down his spine.

“What are you thinking?“ Hearing Aerith's voice so close to his ear made him jump in surprise.

“Huh? Nothing.“ He answered and noticed her eye twinkling mischievously. “What?“

“I think you're lying.“ The wolf only hummed, not knowing what to say about it. He knew he's a bad liar sometimes, so fighting it will make him more suspicious.

Cloud helped her taking care of the flowers whenever she needed him, but for the most part he just looked at her and tried very hard not to stare like a creep. It was...really weird. These feelings he suddenly got when she's around. It kinda felt like back then, when he had a crush on Tifa but more intense. The blonde shook his head. No, he shouldn't have a crush on Aerith! She's human and he was a wolf. This wouldn't work!

“What are you thinking, Cloud?“ Asked Aerith again, now her whole attention was at him. It was kinda embarrassing.

“Just...“ He began, trying to think of an excuse quickly. “I think I'll miss this place.“ What he actually meant was that he'll miss her. Aerith smiled sadly, giving him the urge to cheer her up again. But he was never good at cheering people up...

“I'll miss you, too, Cloud.“ She said honestly, making his face flush. The wolf stared at the flowers, as he got the weirdest idea ever.

“What if...“ He mumbled, but then stopped himself. No, this was a bad idea. Elmyra wouldn't want that, even if Aerith said yes.

“What if...?“ Repeated Aerith, looking at him with big, curious eyes.

Cloud shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “Forget it. It's nothing.“ He only glanced at her, when he heard her scooch in. She was sitting very close to him. Too close.

“Tell me.“

He had to look away from her eyes. “It's nothing. Just...I just thought you could come with me.“ Cloud felt so stupid now that he said it. It was the worst idea ever.

“To your pack?“ Asked Aerith thoughtfully.

Cloud shook his head and looked away from her. “Forget it.“

“No! I'd like to come with you and meet your family!“ Said Aerith, crawling over his lap so he was forced to look at her. That was even more embarrassing than just sitting too close together.

“And what about your mom?“

“Well, thank god I'm old enough to decide stuff on my own.“ She replied with a playful tone in her voice.

-----------------------------

After spending some more time in the church they went back to Aeriths place. The kids in the Leave House near her home greeted them happily again, as did every other citizen of Sector 5. She was very popular among the people it seemed. Aerith told him she helped people when they needed it, so it made sense that everyone loved her.

“Cloud?“ The woman suddenly stopped when they stepped on her territory. “I, uh...I'd like to talk with my mom alone for now, okay? Could you...?“

“I'll wait out here till you're done.“ Finished Cloud for her.

“Huh? No you don't need to stay outside! I thought you could go upstairs instead.“

Aerith was really nice, it took him so much strength not to smile too much. “That's fine. I like to be outside. Go in and talk with your mom.“ Also with his enhanced hearing he could probably hear every word when, even when he's upstairs.

“You're really sweet, Cloud.“ Aerith gave him one of her radiant smiles that never failed to take his breath away. His heart thumped happily that this smile was only reserved for him. “You don't have to stay here all the time though. Just look around more, or something, I don't want you to get bored.“

Cloud couldn't help but roll his eyes, the little smile of his was still present though. “Don't worry about me. Go.“

“Okay. I'll get you when we're done talking.“ Aerith giggled and then finally went to the house. Cloud stood there and watched her till she eventually vanished behind the door. Only then did he move. He just walked around the garden, looking at the flowers she planted there, staring at the fish swimming in the pond and held himself back to grab one and eat it raw.

Then he went up the little flower covered hill, where Aerith spoke to the flowers the day before. He kneeled down and stared at the yellow lilies swinging lightly in the breeze. People who could talk to the planet...Until now Cloud thought it's just a fairy tale. But Aerith proved to him that this was very much real. He didn't think she'd lie about these things. And she looked very serious when she said that the flowers' voices couldn't reach her.

Cloud glared at the flowers. “Why aren't you answering her?“ He growled lowly at the plants. Then he sat down, being careful not to squish any flowers and kept glaring at them. What was it that he heard about these special people? There are many different versions of the same story. One said they were humans. One said they were wolves. Another said both kinds existed. Also that these people were the ancestors of the whole shape shifting wolf species. So if Aerith was one of these people...did that mean she had a very old bloodline that reached all the way to both their ancestors? Maybe if Aerith will go to his pack with him, she could probably learn more about her heritage? The people in Cosmo Canyon were very wise and surely knew a thing or two about these people.

---------------------------

Cloud woke up when he felt someone touching his arm. He must've fallen asleep and the sun was gone already. How long was he asleep? Looking up, he saw Aerith hovering over him, smiling gently. Yep, that was a great sight to wake up to. “Hey, sleepyhead. Sorry, it took us longer than I expected...“

Cloud yawned and sat up. “It's okay.“ He did expect it to take that long, after all Aerith wabted to leave her relatively safe home and travel the world. Of course her mother wouldn't agree immediately and try to talk Aerith out of it. “You'll stay here then, right?“

“What are you saying? Of course not.“ Aerith giggled and knelled down to be on eye level with him. “It took me a while but I was able to persuade her. I'm coming with you, Cloud. I have the feeling I can learn more when I'm out there. You know what I mean?“

Of course he did. “Yeah.“ Aerith gave him one of her bright smiles again, before extending her hand. “Come. Let's eat dinner and get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.“ Cloud frowned. She wanted to leave tomorrow? He thought she'd tell him to wait a few more days to prepare and say good bye to everyone...But it wasn't really his business now, was it? If she said she's ready, she she's ready and he won't question it. The blonde took her hand and let her help him get up on his feet, while doing the same to her. When he let go of his hand, it took him quite a lot of self-control not to grab her hand again. And so he just followed her back into the house.

Elmyra looked quite concerned throughout the evening, but they never once talked about the journey ahead of them. And after dinner they all went to bed. Just like the night before, Aerith scent all over the pillow and sheets lulled him to sleep. The only difference was that he had a quite pleasant dream for once.

[iwrestlenow]

Many More To Die

TITLE: Many More To Die

FANDOM: Sanders Sides (Necromancer AU)

SUMMARY: For over a thousand years, necromancy has been forbidden in the Kingdoms, the Necromata--its practitioners--feared, reviled, and punished for a power they never asked to wield. Those Necromata who are not killed in the cradle are taken from their families, stripped of their Name--the core of identity and memory--and imprisoned for the rest of their lives.

Logan was twelve when he entered the palace dungeons. Prince Roman was fourteen when he witnessed the young necromancer being brutalized, imprisoned, and left to suffer.

Roman only wanted to offer the other boy comfort, and perhaps a scrap of dignity. He didn't realize his kindness would follow both of them into adulthood--or that Logan would one day become the only person in all the realms that Roman would be able to trust with his life, his heart, and his very soul.

SHIPS: Logince (Logan/Roman), future Moceit (Patton/Janus) and Dukexiety (Remus/Virgil)

WARNINGS: lots of death because necromancy, slash, and more to come as I figure it out ‘cause it’s late and I’m tired. Also, no betas, we die like men.

NOTES: This is based on the gorgeous piece of art by @gretacticdraws that can be found here. I ended up writing a ficlet for it, and then my brain got swallowed up. Breathe at me wrong, and I’ll write more...hell, who am I kidding? I’ll write more anyway because this? Is self indulgent drivel. XD

Also located at AO3 over here.

1023, A.A.

Necromata.

Sitting in the middle of his cell, twelve year old Logan...Logan choked on tears as his shoulder screamed, his bones ached, and the flickering lights of his cell let his imagination run wild with all manner of monsters and omens of doom lurking within every shadow.

He knew he was lucky—many necromancers were caught in the cradle and killed. Very few survived as long as he had. He could be grateful to his family for that much, that he'd lived long enough to escape a death sentence.

He did have a family. He knew that much—remembered that much. Everything else, they had taken before throwing him into his cell. The prison mage's hand was still a ghost of cold fire against his forehead, worms of icy coal burning through his brain to wipe out every trace of the things that would make him what he was, allow him to be more safely contained.

The name spoken with fear and loathing was all that he had left.

Necromata. The legions of the Animator...the necromancers.

“Psst!”

The hiss echoed off the stone in the corridor, made his heart leap into his chest as he looked around for the source of it.

“Psst! Over here!”

Logan tried to scramble back from the door of his cell, and screamed when he forgot about his dislocated shoulder, collapsing as it gave way under his weight.

“No, don't—please, it's okay. I don't want to hurt you.”

Blinking, Logan squinted into the low light beyond the torches that barely lit his new home. Something bright green flickered there, an outline visible that was vaguely person-shaped.

“Who...who are you?” he asked, curling his injured arm as close to his body as he could so he wouldn't forget again as he got to his feet.

“I...I'm not supposed to say.”

Logan shuffled a little closer to the bars of his cell. “Then how do I know you don't want to hurt me?”

“The prison mage took your Name—you won't understand if I tell you. Just...”

The person-shape on the other side of the bars moved forward, an arm protruding through to set a bowl on the dirt floor of Logan's cell. Inside there was water, and sitting across the rim was a heavy piece of leather.

“I saw what the guard did when you came in. Your shoulder...it happened to me once when I snuck out to hunt for the Lazari.”

“The Lazari don't exist.” Logan replied, reaching up with his good hand to try and wipe some of the tears and snot off his face. “They're a fairy tale, like the Animata.”

“How do you know?”

Logan opened his mouth...then closed it after long moments.

“I...I don't know.” he admitted. “I must have lost it when the prison mage took my Name.”

“Then you could be wrong.” the person-shape insisted, those emerald flecks in the near shadow sparkling with determination. “I'll find a Lazari one day. Just you wait.”

“What does that have to do with my dislocated shoulder?”

“Oh! Sorry—uhm, I did it once. When I snuck out, I fell from a tree and mine popped out. My brother showed me how to use the bars on our window to pop it back in! I threw up, though—and he made me bite a belt so I wouldn't scream.”

The hand appeared between the bars again, nudging the bowl and the leather strap forward a little further.

“I can tell you how to do it.”

Logan shuffled forward a couple more steps, then shifted to kneel in front of the bowl of water.

“I...might know.” He replied, staring at the bowl for a long moment before he peered back into the dark, into the green spark that was his benefactor's eyes. “Thank you.”

The person-shape said nothing for a long moment...

“Berry.”

“What?”

“Berry! The guards called you Logan, right? They took your Name—maybe Berry can be your new one.”

Before Logan could comment, the person-shape grew less distinct, and the flicker of green was gone with the clatter of footsteps scurrying away into the dark.

It was a silly idea—a Name taken could not be restored so easily. Still, the word rattled around in his head along with the one that made his bones ache again.

Necromata. Berry. Necromata. Berry. Berry.

Logan Berry.

Something stirred in the middle of Logan's mind, in his marrow—in the place that magic had scoured out and rubbed raw within the pathways of his brain. Something stirred, settled...

Something slid into place, and all of a sudden the shadows were far less frightening.

Popping his shoulder back into the socket hurt far more than dislocating it had—and yet while he'd sobbed his soul out after being injured, after being robbed of all that made him a person, he shed not a single tear as he put the leather between his teeth, wrenched his joint back into place, and used the fresh water to clean up after he'd emptied his stomach into the corner of his cell.

He even managed to sleep on his pallet of straw, and dreamed of green embers in the dark, drifting into the shadows in his cell and transforming every monster into a friend.

**********

1033, A.A.

“I had the dream again.”

“A kinky one?”

“Sweet leaping gods, Remus!”

The high, strident cackle of his twin brother echoed through Prince Roman's bedchamber, making him wonder yet again why he thought he could talk to the crazy idiot about anything remotely meaningful. Yes, Remus was trustworthy—he gave Roman all manner of hell for the secrets he shared, but had suffered his fair share of indignities to keep his mouth shut—but sometimes he wondered if it was worth the teasing and the laughter to have such a steadfast confidant.

Remus had secrets of his own, after all—the numerous Anima that shared his bed, for one. Like Roman, Remus was fascinated by the Necromata, the true necromancers that all citizens of the Kingdoms were taught to hate and fear. The Anima were little more than pretenders, mages of other disciplines that toyed with the death magic that had been outlawed for over a thousand years.

Still, they had a lot to teach—and made good company, from the way Remus spoke of his dalliances.

“Oh, I'm just yanking your chain, big brother!” Remus assured him, crossing over to drape himself over Roman's back, chin settling on Roman's shoulder to read what his twin was writing as he hunched over his desk. “C'mon now—tell me about the dream, and I'll tell you about the Necromata I fucked last night.”

Roman straightened abruptly at that, unceremoniously sending Remus sprawling to the floor. Turning his chair, he gaped down at his brother and pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You did not sleep with a real necromancer, you lying sack of horse dung!” he hissed. “Why would you even say that in the palace of all places?!?”

“Because the sex was unbelievably good?” Remus offered, shrugging from his place on the floor, flat on his back. “Believe me, Ro Bro, a guy that can't actually feel human contact can keep it up for a nice, long, slow roll in the hay. It's pretty remarkable!”

Roman just huffed, standing from his seat—and promptly sinking to the floor to sprawl out right beside Remus.

“You're lying.” he said simply.

Remus was quiet a long time...then sighed.

“Of course I am. He was just another Animata.”

“Anima. The Animata are a myth, like the Lazari.”

“Since when did you turn into such a brainiac, Roro? We both know I've always been the smart one.”

Roman rolled his eyes with a grin, stretching his leg to kick Remus's ankle—but the truth of the matter was, Remus was right. Between the pair of them, Remus was smarter by leaps and bounds. He was studying the collegiate sciences when he was seventeen, and began his magic training before he'd even reached puberty. The fact that the only part of the sciences he enjoyed were anatomy and mortuary study were entirely besides the point, as was the fact that Remus wasn't actually capable of using magic at all.

He was, as their father lovingly put it, a rogue genius: in possession of an intellect so massive that the rules couldn't restrain him. He either knew too well how to circumnavigate them, or he simply didn't care enough to bother and did what he wanted—what he thought was right, no matter the consequence.

Roman might have been the elder of the twins—by one hour, eleven o'clock of one night where Remus came at midnight the next morning—but he aspired, every single day, to be the maverick that Remus was. He simply lacked the brains...and the courage.

Which was why today, it was Roman their father would be naming as his successor, and not Remus. Roman would be king, would rule by the law and the will of the gods, and Remus would...get to be Remus for the rest of his life, a crown prince without a care in the world.

“Tell me about the dream, Roro.”

Remus's voice was gentle this time, his fingers walking their way along Roman's arm until he could find his hand and weave it into his own.

Roman sighed, staring up at the mural on the ceiling of his bedchamber—a beautifully wrought depiction of the Fall of Death, the final battle between the Animator, the first of the Necromata, and their ancestor, King Thomas Andres, that had saved the Kingdoms over a thousand years ago.

“He was in it.”

“The boy from the dungeons?”

Roman nodded. He could feel Remus watching him...

Just like he could feel the boy from the dungeons watching him every time he had the dream... ********** “He was here again.”

“Jumpin' Jiminy, Lo—are you sure?”

Logan nodded, mostly to himself. Patton couldn't see him, not from the bathtub behind the partition that separated it from the rest of the room, but it hardly mattered—after eight years as cell mates, the two of them had become as close as brothers, as close as twins according to some of the guards that had met the king's identical twin sons.

They had grown so naturally into the relationship, it made Logan wonder sometimes if he'd had a brother before his Name had been taken.

Well...it made him wonder in the early days, at any rate. Logan had stopped wondering many years ago.

Suffice to say, Patton didn't need to see him nod to know that Logan had.

“Well? What'd he do?”

Logan let his mind wander back to the night before—the dream space that he so often occupied, the boy that had come to him in the dark ten years before with a bowl of water, a leather strap, and a name.

The boy he'd come to think of as the Green Man, with those eyes that the dark couldn't fully hide.

“The same thing he always does.” Logan managed to reply, setting down the pen he'd been using in favor of resting his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers to press against his lips. Among those Necromata imprisoned in the palace dungeons, Logan was quite fortunate: he was allowed a cell mate, access to books and writing implements, even a small window sill garden consisting of plants that couldn't be used for magical purposes.

He was very lucky. Ten years of good behavior had given him an incredible amount of leeway and granted him creature comforts like access to regular bathing privileges. The guards even referred to him by his chosen name.

He was, for all intents and purposes, treated like he was truly human. A prisoner, always, but one the guards and prison mages shared a basic blood connection to, unlike the other Necromata.

“...Lo?...Logan!”

Shaking himself, Logan cleared his throat and tried to beat back the heat he could feel rising in his cheeks, having been caught wool gathering.

“Apologies, I didn't catch that.” he called over his shoulder.

“I said, did he say anything this time?”

Logan shook his head, knowing once again that his actions would be understood rather than seen. Patton asked the same thing every time Logan mentioned the visits, and every time it was the same.

If Patton really knew the content of the Green Man's visitations...

Pressing his fingertips to his mouth again, Logan shut his eyes and let himself remember.

The visits were always in a dream space—for years, before the visitations became more regular, Logan had assumed the Green Man was a guard's son, or the child of some member of the palace staff. Later, when the Green Man came to Logan in his sleep, he figured he was the son of a prison or court mage—who else could manage to dream walk in the mind of even a crippled necromancer like him?

Then again...Logan was different from many prisoners like himself.

In the dream, Logan still cannot see his face. Like those ephemeral dreams from his first few nights in the dungeons, he's little more than shadows with burning points of light the color of fresh shoots just springing from the soil. Over the years, he's become more distinct, but still nothing Logan can give any real definition.

He is a man made of darkness, his eyes reflecting what spark of magic lives within him. They never speak to each other—Logan never dares, secretly apprehensive that disturbing the quiet will somehow end this irregular communion they share.

All the Green Man does is extend a hand, the only part of him Logan can truly see. What was once small and slim fingered has changed over the years into a large hand, broad but lean, tendons standing out below each knuckle and tanned by exposure to the sun. Every time, he reaches out, and every time, Logan takes his hand and just...holds on.

In the dream space, Logan can feel his touch. It's likely a projection, something imagined, but there's strength and warmth in that hand—the pressure of fingers meshing with his own, the heat of palm sealed to palm. There's something under the skin, itchy and trembling, and it makes Logan want to pull away because it's just too much...

The Green Man never lets him. Gradually, the feeling passes, and Logan clings until the feeling returns, crashing over him and sliding back in waves beating the shore of his nervous system.

Logan is always the first to let go. The Green Man makes sure of it—and then he leaves.

“Are you okay, kiddo?”

Logan looked up sharply, twisting to see Patton over his shoulder. His mop of tawny curls is swept back from his face, still dark and wet from his bath, the chill of the cell raising gooseflesh on his bare torso.

He has one hand holding the towel around his waist, and the other resting on Logan's shoulder.

The pressure is barely there, that buzzing awareness of contact easily missed if not expected.

Patton hastily lifts his hand, face screwed up in silent apology. Logan dislikes physical contact, even if he cannot feel it—just like any of the Necromata, so divorced from the living, human populous that they cannot even connect to them through touch.

“Didn't mean to spook you, Lo. Just...you're real quiet. Usually, you got more to say after a visit from You Know Who.”

Logan nodded, then made a point of reaching out to squeeze Patton's hand briefly before letting it go just as quickly.

“Apologies. I suppose I'm just...distracted by today.”

“Yeah—hey, you think the prince'll come down here?” Patton asked hopefully, drawing back to go and find some clothes. “I mean, if he's gonna learn to be king after the ceremony...”

Logan let Patton continue to chatter about the potential for this new ruler to somehow see their plight, somehow be their salvation. He let the words, the hope, wash over him without making contact.

Patton could have hope, because he had no Name. No history, no memory, no past and therefore no future. He was a blank slate, for all intents and purposes, unable to access the power of the Necromata with no life of his own to bind it to.

Unlike Logan. Logan, who no longer wondered if he'd had a brother in his family.

Logan, who could share a dream space, something only mages were capable of.

Logan, who had been given a new name by his benefactor so many years ago, a name that others used daily.

Logan Berry, who even now could feel the essence of every rat behind the dungeon walls, every guard on patrol, every prisoner languishing beneath the lowest floors of the palace...and every noble, every royal, every peasant up above.

Logan Berry, who could not remember his family, but could remember that he once had a brother.

Because, despite the fact that a Name taken could not be restored so easily, Logan had taken a name freely given and made it his own.

A Name, freely given. A life, restored.

Logan could not have hope, because he had the power of the Necromata at his fingertips—and it was only a matter of time before good behavior would no longer be enough to earn him the leeway to stay alive.

[theshipsfirstmate]

Agents of SHIELD Fic: We Always Walked a Very Thin Line

post-7x10, Daisy-centric angst fic, with a fair bit of dousy.

Title from “Exile” by Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver. Let me be the 10,000th person to title a fic from folklore (but Justin Vernon did what he needed to do on this track).

We Always Walked a Very Thin Line (AO3 - wc: 1357)

Daisy’s thought a lot about all the ways that death could come for her -- all the ways she could bleed out or burn up or be torn to tiny particles by the powerful emptiness of space. She never thought it could be like this.

She feels it in her chest and down her spine, when Malick snaps Jiaying’s neck, and instinctively, she looks down at her hands, some small part wondering if she’ll just fade away instantly. But it doesn’t happen like that, either.

May gets the shot off behind him, and takes chase when he runs, and then it’s just the two of them in the empty hallway, Daisy and her mother — a woman she could barely look in the eyes just minutes ago, but is connected to in even more ways than their shared DNA. The whole world goes fuzzy around her and she lowers herself to the floor, taking in shaky breaths that leave her lightheaded.

She can’t tell if the metal walls of the base are actually shaking with tremors, or if that’s just her. Her bones have been shuddering since the moment she prepared to fire back at Malick and it’s not going away. Another lightbulb explodes overhead and she barely registers the sound or loss of light. It feels like the early days of her powers, like she could flatten a city block or turn a skyscraper inside out, like the whole world could come apart at the seams if she just stopped trying to hold it together.

She sees her reflection flicker in Jiaying’s lifeless eyes, strokes a hand through hair that feels like her own, and wonders if it might come apart anyway.

“Sometimes trying to do the right thing comes out all wrong.”

It’s the kind of lesson every child deserves from their mother, and it’s one she’s spent 30-plus lonely years learning time and time again all by herself. It shouldn’t ache like this, to have had a tiny, stolen taste of the compassion she’s always craved, and then have it ripped away. There shouldn’t be this much space to mourn someone she never really knew.

But the universe is cruel, and a sob rips from her chest before she even feels it coming. She can feel herself starting to crumble, and worries this time it might be permanent.

They’re losing. The battles, the war, their people, all of it. They’re just barely scraping by every single time and she promised herself she’d fight until the bitter end. But what if she can’t?

It must be minutes later, but it could be hours, even days, before she feels hands on her shoulders, a familiar timbre in her ear. Everything sounds muffled, like she’s been packed in cotton, and she’s barely any help at all as they pull her to her feet.

Simmons and Deke are gone, May relays, and part of Daisy slips even further away. What happens to her if the timeline has bent around the circumstances of her birth? There are maybe three people in the whole universe who could make a close approximation, and their lives are all in immediate jeopardy.

Then, in her line of vision, there’s Sousa, with his unwavering, steadying presence. Daniel, her brain supplies privately. It’s okay to call him that here, it’s okay to think of him that way if she’s not going to live to regret it.

He takes her face in his hands and she can’t tell if they’re burning or freezing, or if she even feels them at all. She can read the concern in his eyes more clearly than she can hear it off his lips.

“I think she’s in shock.” He’d told her before that the things that scared him didn’t show on his face, but this one does.

“Jiaying,” May pauses before she finishes, like she knows what this will do to them both, “was her mother.”

Daisy watches two faces register the agonizing truth, and remembers, slowly — May does know what this means. To both of them. She can feel it. 

Daniel turns back to her, and the way devastated shock melts immediately to selfless compassion in his eyes is enough to break whatever’s left of her heart.

She kissed him once, in another time. It feels like a tragedy now, that he can’t remember. Or maybe it’s a mercy. Part of her thought she might get another chance to try for one they’d both know was real. 

It’s been so long since she hoped for anything like that. 

And if she drowns in the rapids they’ve created in the timestream, if she vanishes into the ether of things that never were, what then? Will he forget her? Will they all?

Daniel’s a soldier, he carries these things with him — the tarnished flip side on a medal of honor. Daisy doesn’t think enough of herself to believe he holds her as highly as he does Peggy Carter, but she knows it’ll hurt him if something happens to her. And that’s quickly become the last thing she wants to do.

She’s never been someone who longed for the trappings of a “normal” life, not for a long time, anyway. But standing here now, on knees that feel like they’re about to buckle under the existential weight of an unwinnable fight, that feels like another regret. A world where she gets to watch her friends — her family, she’d insisted to Enoch when he warned her — grow old together, lead long, joyful lives full of love and laughter, it might as well be a fairy tale. 

The focal point on humanity has sharpened down to a pinhole. There’s no room for dreams, there’s only their team, and the fight for continued existence. 

Daniel helps her to an empty bunk, and she protests weakly, knowing there isn’t any time to waste. But her body follows him instead. She’s just so tired.

Don’t let me fade away, she wants to tell him. Don’t let me go.

She fairly certain she doesn’t say it out loud, but somehow he knows. It shouldn’t surprise her by now, but it still does, when he settles into a chair next to her bunk and reaches out to take one of her hands firmly in his own. She can still feel it, or at least she thinks she can.

“Daniel,” she whispers, the first time she’s called him by his first name, the first time she’s spoken out loud since calling helplessly after her mother. 

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He meets her eyes with his usual resolve and the question she’s been working herself up to ask comes out as little more than a breath. “Will you stay?”

He squeezes her hand and bows his head and she wishes she could tell him that he’s a mirror image of the man whose eyes twinkled in a telling way when he admitted he’d like be the one to pick her up after she ran into a brick wall. He’s still that man, she realizes. She should have kissed him again when she had the chance.

Daisy’s been preparing to die for years now. But it seems so unfair, that it could come just as she was remembering what it felt like to live.

Then Daniel answers -- “Of course I’ll stay. I’m where I need to be.” -- and she remembers what it felt like when he promised her they were going home. 

She was hazy then, too, in and out of consciousness and mired in the torturous pain her mother knew before her. But she’d heard him say it, over and over again, and she knew he believed it even now.

Home.

If she’s still here when she wakes up, maybe they’ll finally get there.

[transrevolutions]

it’s such a fucking stupid thing to be mad about, especially now. but there’s something so damn final about it, finished, completed, the finale posted sometime in 2014. and goddammit there’s still something missing.

the authour didn’t get tired of it. and the authour didn’t forget or get a new job or move to alaska or become a salmon fisher and I try to convince myself it isn’t about the author but I can’t make myself believe it.

and the fucking cliffhanger oh shit, I wanted so badly to know what happened, wanted to know so badly that it clawed at me like fucking nails but all along there was one way it went and I opened the goddamned schrodinger’s box and let all the poison and dead cat and broken glass out for all the world to see.

(it was the bad ending. no, not bad. just... not the ending I wanted because no matter how much I told myself that either ending worked and didn’t work and everything in between, that was a lie. it was a good ending, sure, realistic and brutal and tying together all the loose ends but it pried me apart like chicken wire bent by cutters)

and I can read and reread the first few precious bits before it all went to hell and back but no matter how many times I refresh the page I can’t erase what I know, always broken and broken and broken and broken.

again, it’s a fucking stupid thing to be mad about.

because tomorrow everyone’s still dying and I’m not doing enough to stop it and I should but instead I sit here typing a stupid fucking not-quite-poem about the stupidest and most trivial thing ever because I’ve never been good with emotions, dammit. I’m so fucking broken, sitting there stunned and in shock. I want to un-face my fears.

I desperately wanted someone to finish it and cut the tension and fill in all the gaps that were left off but now I realize I wished on a monkey’s paw and I never really wanted it in the first place.

it’s finished and it doesn’t crave anymore and instead all that aching and wondering and hope meshed with despair has been surgically cut out and transferred into me. and I don’t want to be finished ever but that’s how life goes and death goes and dammit if it doesn’t always end like that, finished brutally by an author-god who cares nothing for us, ends us in the most unsatisfactory ways.

I’ve changed my mind. nobody gets left unfinished. everyone is finished but not all endings are created equal. and every life is a roulette wheel.

odds are the universe doesn’t think I’m worth a satisfactory ending because I tell myself I don’t give a shit what the universe thinks but what if I do and I was lying to myself again all along? does it matter? do I?

for once, I long to embrace death of the authour.

not literally, of course. in the literary term. I’m not a murderer, though I might as well be. it would make us even.

but guess fucking what, today I learned that the book I for so long thought was unfinished (the one about the ghost and his boyfriend, remember, how I said it was the type of book to make you cry and laugh all at once except now the laughter’s dead in my throat?) ends. it ends badly or it doesn’t or somewhere in between all depending on your point of view. he is a hallucination. scientifically, this happens. brought on by grief and stress and repressed feelings. he is not real and he is dead and he isn’t actually there and I guess it’s fair because life isn’t a fucking fairy tale and sometimes okay is ten million universes away and all you’re left with is hurt.

perhaps that’s what the authour wanted to do with it. maybe the authour is a cynic. a nihilist. a supporter of the theory that the universe is uncaring and unfeeling and that all our lives and deaths mean nothing at all. cynics irritate me. because I spend so much effort every day keeping myself out of that pit and it would be so, so easy to just lose myself in apathy but I can’t and won’t and don’t.

or I could be full of shit and they could’ve written it for some other damn reason and I’m projecting all my own emotional frustrations on some innocent writer because I just can’t fucking deal with it. it was never meant to end the way I chose it to end and maybe that doesn’t fucking matter, and it started smelling like pressed violets and syrup (if it was a tangible thing, it’s not) but now it smells like ashes or me or everything or maybe nothing at all.

I want so desperately to stay unfinished. I don’t want any god or universe to write an ending for me. it’s a selfish thought but I can’t stop thinking it just like I can’t stop thinking about how I would’ve written that ending even though objectively it would’ve been a hundred times worse than the real one.

damn, my mom’s telling me to do my fucking homework and tomorrow’s gonna fucking suck, I can feel it, and this entire post reads like a therapy session gone wrong all because of a fucking stupid completed fucking fanfiction that made me shatter my very fucking existence like brittle panes of glass.

good luck. unfinish yourselves. or try to, anyway. it may be impossible, but what’s the harm in trying?

there is of course harm in trying, but I am not a cynic and I will not be thinking about that.

                                                          *    *    *

(note: the first prose post about this is here. the reason I made companion to it is because by some random twist of fate, just today I managed to track down the ending of the book I talked about. I have extremely mixed feelings about it, and it kind of broke my metaphor a little, but c’est la vie. for the sake of respect, I’m keeping the title, fandom, and authour of the fic anonymous.)

[averykedavra]

So yeah, I love Logan’s playlist to bits, especially Streaks. And I noticed that in Are There Healthy Distractions, Logan doesn’t help with the story, despite commenting on the inaccuracies of Frozen and encouraging the others to help fix them. I’ve never written a songfic before, so apologies if the lyrics seem disjointed or random. I did try listening to Streaks on repeat as I wrote this, so that might have helped a bit.

Anyway. Have some Logan angst. And yes, this is very long. I couldn’t write drabbles if my life depended on it.

Word count: 3986

Warnings: some insecurity, blood mentions, and a bit of sexual innuendo from Remus

I’m always open to prompts! You can find this story on Ao3 here.

Seven years old with a brand-new coloring book Every page with the perfect design You can decide on the colors that you like As long as you stay in the lines

When they were little, the Sides wrote stories together.

It was before Dark and Light sides, before the Split, before anyone was old enough to wonder why they were spending afternoons on the carpet thinking up stories. King always started the stories. Anxiety pulled the story into darker areas and came up with the best villains. Morality made sure the hero was a nice hero and that there was always a happy ending. Deceit assisted with making it believable.

And when they wrote their way into a corner, or forgot how their fantasy world worked, or needed an explanation of how frogs were born, Logic stepped in.

Those stories were the best. Thomas filled notebooks with them. They were slapdash and strange and included sentences like “and then the dragon attacked and breathed fire and it was really hot fire” and “but that wasn’t nice so the hero apologized” and “it was happily ever after except then a witch turned him into a frog.” They weren’t great stories, probably not even good. But they were Thomas’, which made them special.

As long as the story followed three rules, it was a story.

It needed a hero. It needed a villain. And it needed an old man with a beard to tell the hero how to be a better hero. Those were the rules. Logic came up with those rules. Even at age seven, he knew how the world worked. He knew rules made people take you seriously.

Of course, sometimes the hero was a carrot and the villain was broccoli and the old man with a beard didn’t actually have a beard, but by and large, they followed the rules.

When the rules leaked off the page, things got bad.

The Split came. There was a hero. There was a villain. There was Morality, trying his best to shove everyone into boxes. If that’s how it worked in stories, that’s how it should work in real life, right?

Logic got to be good. He was never sure if he liked that.

They didn’t tell stories together anymore.

They didn’t do anything together.

Thomas grew.

Tell me what did you learn at school today Did they show you what you're worth in numbers and signs You can read every word, you can solve every equation a hundred times Just to wonder what comes next, oh

Roman wrote stories sometimes.

He’d read them aloud at the dinner table. They were fantastical but not bad, though Logan never told him that. Patton complimented him but always reigned himself in from adding on. Maybe he remembered the damage those stories did. Maybe it was to stop himself from sounding like he was critiquing Roman’s work. Roman took his stories seriously. They meant the world to him, and he would labor for days to get them sounding just right.

It was ironic, perhaps, for Logan to wish for him to take them less seriously. But Roman was different than Logan. Roman wasn’t meant to strive for perfection or hone away at words until he was pulling all-nighters and tossing stories in the trash. He was meant to unwind them slowly on a lazy summer afternoon, adding whatever characters he wanted, his passion for storytelling tying every disparate element together.

But Roman was older. And Roman had rules now, for the stories. 1, it has to have a happy ending. 2, it had to be dramatic as possible. 3, it needed to be perfect.

And 4, an unspoken rule, was that he needed to write them alone.

If Roman accepted help, Logan eventually figured out, Roman felt like a failure. So he burned himself to the wick trying to make the story work.

But he couldn’t, not always. Not completely. Not without Patton and Virgil and Remus and Janus. Even Logan could tell that he needed the others. The stories might be technically flawless, the writing polished, but it didn’t have the same heart.

Ugh. Feelings. The bane of Logan’s existence.

It didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t his issue. He was Logic—he had no place for flights of fancy. Roman could write stories, but he couldn’t. That was just the way things were.

Logan focused on school. He learned to multiply and divide. He guided Thomas through countless late nights and filled his mind with knowledge. That was his job, and he did it will. Thomas was clever. Intelligent. Smart. All the things the teachers called him. Others called him a nerd, but neither Logan nor Thomas minded.

Thomas was going to be a chemical engineer.

There was no need to worry about stories now. Flights of fancy were childish and immature.

When he told Roman that, in a fit of anger, Roman didn’t speak to him for a week. Even when they did speak again, it was never the same. Logan wished he could explain how he felt—how he simultaneously wished for Roman to grow up and for him to stop growing up. To be more serious and yet more carefree. These competing urges made no sense to Logan. He knew that he should try to ignore Roman’s creative pursuits.

But he couldn’t help but listen every time Roman told a story.

And he couldn’t help but wonder…after Thomas gets his degree, after school is over…what then? Maybe Thomas would start an acting career or something Roman wanted. What then?

Logan was numbers and logic and grades. Without that, what was he?

He didn’t know, and that terrified him.

Thomas grew.

All these years of filling out papers Building a future, keeping your head down Tryin' to keep a head on your shoulders, keep it creative, Make it your own somehow

It was Virgil who started helping Roman again.

They worked so well when they were younger. Virgil loved other worlds where things made more sense. He also had a knack for plot twists and redemption arcs. But after Anxiety became the antagonist, Roman seemed to forget their days of writing stories.

Only after the Moving On video, where Thomas commented on their shared past, did things change.

It was small at first. Virgil started listening more intently to Roman’s stories, and after a few weeks, commented. Just short sentences, small things. “Nice phrasing” or “cool idea” or “oh, hell yeah.” Roman always smiled when he heard Virgil’s feedback.

Then, one morning, Virgil asked whether Roman could have the villain from a previous story help the character in his next one.

It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t even a suggestion. It was a question, hesitant and unsure. Logan noticed Virgil chewing on his lip and how he immediately tried to qualify the request, saying “’cause you said you needed a sidekick and it could contrast with the hero’s personality and I think it’d be cool and yeah.” Roman liked the idea.

And soon Virgil and Roman could be found tangled on the ground together, running ideas past each other at the figurative speed of light, notebooks surrounding them with red and purple pen scrawled on each page. They’d get wrapped up in stories. Patton would call them for dinner, and they wouldn’t hear.

Patton joined, eventually. He’d butt in when the story grew too dark or sad, saying “Why don’t you lighten things up?” or “Maybe he could apologize before they keep going, he was kind of rude.” His humor brightened the stories, balanced out the dramatic elements, and kept them on track to a happy ending.

Perhaps it was naïve of Patton to only accept happy endings, when the world was fully soaked in shades of gray and good things didn’t always happen to good people. But Logan couldn’t find it in himself to chide him. Of course Patton would want fairy tales to make more sense than reality. Virgil had been accepted. Deceit and the others lurked on the edge of their world. Things were on the cusp of changing—Logan could almost taste the danger in the air. Everyone was waiting for the figurative hammer to fall.

They still wrote stories of heroes and villains. The villains often got accepted and changed their ways, courtesy of Virgil, but it was still black-and-white, good-and-bad, dark-and-light.

Logan understood it would always be like that.

And he understood he had no place in their make-believe. Thomas was an actor now, making videos online, but Logic still maintained order. He kept the figurative stage working so the others could perform.

He did not perform with them. He did not write stories with them, unspooling plot on hot afternoons with Roman flopped on the couch and Virgil lying on the floor and Patton making lemonade in the kitchen. He stayed in his room and perfected Thomas’ schedule. It was not his job to be creative.

If he smiled seeing them so happy, he kept his smiles to himself.

If he sometimes thought of endings to their stories, or built upon the worlds they created, or fleshed out a backstory, those words stayed in his head.

He wouldn’t make their stories his own. He wouldn’t ruin the one thing that kept them carefree and unconcerned with reality.

Logan was not that selfish.

Cause it's all a piece of the plan It's something you'll understand When you're older

The Others liked to tell stories.

Remus was no surprise. He was the other half of Creativity, after all. And yes, his stories did often swerve in R-rated directions that made Patton flush and Roman wince. But he had a knack for language and rhyme. Fun turns of phrase were his favorite. Besides, Logan did have to admit that ‘bad’ or ‘forbidden’ creativity was sometimes necessary for a story to have a real punch.

It took a while for Roman to accept that, though. Even after the Others started living in the common room and popping in for breakfast and were no longer the Dark Sides but Janus and Remus, Roman still kept his stories to himself. Patton and Virgil, seemingly feeling guilty about siding with Roman on the matter, stopped having story sessions altogether. It was like Thomas’ teenage years all over again.

Logan missed seeing them brainstorm together, talking over each other in their excitement, Roman running around and acting out scenes while Virgil mused to himself and Patton squealed at every new plot point.

Fortunately, the silence didn’t last long. One morning while the new family was having an awkward cereal breakfast, Roman blurted out “Hansel and Gretel except the witch has a daughter and it’s from her perspective.”

Logan was used to this. Roman often thought of ideas on the fly. He’d usually scribble some keywords on a napkin or the back of his hand. Sometimes that was enough to remember the idea later. Sometimes it wasn’t, and Roman would whine endlessly when he lost an idea.

But this time, before Roman could apologize or write it down or even explain to a very confused Janus, Remus added “Yeah, and she and Gretel are doing it. Lesbian love.”

Roman froze for a second, staring at Remus, who continued to slurp his cereal as if nothing had happened. The entire table was quiet, waiting for Roman’s reaction. Logan prepared for Roman to shut down the idea, or leave the table, or make fun of Remus.

“Good idea,” Roman said.

It was Remus’ turn to freeze in place.

“That’s good,” Roman said again. “And she could teach Gretel magic, too.”

A slow grin made its way across Remus’s face. “Yeah, she learns all sorts of cool stuff. But she loses her temper with her brother—”

“—and turns him into a gingerbread,” Roman continued, “and doesn’t know how to turn him back. And the witch can’t find out or she’ll be furious with her daughter—”

“So to get the counterspell, she sneaks around to get the witch’s book, but she gets caught—”

“—but her girlfriend saves her, of course!”

Remus grinned wider. “Except now they’re stuck in the witch’s house, and she knows they care about each other, so she can use them against each other!”

“Oh, no.” Roman’s worry was at odds with the way his eyes twinkled. “Guess they’ll have to plan a sneaky escape, then. Good thing they know magic and outnumber the witch!”

“Except,” Remus fired back, “they’re really new to magic and still don’t have it under control yet, plus they’d have to leave Hansel behind as a gingerbread—”

“Gretel’s girlfriend wants to leave and come back for Hansel, but Gretel is worried about her brother and decides to—”

Roman and Remus were glowing, practically, eyes wide with excitement. They gestured wildly as they spoke, identical smiles on their faces. Only when Janus coughed delicately did they stop and turn around, seeming to remember other people were there. They shifted awkwardly, the moment broken, and returned to their cereal.

But that day onward, storytelling sessions were once again part of life.

With two more people in the living room, two more voices, and the stories grew into something entirely new.

The day they leave and it's all before your feet You've heard all the tips and the tricks So you hum to a tune singing you'll figure it out soon You're a smart kid, tough kid, but you're still a kid that grew

Logan had been asked, once twice and more, to join their stories.

Their sessions were more complex now. They played games sometimes, or held contests. Sometimes they worked on the same story, trading sentences or paragraphs or simply shouting out ideas as Roman and Remus scribbled them down. Other times they worked in smaller groups or pairs, even on their own. Karaoke nights were replaced, sometimes, with story nights. They told ghost stories, love stories, action stories, anything that came to mind. They had games where they had to guess who wrote what story. They had games with rules for each story—tell a story in ten sentences, five sentences, three. Eventually Roman created a Rita Skeeter-style moving quill that captured every word of the sessions. They filled notebooks upon notebooks with ideas and stories and life.

Logan read through those notebooks sometimes. When he was bored or nostalgic or simply having an inadequate day. For whatever illogical reason, seeing the scratchy handwriting as the quill struggled to keep up with their words always made him smile. Even if the words themselves were not always of top quality, there were some wonderful stories in there.

Roman wrote the dramatic stories, tales of princes and dragons and fair maidens in distress. Sometimes it was maidens and dragons and fair princes in distress. But he could surprise them, could pull off emotional dialogue and heartfelt sorrow quite well. Some of Logan’s favorite stories were his dialogue exercises, when he put pen to paper and wrote a conversation with no background. They were simple and elegant, every word refined.

Patton wrote the sweetest stories, almost Aesops in nature, fairy tales and small stories that always had a lesson in the end. He liked talking animal stories and stories where the dog didn’t die at the end. He could also pull off emotion, mostly in the bubbly happy field, but when he was writing anger or sadness or guilt, Logan could feel it in his stomach. It roared out from the page, dripping with emotion. Patton poured his figurative heart into those stories. It was a way, Logan figured, for him to express his more negative feelings in a positive way. Whatever worked for him.

Virgil liked realism. This was ironic, perhaps, because the real world caused him so much strife and anxiety. But he liked writing worlds just to the left of reality, maybe with ghosts or vampires or witches—Virgil also liked the supernatural. He liked taking villains or traditionally villainous characters and putting them in a better light. And he liked realistic fiction or urban fantasy because, as he confessed one day, he liked writing things that “made sense.” Real life was messy and dangerous, so he escaped to a version of real life that was safer and less confusing, where everyone had concrete reasons for doing things and nobody did anything unpredictable.

Remus and Janus worked together. They would literally finish each other’s sentences. That worked, because they both had an undying love for horror. Remus, of course, liked the shock value. He liked wrenching a story off the rails and plunging the characters into deeper peril when they least expected it. He liked gore and blood and mass murder, but that expressed itself in detective stories and murder mysteries. In fact, it was Janus who created the scariest stories. He was an expert on psychological horror and would often leave all the Sides shaking and white-faced. It was almost terrifying how quickly he could embody a character, not in the way Roman did with figuring out their mannerisms, but understanding their fears and subconscious thought. Janus also liked writing villains or morally grey characters. Again, of course.

Logan liked reading their stories, even the gruesome or sappy ones. It felt like the Sides were kids again, brainstorming. As if they had undone all the strange paths and complicated histories and growing up. All the good and bad and in-between, all the fights and tears and compromises. Like they were small and simple, sitting on the floor with coloring books and crayons, telling stories like the ones they heard on TV.

They asked Logan to join them, sometimes, and he always said no, pretending to ignore the way their shoulders dropped. He would be terrible at stories, and he had better things to do.

And he had spent his whole life building Thomas’ rational thought. His seriousness. His intelligence. He spent all his time throwing out anything childish or naïve and focusing on being a grownup. On following the rules. On not wasting time with frivolous activities.

To turn his back on all that and tell stories…that was a sacrifice Logan didn’t feel ready to make.

He wished he could understand how the others did it, wished he could understand how to strike a balance and find a way to let go without feeling out of control. He envied their carefreeness, their happiness, their love.

He could have that, if he wanted. He knew he could. He could have it all and lose everything he’d ever gained.

Logan had clawed his way through school, torn himself apart maintaining order, pushed everything inside of him that screamed and cried and felt into a very small speck deep within him. Because it was necessary. Because he was Logic and it was his job.

He didn’t want all of it to mean nothing.

He wanted to be an adult, not simply a kid that grew.

Throw ‘em in the water They will sink or float If you don't then you will never know

“Please?” Roman asked for the fifth time. “We want to have a partner guessing game and there’s an odd number of us.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Logan said. “I’m not interested.”

“Aww, Lo.” Patton frowned. “You’d be good at it, I bet! Why not?”

“I have work to do.” Logan didn’t, but he could find some. “Maybe some other time.”

“You don’t mean that,” Virgil muttered from the couch. Patton gave him a reproachful look and he quieted, still staring at Logan from under his bangs.

“Stories are so fun!” Roman grabbed Logan’s hand and tugged him forward. “You’re missing out, Specs! Can’t you just relax and write with us?”

Logan looked around at Patton’s pleading face, Virgil’s loaded stare, Remus’ bright grin, and Janus’ piercing gaze.

“My answer has always remained the same,” Logan said, trying not to appear angry. “I don’t understand why you persist with this. I have made my stance on stories very clear—”

“Why?” Virgil asked.

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you like writing stories?” Virgil bit his lip. “Or do you just…not like us?”

Logan blinked. “Virgil, I—of course I like you all! I find your company invigorating, if sometimes tiresome—”

“Then why?” Virgil hunched slightly under Logan’s gaze, but determination still shone in his eyes. “I just want to understand, L.”

“I…” Logan couldn’t lie, or Janus would see right through him. “I…writing stories is not my area of expertise.”

“Yeah, me neither, I’m Anxiety,” Virgil pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“And I’m Morality,” Patton agreed. “It’s not about expertise, it’s about having fun.”

One of the many things that scared Logan. ‘Fun.’ An unquantifiable concept. Confusing and nebulous and such a childish word for a childish idea. Doing something because it felt good with no other reason. Was that logical? Self-care was logical, was this self-care? Logan didn’t like how he scrambled to justify their actions. Stories were not logical. There was no point in trying to figuratively elbow his way into the situation.

Janus tilted his head slightly, like he could hear Logan’s thoughts. Logan quickly glanced away.

“C’mon, dork.” Remus was painting his nails bright red with what Logan assumed was some sort of blood. “I can…make it up to you if you’d like.”

Logan cringed at Remus’ suggestive wiggle. “No thank you.”

“Please, Lo?” Patton’s eyes were wide. “Just once? It’s not the same without you.”

“Exactly,” Roman agreed. “I have no one to argue with about semantics and plot construction! We could debate the usefulness of the Hero’s Journey, I know you think it’s outdated—”

“It is, and that’s irrelevant.” Logan folded his arms and turned to go. “I am not taking part in your frivolous, childish activities. I hope you have an enjoyable time. I shall be in my room.”

“Frivolous?” Roman gasped. “It’s not frivolous!”

“Childish?” Patton asked, looking devastated.

“Logan.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder. Janus wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead tugging at his gloves. But it was unmistakably his voice.

“How dare you say such things!” Roman continued, shaking a finger at Logan. “Shame on you!”

“It’s not childish,” Patton pleaded. “And that’s not a bad thing!”

Logan ignored them, still watching Janus. After a few moments, Janus spoke.

“It is childish,” he admitted with a shrug. “And probably frivolous. But it’s an enjoyable activity anyway.”

“I know,” Logan said, “but I don’t have time for—”

“Doing something childish,” Janus continued, still not looking at Logan, “doesn’t make you any less of an adult. It’s possible to strike a balance between leisure and work, juvenile and serious…good and bad.” He glanced at the others, giving them each a pointed glare. “We won’t take you less seriously if you participate, right?”

“Of course not!” Roman declared. Patton nodded vigorously. Remus hummed in affirmation, and Virgil gave him a small smile.

Logan’s mouth was dry, and a strange substance seemed to coat his airways, making it difficult to breathe. “I—I appreciate. The gesture. But—”

“Just once, okay?” Roman gave him a hesitant half-smile. “You can’t know until you try, Specs. Just once, for us?”

Logan swallowed. “I—you want me here?”

Roman shrugged. “You’re a bore sometimes, but you’re the smart one. I can’t keep track of half my fantasy races.”

“It’s true,” Virgil agreed. “Most of them are copied from DnD manuals.”

“Hey!” Roman complained. “And how do you know that?”

“I know things.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Well. Um.”

Everyone’s eyes shone as they waited for him to respond.

“Just once,” Logan said slowly. “For—for now.”

Roman smiled and handed him a pencil.

Throw ‘em in the water They could sink or float But unless you let it happen, you will never know

And once again the Sides wrote stories together, lying on the carpet in the summer sun.

[xaviersystem]

7 Day Prayer Miracle Review Amanda Ross (2020)

7 Day Prayer Miracle by Amanda Ross

Does it Work?

Almost everyone is familiar with the word Prayer, as well as the concept of Prayer. So when we come across someone offering a 7 Day Prayer Miracle, it is possible to have some questions popping up in the minds of people. Does it work? Is it effective? Why it is so popular? So I thought of bringing this blog 7 Day Prayer Miracle Review — Does it work?

So before we proceed, here is a synopsis about the product:· 

Product: 7 Day Prayer Miracle Review· 

Author: Amanda Ross· 

Bonus: Yes· 

Official Website: 7dayprayermiracle

What Will You Get From 7 Day Prayer Miracle?

Here in 7 Day Prayer Miracle coaching, you get a shocking tragedy that manifests itself in a great blessing.

It contains a prayer composed of four sentences. This helps approximately many ordinary people to highlight the miracles of health, finances, and relationships.

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You get heavenly wisdom to show the fairy tale. This helps to choose the best pair of dreams.

It helps to boost your life. And you can spread your wings and move on to the next level.

You experience good, irreversible changes in your life by this guidance. There is no place for negativity in your life.

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Manifesting Miracles by Using Prayer

When The Secret first came out, it renewed hope in millions of people for manifesting the things that would make their lives more livable. A few years on, most of those millions have lost hope, again. The “Law of Attraction” seemed to be missing something.

More than 2,500 years ago, the Prophet Daniel discovered a method of prayer that worked miracles and gave him prophetic visions of the future. Not only was he able to save his own life and that of all the wise men of Babylon, he told the king what he had dreamed and then told him what the dream meant.

We now know why the Law of Attraction works when it does. We also know why the prayers of most people don’t work. This knowledge is power — the power to manifest miracles at will. The 7 Day Prayer Miracle program contains distilled wisdom that details the differences between the two halves of reality so you can know where you stand in relationship to heaven.

Never before have we had such clarity in understanding about how prayer and miracles work. Yes, this is exciting stuff.

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How the Course Can Help You

Well, the course has:

1. Verified Techniques:

The big problem we’ve had with programs like “positive thinking” or “law of attraction” is that they remained vague on how to get to the desired state of mind. There was too much “pie-in-the-sky,” feel-good stuff that didn’t have a sufficient connection to the real world.

The 7 Day Prayer Miracle requires that you develop and exercise the ability to achieve the proper feelings for delivering prayers that match your conscious thoughts. The course shows you exactly how to do this with several, step-by-step exercises. This has been the area of disconnect in so many other programs

The exercises in this course raise your critical awareness of your environment and your own internal feelings so you can know when you’re aiming your prayer correctly.

2. Establishes Within You the Proper Skills:

The reason why the 7 Day Prayer Miracle works and has so many enthusiastic testimonials is because of the deep, spiritual understanding behind it — an understanding grounded in science and critical thinking.

No matter what your starting point, you will find yourself moving further from “lack” all the way to “abundance” — not merely physical abundance, but spiritual abundance of unconditional love, utter humility, perfect responsibility and fearless confidence. The map has been laid out. All you have to do is to walk the path.

The 7 Day Prayer Miracle is not only about wealth, health and relationships. It repairs the basic issues in your thinking and attitudes that would otherwise prevent effective prayer and, all too often, result in self-sabotaging behavior that spoils any gains you may make. All of these pitfalls have been handled.

Needless to say, the spiritual half of reality has its own rules and quite often doesn’t work at all like the physical half. This program is the manual for understanding what’s different and how to use those differences to your own benefit.

Because we each have our own set of bad habits, the course book covers a broad range of exercises to strengthen your awareness of your own thoughts, attitudes, intentions and — most importantly — your subconscious “feeling” attention. The 7 Day Prayer Miracle does these things far better than any book or program we’ve seen before.

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3. Proper Preparation:

No amount of thinking will ever accomplish anything truly worthwhile. Thought is a useful tool, but it’s only the starting point. And you can’t fix a great dinner in a dirty kitchen.

Bad habits and bad attitudes can cloud your spiritual vision and prevent your message from reaching heaven.

It’s a bit like 50 very loud people shouting while you’re trying to talk to someone on your cell phone. Sometimes, you can’t even hear yourself think.

The 7 Day Prayer Miracle helps you clear out not only bad habits, but also the daily garbage of stuck attention on little crimes we all commit from time to time — like being late for work, not taking out the garbage, forgetting about a commitment we’ve made, and more.

Becoming more aware of our stuck attention points, we can actively clean them up and ensure that our prayers make a direct, clear connection to heaven.

4. Reliability and Dependability:

By having you acquaint yourself more thoroughly with your own mind, ego and spirit, you will find yourself capable of using every part of each prayer with precision skill and powerful, spiritual effect.

Like a ship finally allowed to leave sight of land, you will enter spiritual territory you never knew existed. You will come to think of your body as merely your current vessel. And the control switches of physical reality will seem as real and natural as any physical device you’ve ever mastered.

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The Course Contents of 7 Day Miracle

Learn how to Grabbing The Attention of Heaven ( The ebook that gives you a crash course on your relationship to the spiritual world, to God and to His angels, and how to exercise your ability to connect directly to heaven).

· A Prayer Journal (a PDF journal that includes 7 prayers for 7 days, designed to give you miracle results).·

  · Divine Hearing — How to Recognize Crucial Messages from Your Angels (The ebook that helps you recognize messages from your angels).

· Divine Numbers — How to Interpret Angelic Sequences and Unleash Their Blessings (ebook that helps you interpret sequences of numbers and individual numbers like 11:11, 555, etc).

· The Prayer of Daniel (a handy, 1-page reprint of the biblical prayer that Prophet Daniel was using to achieve his miraculous results. This is the template upon which all effective prayer is based).

· A Song of Shifts (MP3 file, angelic music, using the “miracle frequency.” If you like, this can be played while you are performing your own prayers to help enter the theta wave band of meditative thought — the prayerful state of mind)

· Chances are you would be quite amazed to have so much content included for such a reasonable price.

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Features of the 7 Day Prayer Miracle Course· 

When you have the power of prayer, you never have to be worried again.

· Once you learn how to pray, prosperity flows in to you from an infinite source

· The 7 Day Prayer Miracle shows you how to choose the right option

· You learn to cultivate the right feelings all the time. When you learn to have the right feeling, things seem to go very right.

· Life suddenly becomes perfect, almost all the time.

· With prayer you can invite better health and healing for your body

· Boost Your Love Life With Prayer

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7 Day Prayer Miracle Testimonials

From the website of 7 Day Prayer Miracle, here is a reproduction of the testimonials of some of the individuals:

“I was only 5 days away from being declared a bankrupt. Almost all my savings gone. I then stumbled on to Amanda’s teaching. Just 2 prayers later, the bank actually cancelled my debt. Holy smokes, this works!” — Leanne R.

“I had terrible, terrible fights with my husband and I was on the verge of leaving him… Then one day I stumbled on to Amanda’s writings. I consumed it, prayed the prayers and now not only has my marriage been restored — the relationship sizzles in a way not seen since the honeymoon.” — Jane A.

“I’d always wanted to connect to the divine and talk to angels, but I never could. After the 7 Day Prayer Miracle, it was almost a suffocating blanket was removed. I can even now feel the breath of God and delve into the secrets of the universe.” — May R.

“I was left destitute by my cheating husband. He left me with my 2 young kids and moved in with his mistress half his age. After going through the 7 Day Prosperity Miracle, cheques suddenly came in the mail. There was sudden mysterious deposits in my bank account. Now, I have more than enough for me and my children to live a good life.” — Miranda A.

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Conclusion

The 7 Day Prayer Miracle is a complete system that’s more comprehensive than virtually every other book in this genre… Of course, the number of pieces alone is not enough. Each piece needs to be valuable and worth your time.

7 Day Prayer Miracle takes control of your life to improve. It has already helped approximately 100,000 women and men to fulfill the purpose of their lives.

You have a great opportunity to take the first step of a new movement. It comes with a 100 percent money back guarantee.

If for some reason, you are not satisfied with this program, the money will be refunded immediately. This is the claim of the seller organization. You have nothing to lose except for problems.

So go ahead and place your order 7-day Prayer Miracle. Do not miss the opportunity to take advantage of the wonderful wonders of your life.

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7-day Prayer Miracle

SOURCE: https://youtu.be/iHEUgA_4eSA