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rhysismydaddy · 3 years

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Prisoner's Game Pt. 2 (Rowaelin)

Part 1

~Rowan~

Rowan didn't think he'd ever been so pissed off in his life.

The only time that even came close was when he lost his first and only court case, but over the years he'd come to live with that.

This though?

This immature, childish, irritatingly clever woman... he had a feeling he'd carry the rage he felt against her until the day he finally died of it.

Although, if he was honest, his returning move had been a little childish, too.

He'd ordered one of the guards to strip her cell of everything except the chess set. Her mattress, the makeshift knife he shuddered to think she'd had in the same room as him, her pillow.

If she wanted to steal his shit, he'd steal hers, too.

He'd also had the guard move one of his pawns forward on the board.

Not the most creative, but he didn't have many options.

What did you take from a woman who had nothing? How did you punish someone who was already serving the longest punishment available?

The bank had seized her assets when she'd been locked up, and the lease on her apartment had long since run out. She didn't have any personal items with her, didn't seem to even care about anything besides making his life hell.

Case in point, when he got home that night, exhausted from dealing with Aelin and spending a long day at the office, he'd discovered her retaliation.

She'd stolen his bed.

The whole goddamn thing, frame and all.

How she'd managed to get it out of a penthouse condo with security not realizing a thing, he had no idea. He knew from experience it wouldn't even fit through the door.

It'd seemed if she was going to be uncomfortable, so was he.

Steaming with anger, he'd showered and flopped on the couch like an idiot, not even able to sleep thanks to the rage she'd worked him into.

She was completely kicking his ass. From the inside of a jail cell.

He hadn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep before giving up on even trying. At six, he'd dressed and driven to Whitehorn and Salvaterre, the law firm he was a partner at.

If he couldn't sleep, he'd at least figure out how the hell she was pulling this shit off.

Looking through her folder, he went through her daily schedule, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Eight am wake-up, breakfast, shower, lunch, yard time, dinner, lights out at nine. Between activities, she worked out in her cell or read a book from the run-down prison library.

In the eight years she'd been in prison, she hadn't had a single visitor. Her cousin Aedion--a playboy Rowan couldn't be paid to associate with--delivered a care package on the first of every month.

Strange, considering nothing of the sort had been in her cell.

She'd been in solitary confinement ever since randomly attacking her cellmate a little over a month ago. She was still allowed yard time and meals with the other prisoners, but she was chained at all times.

Also strange, considering Aelin wasn't the type to do anything randomly.

Rowan watched the security tapes he'd strong armed the guards into giving him, going through the past few days to see how she'd gotten out of her cell to rob him.

He watched as she was escorted to the yard, watched as she ate breakfast and lunch and dinner alone, watched as she put herself through vigorous training in her cell.

Days of footage, and he didn't find anything.

Feeling like a bit of a creep, he watched the nighttime footage of her sleeping, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.

She didn't move too much or too little--both of which would indicate it wasn't really her under that thin blanket. There were no attempts to pick the locks in between her wrists and ankles, no digging into the wall behind her toilet.

Nothing.

Which meant someone was helping her.

He could go through the official channels and ask the police for her known connections, but he hadn't reported either of the robberies yet.

Partly because he wanted to deal with her himself, partly because he felt a bit stupid getting robbed from a woman in the most secure prison in the city.

Which means he'd have to go about it a different way.

Grabbing his keys from his desk, he debated how else he could make her miserable, unfortunately finding nothing else he could do to her, no revenge he could get from robbing her tiny little cell.

No, he'd have to try something new.

Maybe he could bribe her into confessing. She didn't have anything right now, but maybe he could give her something to lose.

He'd bring her lunch, force himself to apologize for yelling at her, and just politely ask who her accomplice was.

He thought on it as he rode down the elevator to the garage. It probably wouldn't work, but he didn't know what else to do.

And besides, he knew from experience Aelin didn't respond well to his anger.

Checking his email to make sure he wasn't missing any important meetings, he pressed the button on his car fob, expecting to hear the resounding beep from his designated parking spot.

Except the beep never came.

Slowly looking up, Rowan had to amend his earlier statement.

Now he didn't think he'd ever been so pissed off in his life.

He stormed over to the security booth, hardly refraining from grabbing the man inside and throwing him to the ground.

"Where's my car, Rolland?"

"In your spot, boss," the stout little man replied instantly and surely, snapping his gum and looking at him in confusion. "Haven't seen you drive out yet."

"Yes, exactly. Which is why it's a mystery why it's no longer in it's spot."

Rolland caught up slowly. "You mean... it was stolen? From here? From you?"

Jaw so tight his molars were practically fused together, Rowan growled, "Just let me see the security tapes from this morning."

The guard nodded quickly, eyes nervous as he typed something into the desktop in front of him.

"That's weird," he muttered a moment later, typing faster and sending Rowan a nervous glance.

"What?" he asked, trying to calm himself down with a few of the breathing techniques he'd learned over the years.

"The tapes are gone, but there's... this."

Rolland turned the screen so Rowan could see it, and all the breathing in the world couldn't keep him from slamming a fist into the side of the security shack.

The footage was gone, and on the blank black screen read: Bishop to J7.

He was going to fucking kill her.

~Aelin~

"Enjoy your taxi ride here?" she asked sweetly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

Rowan scowled at her as he crossed the small room inmates could use to talk to their lawyers. He yanked the chair across from her out, then threw himself into it. "You are such a pain in my ass."

She just shrugged.

He sat across from her, angry and broody, and for a long time, he just stared at her.

Finally he asked, "Why are you doing this, Aelin?"

"I told you. You locked me up for something I didn't do. I want you to be as miserable as I am. It's simple, petty revenge."

Nothing about it was simple, but that was besides the point.

He was quiet for another moment. "Why now?"

She sighed, but she wasn't upset. Truthfully, she'd been waiting for him to ask that question.

"I want to tell you a story."

He stood up suddenly, face exasperated. "I'm not fucking joking around. And I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time."

He made his way to the door, and his dismissal of her pissed her off enough to say, "Sit down, or your car's going off Whigsby Bridge."

He smiled like he'd won their little game. "So you admit you have it."

"Sure," she said casually, honestly not giving a shit about the car.

His brow furrowed. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

"You're a fucking idiot if you think this is about your car, Rowan. But sure, I admit I know exactly where it, and your bed, and your little dagger are being hidden."

He narrowed his eyes. "This conversation is being recorded, and you just admitted to being an accessory to robbery, so-"

"You aren't going to press charges," she cut him off, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it.

Nasty little prison habit she'd developed, smoking.

Or maybe she just did it because she knew he hated the smell.

"Oh, really?" he asked incredulously, eyeing the cigarette with disdain.

She grinned. "Once you sit and hear my story and realize I'm telling the truth, you're going to feel so guilty you won't even care about the car. Now sit down. I'd hate to see a classic get totaled because you're being stubborn again."

He glared at her, but came back to the table and sat down again.

Then reached over and snatched the cigarette from her lips, putting it out against the steel table top.

She just pulled out another, lighting it with one of her last matches. The irritation on his face made it worth the loss.

He waved a hand as if to say Get on with it.

She'd debated how to tell him this story for a long time. It was long, and messy and not particularly pleasant for her. But she wanted him to know the full thing, so she'd decided to start at the very beginning.

"My parents died when I was four," she began, ignoring his dramatic sigh. "I went into foster care, and as you can imagine, I was a particularly unruly child."

She smiled at the few memories she had. "I stole from the nuns, snuck out of my room at night and ran through the house, set all the clocks back an hour so we could sleep in. Small stuff. But it irritated them, because they couldn't prove it was me."

"Sounds familiar," he grouched, making her grin.

"I was adopted by Arobynn Hamel a year later."

As she'd predicted, his mouth fell open at that.

Arobynn was the known king of the underworld in Rifthold. He had a hand in every aspect of crime, yet no one could do anything about it because he never committed the crime himself.

His name was revered, so much so no one ever dared to cross him.

"But your record says-"

"That I stayed in foster care until I turned eighteen, I know."

Arobynn hated public records and had a deal with someone in the system that he'd take some of the kids off their hands if they kept quiet about it. Illegal as hell, but he wasn't someone you refused without suffering serious consequences.

It was the perfect crime. No one would miss unwanted kids, and it gave the system one less mouth to feed.

"I didn't know it, but he'd been watching me for a while. He... I don't know, saw something in me. Natural, innocent talent he could work with and turn into something different. He adopted me on my fifth birthday. And then he started training me."

"To do what?" Rowan asked, shoulders tensing.

"Everything," she answered with a shaky laugh, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Stuff I wanted to learn, like how to pick a lock or walk without making sound. But as I got older, he taught me other stuff. Stuff I didn't want to know."

"How to kill," he finished, picking up on her tone.

She nodded, finishing her cigarette and flicking the butt on the floor.

"I was good," she told him quietly, looking down at the table. "By the time I was fifteen, he said I was the best he'd ever had. None of his other... children could beat me in a fight, not even the older ones who had a hundred pounds on me. And I could steal anything and not leave a trace."

His eyes didn't show an ounce of doubt, and she didn't know how to feel about it. But she kept going anyway.

"I was his favorite. I was his best asset, and I didn't care about anything that would compromise me. I lost my parents, and despite how much he wanted me to, I never loved him. I had no weaknesses. Except Sam."

"Another of his students?" Rowan asked, and it wasn't lost on her he said students instead of children.

She nodded. "We were adopted around the same time, grew up together. He was a year older, and whenever I had a problem, he was the one I'd turn to. He was good to me, and by the time I was seventeen, not a small part of me loved him."

Aelin broke off and took a deep breath, wishing she had another cigarette and trying to figure out how to put into words how much he'd meant to her.

"Was?" Rowan asked, so softly and quietly and understandingly that she was reminded of the man he'd once been, the one she'd loved.

Shaking her head to clear it, she said, "He made a mistake. He went on a job; he was supposed to break into one of the underground casino's owned by Arobynn's competitor and memorize the ledger, but he got caught. It was messy and horrible and stupid, and the owner wanted blood. Arobynn promised he'd kill Sam as retribution."

Rowan's eyes widened, almost like he hadn't realized how brutally she'd been raised until that moment.

"I begged him not to. Sam had saved me and helped me so many times that I couldn't not do the same for him. I told him I'd do anything."

She studied her hands, regret and guilt thick on her skin. "Arobynn said if I took ten of the jobs Sam was supposed to do, he wouldn't kill him. I thought they'd be similar to the one he'd messed up on, small break-ins or robberies. So I accepted."

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she batted it away as she continued, "The second I shook his hand, Tern--another of Arobynn's--shot Sam in the head."

Rowan's face blanched so quickly, she thought he might pass out.

He started to say something, but she spoke faster. "I... snapped. I killed Tern, tried to kill Arobynn. You called me a murderer, and that's true. I am, and I don't regret it. Tern was a sadistic bastard, and I'm glad he's dead. And one day, I'll kill Arobynn for what he did."

Rowan shook his head, confusion and shock and something similar to pity in his eyes. "Why didn't you leave, run away?"

She leveled a look at him. "I didn't exactly have a choice, Rowan. My punishment for Tern lasted for over a year."

There was a long pause.

"Punishment?" he asked in a breathless voice that made something in her chest hurt.

She looked at the table again, skin pebbling at the memory of that year. "He locked me in a cell in the basement, in the dark. Once a month he'd come in to ask if I knew someone named Sam. It took me ten months to get confused, another three to say no."

Still not meeting his eyes, she looked at his hands, noticing they were clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. And a part of her, buried under all the rage and resentment and sadness, warmed at the thought that he was... he was angry for her.

"It took me a long time after to figure out what was real and what wasn't. But Arobynn never let me forget our deal. And right before I met you, he told me the first job."

"What were the jobs?"

Aelin looked back up at that, the air thick between them as she said, "You already know."

"The murders."

She nodded, somehow managing to keep her spine straight despite the feeling of a hundred pound weight being lifted from her shoulders.

He at least knows why now, she thought to herself.

It was one of the things that had bothered her over the years. That he didn't know why she'd done what he thought she'd done. That he thought she'd.. wanted to do it.

He was silent for a long time, just watching her with a carefully emotionless face. "Thank you for telling me that," he said eventually. "I never could understand why."

Then he stood and walked to the door again, and it was only when his hand was on the handle she spoke again. "You asked why I'm doing this, and why I'm doing it now."

He opened the door but paused. Waited.

"It's because I tried to tell you this all those years ago, and you didn't care. You just assumed I was guilty because the evidence looked like it."

She spoke around the lump in her throat. "I told you I didn't kill those people, Rowan, and you didn't even care."

He spun around, slamming the door so hard it rattled, and in a split second, he was in front of her. A hand on the table, the other on her chair, he leaned down and got in her face.

He was so angry, so unbelievably enraged she couldn't believe it. He was angry?

"I didn't care? I didn't fucking care, that's what you think? Watching you get dragged away in cuffs was the worst moment of my life, and you think I didn't fucking care?"

Shock hit her like a bucket of ice water.

That moment was crystal clear in her mind, and she couldn't put what he was saying with what she knew.

He'd watched her with that same expressionless face, with cold eyes that had haunted her ever since.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he wasn't done.

"I fucked loved you! I thought you were the love of my life, Aelin. I begged you to tell me something that would help, tell me anything. But you didn't! You just kept saying you were innocent; you didn't give me anything to actually work with."

"I-"

"I found that stupid fucking list five days before I reported it, did you know that?"

She shook her head, because she hadn't.

"Exactly. You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he growled, eyes flashing. "I spent five days investigating it myself, trying to make sense of why you'd know those names. After your arrest, I spent two weeks trying to find anything, a single piece of evidence, that said it wasn't you. And after the trial, I spent another two months trying to poke holes in my own goddamn case."

He slammed a hand into the table. "I did everything I fucking could! I was desperate for it not to be you. I argued my case so your lawyer could plead circumstantial evidence. I put you on the stand so you could say anything you wanted. I went for life sentences instead of the death penalty to give you time to actually tell me what the hell was going on!"

She was breathing heavily, heart breaking and reforming over and over again at what he was saying, what he was implying.

"I didn't assume shit," he said in a low voice, so close they shared air. "You didn't tell me anything."

Aelin's voice trembled as she croaked, "I tried."

He shook his head, letting out a breath of amusement. "No, you didn't. If this past week has proven anything, it's that you don't try to do anything, you do it. You didn't tell me anything, Aelin. You're still not telling me anything."

"I'm telling you to look again! I'm telling you you didn't look hard enough, because I left breadcrumbs only you could find, breadcrumbs that explain everything."

"Stop playing games with me!" he shouted, eyes flashing with a fresh wave of anger. "It's been eight years! Stop holding onto whatever secret you're holding onto and just tell me!"

Gods, she wanted to.

He was the one person she couldn't trust with this secret, this stupid, most important secret, and yet he was the also the one person she wanted to tell it to.

She opened her mouth to tell him, but what came out was, "I didn't kill them, Rowan. I promise I didn't kill them. I can't... I can't tell you anything else."

"Jesus, Aelin," he spat, pushing off the table and turning to leave.

"Just look into it," she called after him, fingers digging into the table to resist the urge to try and follow him. "I promise you can figure everything out, and you'll understand everything. Please."

She knew why, after all this time, it was so important for him to know the truth when that hadn't been her original plan.

It was because she'd spent eight years believing he hadn't tried, believing she hadn't been a good enough person for him to even look into the possibility it wasn't her.

And maybe it was because he was once again leaving her, or maybe it was because she felt like she was in that courtroom again, begging him to believe her, or maybe it was because of something she didn't even understand yet.

Regardless of the reason, she found herself saying, "I loved you, too, you know."

He looked at her with sad eyes that she was sure mirrored her own and shook his head. "Not enough, apparently."

"You don't believe that," she argued, shaking her head and trying to keep the building emotions down.

"If you'd loved me, you would've told me. You would've given me the proof, whatever breadcrumbs you're talking about. You wouldn't have let me watch them take you away."

"Rowan-"

"You wouldn't have thought, for a second, that I didn't try to fight for you. And you sure as hell wouldn't have waited eight years to do whatever it is you're trying to do."

"I had to," she whispered, even as she knew it wouldn't be enough.

She shook with the effort to not tell him everything, but even after all he'd told her and how everything had changed, she just couldn't. Not yet.

He stood at the door, watching her with those eyes she'd once thought looked like the most beautiful emeralds. "Sometimes I think about it, you know. What life would be like if I hadn't tried to fix your sink in the middle of the night."

She smiled sadly. "Me too."

Rowan shook his head, gaze taking in her face like he thought he'd never see her again.

He thought it was over now, she realized. He thought that now she knew he hadn't given up on her immediately, now that she'd told him the story she'd wanted to tell him, that it was over and she'd give up.

"Look again," she whispered. "You know I didn't do it. It's why you're here, why you kept looking after the trial ended. You know I wouldn't."

"Goodbye, Aelin," he said instead, not telling her any of the things she really wanted to hear.

It wasn't until the door shut behind him she finally let herself cry.

She'd told herself that it didn't matter; that in a month the truth would come out and everything would be normal again.

She'd told herself she was only messing with Rowan for revenge, not because she wanted to see him again or test that he'd find the clues she'd left for him.

She'd told herself this was just a game.

She'd told herself all sorts of things that turned out to be lies.

~~~

Part 3

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#rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin #rowan #rowan whitehorn #aelin #rowan x aelin #throne of glass #throne of glass fandom #throne of glass fanfiction

188 notes · View notes

novelconcepts · 3 years

Note

Greetings Novel. I was wondering, would you ever consider writing a vampire and/or werewolf Damie version? There’s already such a strong emotional connection whenever those stories are told, and I think you would just enhance that because you have such a knack for relaying Dani and Jamie’s thoughts and feelings. Anyway, just an idea because I love those tales and you’re absolutely one of my favorite authors. 😊

It’s the quiet she likes best, she thinks. The quiet, the dark, the simplicity. No one asks anything of her anymore. No one makes demands. She belongs to no one at all these days, for the first time since she can remember.

Except the Lady. She’ll always belong to her.

But there’s a give to these things as well as a take, and Dani Clayton sometimes thinks it’s worth it. Worth it, not to have to sit at dinner parties and elegant balls. Worth it, not to have to titter and engage in small talk. Worth it, not to have to wear the ring.

Worth it, to leave him behind.

And if it’s all shadow, all lonely, all deep-rooted ache she can never seem to soothe, that’s fine enough. She belongs to no one. No one except the Lady, and the Lady asks so little of her. Only to carry the curse--the disease--the hunger. Only to feed the shade coiled around the remnants of her old self. Only to wake. To walk. To drink.

It’s dramatic, she thinks, but a little theater never hurt anyone. She makes sure of that much. It’s sustainable, so long as she keeps walking, walking, walking in the quiet. The dark. The simplicity.

It’s sustainable, until she reaches the village.

***

The pub is nearly empty. Too late, or too cold, or too poor an economic situation for carousing to be the game--Dani doesn’t much care which is the real reason. She likes the emptiness of the tables, chairs pushed patiently into place, every surface as clean as it is old. She likes the warm lighting, the oak bar, the smooth wooden floorboards under her boots.

The mirror, she does not care for, turning her head swiftly away so as not to see the void where a young woman ought to stand. This part, she has never grown used to. This part, even after carrying the Lady--the Lady’s curse, more like, to hunger and need and wallow in lonely anger--for decades. She barely remembers, now, what that woman looks like. Blonde hair. Pale skin. Paler now than it had been in life, but only by so much--her mother had held such strong opinions as to what women should do with their time, and lounging in the sun had never been part of the pageant. Polite society, Danielle, has no use for a lady like that.

Like what? she’d always wondered, never quite daring to ask. Adventurous? Athletic? Interesting?

No matter. The past is long, long dead--deader even than she could imagine back then, dreaming of being someone else. Someone free. All of them are gone now: her mother, with her antiquated ideas; her mother’s friends, who peered down their noses at Dani and smiled without heart; even Edmund. Even him.

Long dead, now. Old age, or unrepentant illness, or freak accident--she doesn’t know. She wasn't there.

The woman she was is dead, too, Danielle Clayton buried in a grave she’d only hauled herself back out of the next night. The Lady had whispered in her ear, granted unexpected strength, unexpected fury. Danielle went in. Dani came back out again. No one ever needs to remember.

And no one ever has. She’s been walking for--fifty years, now? More, maybe. The date on the newspaper crumpled on one table reads June 24, 1987. More than fifty years gone in a blink, and Dani is still here. Washed clean, maybe, of all the bits that had once made up a patient, kind, hopeful young teacher. But here all the same.

She settles at the table, drawing a book from her bag. The night is still young, the hunger not yet pricking at her patience. It’s good to start smooth, start simple, to remind the Lady that the curse might have its needs, but it is Dani who is still in control. Dani, who, despite making a decision unwary of its consequences so long ago, has managed to hang on this long.

Still here. Still walking. Still--

“Get you something?”

Her head snaps up, her body primed to run. An old instinct. As if anyone could touch her without consent now.

The woman watching her looks curious, but only faintly so, as if by old habit. Her hair is tied off her face with a bandana, her sleeves cuffed at the elbows. There is a loveliness about her Dani has always fostered a weakness for--a loveliness that matches, in a less primal way, that of the Lady who had come to her in that dream so long ago. Walk with me. Walk with me, and you’ll never be alone again.

She shakes her head, smiles. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Right,” says the woman slowly. “Only, this isn’t a library. Don’t order something, Tom’ll have me throw you out.”

She speaks like she doesn’t much care one way or another, but Dani has been around long enough to read between the lines of a person. The words are callous, but the inflection is specific--the emphasis placed not on throw you out as a threat, but Tom’ll have me. An apology before an offense. The woman glances toward the window, aware of the wind battering the glass, her expression calmly letting Dani know I’d rather not have to.

“I’ll have whatever’s your favorite,” Dani says. Eyebrows raise, the woman’s head tilting.

“Mine?”

“Sure.” Dani smiles, reaches across, touches the woman’s hand lightly where it rests on the table. It’s easier, influencing human minds through touch. She doesn’t like doing it at all, if she can help it--there’s a film over the idea, a nasty oily sense of wrong--but sometimes it can’t be helped. People who look at her the way this woman is looking tend to become a problem.

People who smile at her the way this woman is beginning to smile, lips quirking up at the corners like she doesn’t quite mean to, tend to become a danger to themselves and others.

Mostly themselves.

The woman disappears briefly behind the bar; Dani, aware of the mirror, doesn’t watch her go. Her eyes remain on her book, her fingers tracing mindless sigils into the table until a glass is set gently down before her. A thin amber ale of some kind--Dani feels no curiosity, no interest at all. She smiles.

“Thank you.”

“Sure,” the woman says. Hesitates, as though wanting to say more. Shakes her head. The fog--the sense of forget Dani brings in her wake--is already sinking its claws into this woman, already wiping Dani away. Good. It’s best when they don’t see her, don’t take an interest, don’t remember when she’s gone.

Especially women who smile like this one.

She leaves the drink untouched, putting away two chapters in easy silence. Money, she drops on the table. No one looks up as she strides back out into the dark.

Tonight’s meal will be found elsewhere.

***

The story should end here, she knows--a person like Dani is only still here because she’s long-since learned the art of keep moving. The Lady commands it. The Lady is impatient to walk.

The hunger, pushing in along her ribs, pulsing under her wrists, is impatient for more.

She ought to leave the little village be. There’s not much here to begin with, and it’s dangerous to feed in places where one single thread can be followed to each house in turn. Dani’s careful not to hurt where she doesn’t have to, not to kill ever--a little time, a little tender care, is all it takes to prevent it. She hasn’t left a body behind in almost thirty years. There’s really no excuse for making a kill where one could simply leave a vacant few minutes of memory, she thinks.

Not that humans recognize the kindness for what it is. Not that she can blame them for their fear. She was afraid once, too--waiting, always, for the Lady to become Beast, for her to rise up over Dani’s good sense and turn her into something hateful. Dying, for Dani, hadn’t been the hard part. The idea of becoming something she isn’t...

But it’s been years and years, and she is still here. Still Dani. Lonely, and quiet, and living the simplest life she can manage, given the circumstances.

And back at this same pub again.

Shouldn’t, she thinks--knows, though she’s pushing the door open and striding back to that same table again. Out comes the book. Her eyes remain resolutely clear of the bar, of the mirror, of any patrons who might give her trouble.

“Back again?”

The woman, this time in a t-shirt, her curls loose around her face. Same woman. Same smile. Same problem.

Dani really knows better.

“Noticed you didn’t touch the ale,” the woman points out, leaning her hip against the table. There’s a quiet confidence to the way she holds herself, a constrained line of motion that says she’s in no hurry. Dani watches her, smiling a little, and thinks, Shouldn’t be here.

“No, I,” she begins to reply. Her smile fades to a frown. “Wait. Noticed.”

“Yeah,” the woman says. “And you overpaid. Drinks much pricier in America, then?”

Dani wouldn’t know. Dani hasn’t set foot in America since the sixties.

“I guess,” she says, still puzzled. This woman shouldn’t be speaking of last night as though it was--well. Only last night. This woman shouldn’t remember Dani at all. The Lady’s influence generally makes certain of that.

All these years, it’s never failed her.

That is the idea.

“Something darker tonight, maybe?” the woman goes on, watching Dani with shrewd eyes. “A stout?”

“Okay,” Dani agrees, knowing full well she won’t touch it when the drink comes, and finding herself quite unable to say no. Quite unable to do what she should, which is to slip out before the woman can return to this table and smile at her again.

Try harder, she tells herself, when the glass is standing proudly beside her book, laid face-down on the table. Try harder to do it. Because, the thing is, if this woman remembers her--if this woman keeps remembering her--she’s bound to find herself on the other side of a beheading. A torch. A particularly sharp slat of wood.

Her hand brushes the woman’s again, her fingers tingling. The skin is soft, the nails short; when she turns the woman’s hand over in her own, she finds callouses on the pads of her fingers.

“Bold,” the woman says, amused--but there’s a flare of something more in her eyes, matching her smile too well. Dani swallows. Presses forward with her own mind, gently caressing the woman’s intentions. Forget me, she wills. I was never here.

“Enjoy,” the woman says, the clear focus in her eyes drifting to hazy confusion.

Dani watches her go, her chest tight with an unfamiliar sensation--something like hunger, and yet...

No one, she thinks, has ever remembered her when she’d wanted them to forget. No one since the Lady’s curse. Even Edmund, who had dreamed of a big wedding, a big house, a big family since they were children, had forgotten her, in the end. Easily. She’d willed it, and walked away, and he had forgotten she’d ever climbed out of that grave.

This woman, whose name is not Dani’s to know, whose life is not Dani’s to touch, remembered.

Even as she’s leaving, even as she’s slipping out into the dark to find someone to dull the Lady’s hunger, Dani knows she’ll be back again. A terrible idea. A terrible test of the universe’s machinations. And yet.

She can’t erase the curiosity, bent behind a shop with a young woman’s wrist pulsing warm against her lips. She can’t erase the way the woman had smiled at her with knowing amusement, as her teeth sharpen and the Lady takes what she needs. She can’t forget, as copper runs sweet across her tongue, and the girl sitting on the pavement heaves a languid sigh beneath her.

It’s an awful idea. Truly, the worst.

She has to know.

***

“Starting to think you don’t actually drink.”

The woman actually sits this time, sprawling into the chair across from Dani as though belonging there all along. Dani bites down on a smile.

“Why else would I come to a place like this?”

“The company?” the woman suggests, and though her tone is idle, her smile scorches. Dani shakes her head, laughing.

She can’t remember the last time she laughed.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she confides. The woman raises her eyebrows.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

Alone, Dani thinks. Forgotten, Dani thinks. That was the deal, Dani thinks, the price of a young woman’s freedom. Wake. Walk. Feed. There has never needed to be anything else.

“Not here,” she settles on saying--a truth without teeth. The woman nods slowly, leaning across the table, her hand sliding over pocked wood to brush Dani’s wrist.

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping you. Twice is an accident. Three is a habit.”

She isn’t wrong. Two people in this village bear Dani’s mark now, the inner slope of their wrists stained with new scars they won’t be able to explain. She’ll have to drink from a third tonight, and the odds of getting out unscathed--even with the fog clearing her from their minds the minute she walks away--shrink yet again. This isn’t a good idea.

But this woman, impossibly, illogically, remembers her. Forgot, maybe, briefly--in the time it took Dani to pay and leave--and then the memory just...sprang back into place. Dani has made mistakes with women before, has let their smiles grace her heart in ways she was never meant to allow, but it’s never resulted in this.

“I’m Jamie,” the woman says, and Dani almost recoils--almost says, Don’t tell me that, don’t put that on me, you’re not supposed to remember--but I won’t be able to forget.

“Dani,” she says instead, and feels the Lady pulse deep in the place she’s always imagined her soul to rest. The Lady, a curse--a gift--a structure around which she’s built her second chance at life. The Lady, who looks upon Jamie now and sends a powerful swell of hunger up through Dani’s bones.

Take her. Take her. She wants it, look at her.

Jamie does, Dani senses, want something. Something that has no need for Dani’s influence, no requirement for Dani pulling the strings. Jamie wants something from her--something honest, something human--and the very idea of it spikes fresh terror like she hasn’t felt in decades.

“This is a bad idea,” she says in a low voice. “It’s dangerous.”

Jamie, fingers tracing Dani’s palm, searching out her lifeline, shrugs. “Always is. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it.”

***

There’s a place upstairs, a little flat. Jamie leads the way as though she’s done this a hundred times, taking Dani’s hand with an almost nonchalant gesture.

“If you let me in,” Dani says, “this gets so much more complicated.”

“I’ll take the chance,” Jamie says. She should be laughing as she says it, a flirtatious bit of banter designed to delight, but she isn’t. She’s looking at Dani, her free hand turning the key, like she already understands.

“I’m not,” Dani says. Stops. Sighs. “I’m not what you’re--what you think I--”

“Start here,” Jamie says, and pushes open the door. An invitation without words, one Dani can’t resist leaning into. She hasn’t let herself accept an invitation like this in so long.

Take her, the Lady breathes. Take her, bring her to me. Dani squeezes her hands into fists, the familiar rage of hunger grinding against this new, too-human variant. Jamie is closing the door, kicking off her shoes, smiling.

The smile is what really breaks her. The smile, which is a little teasing, a little tempting, but mostly just real.

She’s kissing Jamie before she can stop herself, and even as she’s doing it, there is something too warm about it. Something too good about the way Jamie catches her, hands digging into Dani’s hair, lips parting when Dani brushes against her with the tip of her tongue. For all the skin she’s tasted, all the times she’s kissed and licked and bitten, this is different. This is--

This has no path. No road to follow to the end. No lie baked into the heart of it. Every woman she’s ever led into the dark, every time she’s ever drank deep and pulled back before the Lady can win back control, seems to fall away in comparison to how desperately she’s kissing Jamie. This person she barely knows. This woman who slips a hand around her hip like an anchor. This woman whose kiss is confident, who is smiling into her, who leans back breathlessly and says, “You’re sure about this?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Dani breathes, kissing her again. Jamie makes a soft groaning sound, tilting her head away.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dani says, unable to stop herself from kissing around every word, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t, or don’t want to be?” Jamie is backing her against the wall, and Dani can hear her heartbeat, can’t seem to erase the dizzy scent of life pouring off of her in waves. Blood, yes, thrumming beneath her skin, but also breath, and desire, and something giddy and nameless that can only be joy.

Such a human thing, joy. Why, then, does Dani feel it pressing in on her, too?

“Hey.” Jamie has stopped kissing her, is simply holding her face gently between her hands. Her thumbs have found Dani’s cheekbones, are pressing so lightly, Dani closes her eyes to keep from crumbling.

“Hey.”

“If you really don’t feel good about this, we don’t have to. We can, I dunno. Talk. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Dani breathes slowly, all the little measures of human in a body that is not. She likes breathing, she’s found. Likes willing her heart to beat. Likes feeling warm, likes feeling as though any sunrise might be welcome, someday. Someday, when all of this fades.

Like it ever can. Like the Lady would ever allow it. That wasn’t the deal.

“There are things,” she says hollowly, “you don’t know.”

“All the things,” Jamie agrees comfortably. “Everything except your name and what you don’t like to drink.”

Despite herself, Dani laughs again. She leans forward until her forehead presses Jamie’s, until Jamie’s breath coasting lightly across her lips is the only thing she can feel.

The only thing outside of the beating, raging, desperate hunger.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she says. “I--sometimes even I think I’m crazy.” And, really, might she be? Might this all be some delusion, some shattering of sense that has led her to believe there will be no woman waiting for her in the mirror? Or, worse, a delusion leading her to believe she is here--that she is still Dani, despite it all?

“Tell me anyway,” Jamie says, and Dani kisses her again. Kisses the edges of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the length of her neck. Kisses the place where the pulse beats like fists against a casket lid, her lips parting, her tongue flat against the salt of Jamie’s skin. She hears Jamie draw a sharp breath, one hand tight in her hair, hears Jamie say, “Yes” in a tone Dani has to fight to deny.

She doesn’t mean it. She can’t mean it. She doesn’t know.

And Dani, though the Lady roars with that unrelenting need, can’t take. Not like this. Not here. This woman remembers her. This woman will remember tomorrow, even if Dani slips out of her bed, even if Dani never shows her face again. She’ll remember. It will, somehow, unfairly, haunt the rest of her life.

“It’s a long story,” she says, face still buried in Jamie’s neck. Her hips are twitching against Jamie’s thigh, her hands sliding under Jamie’s shirt. “A long, crazy story.”

“I have time,” Jamie says. Dani lifts her head. Smiles.

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s meant to be quiet. Dark. Simple.

Lonely.

That was the deal.

“The teacher,” she says quietly, closing her eyes as she scrounges for the beginning for the first time in over fifty years, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”

Jamie listens.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #damie #been curious to see what a vampire take would look like for a while #vampires being so rooted in possession and lack of consent. this was an interesting experiment #thank you for the prompt!

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hobidreams · 4 years

Text

Matters of the Heart | JHS {M}

it seems not even the passage of half a decade can diminish the hold of Mr. Jung’s charms on your heart. but the rumors that welcome you home speak of his imminent marriage to an heiress, one who bests you in every infuriating, ‘ladylike’ fashion. just how, then, are you meant to interpret the undeniable sparks of desire in his eyes?

or: “do you truly think me so proper, my lady?”

pairing: hoseok x reader genre: romance, smut words: 13k contains: victorian au, much banter/teasing, virgin reader but she’s a feisty one, era-appropriate dirty talk, unprotected sex a/n: this is part of the “A Very Merry Fic-Mas” collaboration with @lamourche, @kpopfanfictrash, @kittae, @underthejoon, @floralseokjin, & @winetae! it is heavily inspired by Jane Eyre, though our Mr. Jung is much more respectful than Rochester ;) please note that Jin’s last name has been changed for clarity’s sake with all the Kims + a few minor Victorian customs have been forgone for ease of reading.

It was not a wholly unpleasant thing to be travelling on an afternoon wherein the sun blessed its rays upon an otherwise dreary landscape, decorated with the pure white evidence of last evening’s snowfall. The carriage’s ever-constant rattling could have been described as soothing were your mind not fully occupied with reiterating the contents of the letter you received a few days prior, the sole item responsible for this excursion in the first place. The scraps of parchment had been inscribed with your father’s familiar hand, inviting you to return home for the holiday season. A first since your departure five long years ago.

Your father had offered no explanation for the sudden summons and your mind could conjure none, only that perhaps it was time. But it mattered little, for home was someplace you had sorely missed, having not seen its gates since you were eighteen. Home meant the strict yet loving countenance of your mother. Home meant the comfort of your brother, and the blissful hours spent reading next to one another in the expansive library that carried the scent of earthy wood.

And despite your attempts to forget this pertinent fact, home also meant the possibility of Mr. Jung.

“Miss, we will be arriving at Briarwood Hall within half an hour.” The carriage driver’s gruff voice broke through your almost-decade-old memories of a quick-witted smile and enchanting laughter.

“Thank you,” you replied, folding your gloved hands into your lap like the proper young lady your parents so dearly wished you to be.

You returned your gaze to the familiar rolling hills that spread out endlessly as they always had, remaining unchanged even after all the years. You’d once tried to steal away across them, to find perhaps a wild sort of freedom on the other side that your childhood self had imagined and yearned for. That was a past long whisked away. Now, the raised juts stood silently, melting into the distance as your carriage sped past to take you home.

“Miss, oh miss, you’ve finally returned!”

A stout woman, her voice blaring across the stones, came rushing from the main house almost the second the horse hooves touched the front landing. The driver came round the side, unfastening the heavy door to reveal her familiarly wrinkled face to your smiling visage.

“Bessie!” As soon as you had absconded from the carriage, you reached out for her with eager arms to wrap her in a tight embrace. Perhaps, no, it was most certainly unseemly for an employee to behave in such a way towards one of the ladies of the manor, but Bessie occupied a special, extraordinary status. It was she who had mostly raised you as a child, when your mother was occupied with planning elaborate parties or seeking out suitable marriage matches for your brother. It was also she who always snuck you an extra slice of tart after the dinner things had been cleared away, despite your mother’s repeated warnings that it wouldn’t do to eat after sundown, for fear of putting on unnecessary weight. “I missed you so, Bessie.”

“I’ve missed you jus’ as much,” she drawled, the accent slipping out heavy in her elation. “You’ve gott’n so beautiful.” Bessie sighed, her fiery curls bouncing as you broke the embrace to stand before her. “Old me, I just gained more wrinkles.” But her smile said she didn’t quite mind all that much.

“You had better beware - wrinkles mean you are losing your ‘god-blessed youthful beauty’,” you teased, knowing your shared dislike for that particular phrase of your mother’s.

“What a tragedy.” Bessie pressed a hand to her chest as if she were absolutely devastated, more than anything in the entire world.

It was then that you heard a burst of sound that your mind could only comprehend as wild noise before logic kicked in to impart that it was laughter. It was an achingly familiar sound, one that had been alienated from your ears for so long.

“Is that my brother? He is here?!” You asked, fondness growing exponentially. Your brother, four years older than you, had always been your idol in childhood. Always kind, especially when you had been freshly scolded or scraped due to carelessness. Always steadfast. But ever since he turned eighteen, he spent his years in the cities, sometimes nearby, sometimes much farther away and even rarely overseas, perpetrating a most lucrative business in the rare books and art trade. Too lucrative in your opinion, for it kept him from returning home for more than once or, if fortune chose to be kind, twice a year. He hadn’t been there when you left Briarwood Hall either. The prospect of being properly reunited after nearly six years gave you an uncontainable excitement as you swung your eyes to the upper levels of the manor.

Bessie chuckled fondly. “Yes, he’s here. Go on, my lady.”

“I shall find you later to chat!” you promised before flying off, bunching up the heavy fabrics of your dress as best you could to not impede movement. You didn’t need to ask where he was hiding – you knew there to be only one place he could be. Up the slightly creaking stairs, past the spotless tapestry and endless hallway of shut doors, and there it was.

The library.

A massive room, two storied and grandiose in every way. Your father was a collector, as well as devout devourer of books. This had translated into such passions in your brother and you, choosing to spend most of your free days huddled in the various window seats and plush sofas, too absorbed to feel the ache in the arms that cradled the day’s heavy volume of choice. This space you had sorely longed for too.

Not bothering to announce your presence with knocking, you flung open the carved doors. “Brother!” You called, voice carrying a bit of an echo. “I have returned!”

There was a clatter from the second floor, as if a thickly bound novel had been dropped upon the carpet. You didn’t bother to stifle your automatic laughter at what was undoubtedly a classic move of your brother’s. As you waited for him to descend the stairs, you flit to the bookshelves that lined the southern wall. The row fifth from the bottom was your favorite. After noticing it was exactly at your eye level when you were around ten, your parents had taken it upon themselves to relocate all the tomes on nature and birds to that particular shelf. You could recite the order by heart if so wished. As you slid a finger down the spine of An Encyclopedia of Wild Birds, you heard the sound of smart footsteps on wood.

From your position, the staircase was obscured from view. Your excitement at being reunited with the books was almost enough to keep you where you were, but you eventually managed to drag yourself away, skirt trailing behind you. You placed a single hand on the carved wooden figurine of the eagle that served as a starting point for the stair beam, and turned past the wall, head raised in elation.

Instantly, your breath caught.

This was not your brother.

No, your brother did not have a jawline that was as sharp and smooth as cool marble sculpted in the hands of a master craftsman. Your brother did not have burnt amber eyes that stole your autonomy, held you in place while you fought for composure. This easy, yet heart-wrenching smile punctuated by a slight, habitual lick of pink lips could only belong to one gentleman.

“M-Mr. Jung.” The name dropped like a stolen sweet from your half-parted mouth.

“You’ve returned.”

And there it was. A voice you had only imagined in your dreams but could never have captured exactly the melodic timbre of. It swept through your nerves like wildfire, strumming your heart until it mimicked the swift gallop of a stallion. For a moment, it felt as if you had been thrust back half a decade, as if it had not been five years since your last meeting but merely a fortnight.

You immediately felt the need to establish some sort of boundary between the two of you, lest you be consumed. “Yes, sir,” you said firmly, respectfully as if he were no more than a rare guest, rather than a presence you’d known since childhood. It occurred to you that this was the first time addressing him as sir. It felt strange, yet suitable for the adults you had become. If he noticed the shift, he didn’t reveal such knowledge.

“When did you arrive?” He continued his temporarily paused descent, leaving you space to admire his white dress shirt, hidden behind a dark, bespoke waistcoat. His tie was eclectically colored as always, highlighting the long column of his neck. Every aspect was impeccably styled, right down to the cuffs tightened around his thin wrists.

“A few minutes prior.”

“Just in time, then.”

He reached the last step, remaining on it to stand in front of you with a closeness you hadn’t expected. You nearly lost all the nerve you’d gathered when you instinctively inhaled the scent of him: clean and crisp. There was a time when that alone would have ruined you. But now you stood your ground, not moving an inch. You were no longer the teenaged girl who regarded him as something indubitably precious. You had become a woman in your own right and refused to be intimidated despite whatever attraction you still held towards him.

“Wi—”

“Sister!” A voice sounded behind the closed wooden doors and you whipped your head away from the unspoken tension. “Are you in there?”

“Yes!” You replied, seeing this as a stroke of luck, a chance for escape. Turning back to Mr. Jung, you had every intention of making an excuse to depart but the unfathomable expression in his gaze roused something quiet inside you, a curiosity despite reason’s warning that it was ill placed. It made you attempt to busy your hands by brushing away an errant piece of hair, but it fell back in place a moment later.

He smiled again. “Ah, seems that is my cue to take my leave. Best not to interrupt your sibling reunion.” However, instead of walking past you, Mr. Jung lifted a hand. He found the fallen hair and you felt the heat of his fingertips as he tucked it behind your ear. It was something he used to do often when you were left alone by chance, and the simple action threatened a rush of memories. But you were no longer children, and if he had attempted something like this in a less private setting... You could only shudder at the consequences. “I’m hosting a party at my manor two nights from now for Christmas. I do hope you’ll attend.” His eyes flickered with the undecipherable. “Perhaps then, we can have a reunion of our own.”

“Perhaps,” you echoed nonchalantly before pulling away. The shock of encountering him had now worn off enough for rational thought. Along those lines, you strolled towards the doors that opened a second later to reveal the exact person you longed for. “Namjoon!”

“Welcome home!” Namjoon’s dimples flashed as he rushed towards you, long coat swinging as he scooped you into his strong arms. He squeezed you tightly, choking the breath out of your lungs but you didn’t require it. At least, not in this moment.

“Joon, I’ve missed you so much.” Your childhood nickname slipped out easily as he set you down, his wide grin mimicking yours.

“And I you.” His next course of action was to affectionately ruffle your hair, jostling the careful updo you’d worked on to present to your mother.

“Ahh!” You cried instinctively, tearing away from his large hand in mock outrage. The movement sent you careening backwards, right into a solid chest and two arms that held you still. Surrounded by that scent, you turned your head to find yourself in frightening proximity to Mr. Jung’s inviting mouth, slightly open in surprised mirth. Refusing to play his game, you pointedly diverted your gaze and pulled yourself free of him.

Namjoon was laughing as Mr. Jung let you go without a fight. You couldn’t quite see him behind you, but you certainly felt it when he began to walk towards the door and his shoulder brushed past yours. It was a highly inappropriate touch, but you were too distracted to rebuke him when you heard his whisper. Just a faint, breathy, “welcome home.” Then, with a friendly nod to Namjoon, his coat fluttering behind him, he was gone. Leaving you irrevocably flustered in his wake.

That evening, dinner was lavish to celebrate your return. All your most favored meals, meticulously and lovingly prepared, were laid out upon the table for your choosing. You sipped burgundy wine from your glass as chatter flowed easily between Namjoon and you, while your parents watched on in fondness.

“It has truly been too long since we were four,” your father declared loudly as he finished his drink. “We are glad to have you back home.”

“I’m glad to have returned.” You naturally made for the smallest fork for your main course but caught your mother’s eye just in time. Reminding yourself of the proper utensil, you gave her a small nod and took the correct fork into your hand. “If only to see how long your beard has gotten in my absence!” You could not resist the tease, even if it earned you a glare the fork had avoided.

“Oh, you!” Your father let out a fond chortle. “Quite a sight, is it not?”

“Moving on from such unscrupulous conversation...” Your mother cut in, clearly not as enamored with the beard as your father. “Namjoon. Was that Hoseok I caught a glimpse of earlier in the foyer?”

“Yes, it was. Oh, yes, it actually slipped my mind to mention earlier, but Hoseok is holding his Christmas party in a couple of days. I plan to be in attendance,” Namjoon said, sliding his knife into a potato.

Mother nodded in approval. “Will it be a weeklong affair again?”

“Yes, so I’ll take the white carriage with me.”

Mother returned to her roast beef, cutting a thin, perfectly bite sized piece. “If you’ve spoken to Mr. Jung, I assume you’ve heard the news,” she said casually, not even bothering to look up.

“The news?” You were the one to speak this time. He hadn’t mentioned any news in the limited interaction you had. Curiosity was natural, you justified.

“That he is to be married, of course.”

You nearly choked on your mouthful of vegetables. “M-Married?”

“To Miss Rose Ingram.” Mother tutted, choosing not to acknowledge your shock as she nodded in approval at your father, who smiled his own agreement. “Such a lovely lady, well-educated, well-mannered,” Mother paused to spare you a glance, “and rather beautiful. It’s a wonderful match for him.”

“Of course,” you mumbled, taking a hasty sip of your drink to soothe the food stuck in your throat. The Ingrams’ eldest daughter. You had heard the name mentioned before, as one of the most respected families among the aristocrats. It was a wonderful match indeed. Your family merely belonged to the landed gentry. Simply by birth alone, she was already at a rank you could never reach. Yes, this was the truth - no matter what silly fantasies your childhood mind had conjured, he was undoubtedly meant to be married one day to another. It had just never struck you that that day would be so imminent.

What did Rose look like? The faceless figure in your mind slowly took shape as you contemplated – the high cheekbones, the tresses of luxurious hair, the petite, upturned mouth that laughed politely yet in a manner so charming, one couldn’t help but fall in love. Is that how she had made Mr. Jung propose? Is that how she had stolen his heart away?

Before you could stop yourself, you were speaking. “Um...” You started over the clattering of cutlery, causing all three pairs of eyes to turn in your direction. “I was invited to Mr. Jung’s party as well.” You normally despised these social events, but you suddenly wanted to confirm with your own eyes that he was involved with this Rose. Yes, damn it, you wanted to know, despite all your warnings to yourself and your traitorous heart to behave. “I... would like to attend.” You were afraid Mother would reply with an instantaneous no, after all the embarrassment you’d caused at her parties as a young teen.

But it seemed that things had changed. “Oh?” Mother’s eyebrows raised almost as high as her glass as she contemplated. “I suppose it would certainly be a suitable opportunity for you to readjust to life here again. The Parks must have taught you well after all these years.” It seemed she hadn’t expected you to volunteer for such an event in this lifetime.

“Yes, they have been kind to me.” You thought of their youngest son, the darling Jimin who had been under your care from the age of seven when you arrived at their estate. He was a sweet boy with bright eyes and such a gentle soul, who had wept so profusely at the prospect of your leaving him. You had become his favorite governess, and it easily pulled a frown to your lips to be reminded of his sorrow. But the arrangement between your families had never been a permanent one.

“Hm.” At the noise, you looked into your mother’s eyes, wrinkles decorating the corners no matter how she attempted to stave them off. For once, she seemed mildly satisfied. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow, we shall head into the city and purchase you new dresses.”

“Thank you,” you replied, grateful. A small smile played on your lips all throughout the rest of the meal as your heart thumped in anticipation.

Two days later, as you stepped from the white carriage, one hand supported by Mr. Jung’s butler, you had reformed your motives for this upcoming week: you would (try) not let this engagement change things between you. After all, you had already resolved to let whatever feelings within you go. You would be delighted for him. You would use all the manners and the propriety you had learned from your time away to behave respectfully, as was expected from a woman of your stature. You were here to enjoy yourself, as much as one could at these things.

You also had something else to occupy your time: your mother had entrusted you with the Very Important task to find a suitor of your own. At the age of twenty-three, it was becoming increasingly obvious that you were still unmarried, while those younger than you had already begun families of their own. While you wouldn’t say you felt lonely, certainly not while you were working with Jimin and the Parks, you were beginning to think that perhaps a husband would not be such burden after all.

“I shall take your cases to your room, sir and lady.” Mr. Jung’s butler bowed deeply as Namjoon gave him a nod.

“Thank you.” Namjoon came around the side to where you stood.

“That was a quick ride,” you commented as you fixed your skirts. You hadn’t remembered Mr. Jung’s estate being so close, only about an hour away.

“Yes, rather convenient if you’ve forgotten anything.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sending poor George back for something soon enough.” You waved your thanks to said George, your family’s appointed carriage driver.

Namjoon laughed. “That is true enough. Shall we enter?”“Yes, let’s.” You linked your arm through the one he offered and allowed yourself to be escorted inside the opulent mansion. You had been here once or twice when Namjoon had first met Mr. Jung when they were about fourteen, but the novelty remained as your memory faded in its stead. With one hand, you lifted the heavy tresses of your skirt as you crossed the entry hall. The interior was eclectically decorated, a mixture of more contemporary styles and the antiques Mr. Jung’s father had been fond of. “Namjoon, do many people attend these parties?”

“A fair amount. A dozen or more, usually. It grows every year as his wealth does,” Namjoon replied with a laugh. “Come, they’ll be in the drawing room. The privy is down the hallway if you require it.”

The noise of chatter and mirth swelled as you approached the open double doors. You reminded yourself of the appropriate topics for small chatter (evidently not the flaws you’d found in Christian doctrine, as you learned in one very awkward conversation years before) and inhaled a breath as deeply as your tight corset would allow. Namjoon issued a reassuring squeeze upon your arm as he turned and then you were faced with a room full of faces, some recognizable, others completely new.

Most of the party was too involved in their conversation to notice the new arrivals, which you found a blessing. “Namjoon!” A tall man near the door seemed to be the only one of few to realize you had arrived. When he turned towards you, you actually took an extra breath, utterly stunned by his statuesque looks. “Merry Christmas. It has truly been too long!”

“Seokjin, old friend,” Namjoon greeted warmly as you let his arm go, so he could give his friend a firm handshake. “How have you been?”

“Well, quite well. Business is booming, thanks to you. Jungkook extends his greetings. He could not attend this year, but he looks forward to seeing you again soon.” Seokjin smiled even wider, those plush lips practically too full to be real. Suddenly, he switched his attention onto you, who had been standing politely aside trying quite hard not to stare. His eyes were as warm and inviting as his grin, and you found your own smile growing under his kind scrutiny. “And who is this beautiful young lady? Have you been hiding a wife from me all this time, Namjoon?”

Namjoon shook his head in good humor. “No, this is my younger sister. Sister, this is Seokjin Jeon.”

You dropped into a polite curtsey that Mr. Jeon returned with a short bow. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” You had heard his name before, but never had the occasion to meet him. The Jeons were a highly regarded family, both Seokjin and his younger brother, Jungkook.

“Likewise, Miss Kim. It’s a shame Namjoon hadn’t introduced us until now. My eyes would have been blessed all the sooner.”

You took his words at face value, feeling rather flattered and unsure whether you should embrace the heat in your cheeks or try to rid yourself of it. “I’ve… been away.” Was it odd for you to mention that you had been employed? Young ladies, especially those from fortunate families like yours, were so rarely forced into work unless there had been extenuating circumstances. And yours were unusual, to say the least. Was it best not to mention it at all, in case it inspired further questioning?

Namjoon cleared his throat, as if perhaps noticing your conundrum and deciding to rescue you. “Seokjin, I forgot to mention earlier, but have you heard about the latest art auction overseas?”

Thankful for the distraction, you took the opportunity to excuse yourself and to maneuver to the display cabinet, where a collection of fine glass figurines lived. You also had a chance to survey the room for the first time since your arrival. There were a few familiar faces; you knew them as the children of your parents’ social friends. Others were utter strangers. But they all carried themselves with an air of superiority that seemed inbred. You had never quite felt more like an imposter in your life.

A peal of foreign laughter caught your attention.

When you found its source, you wished you had ignored it instead. For this had to be Miss Rose Ingram, who revealed herself to be every bit as poised as your imagination had conjured. She sat daintily in an armchair, posture and dress pristine. Her cheeks were dusted with the finest rogue, eyes sparkling while she laughed behind a slender hand.

Beside her, you found the host of the party, the one who had invited you here yet the one you were most wary of encountering. Mr. Jung was leaning leisurely against Rose’s chair, enamoured in conversation with a few other guests. You despised how his vest flattered him, fitting against his lean figure. It seemed he hadn’t noticed you yet; perhaps that was for the best.

But what was impossible not to notice was the way Rose openly claimed him in front of the onlooking crowd. Though they never touched, which would have been incredibly inappropriate in current public company, she used her hand to cross over him as she spoke like a metaphorical cage. Despite your best attempts not to cast your gaze in that direction, your eyes seemed just as determined to be disobedient as they indulged your troublesome curiosity.

“They make quite the pair.”

“Truly. I haven’t a clue which of them I’m more envious of.”

You had caught onto the hushed conversation of two nearby ladies, lazily fanning themselves as they passed judgement. A favored pastime, of course.

“The wedding is likely to be soon, then.”

“Rose will undoubtedly have the most gorgeous dress. I bet it shall use yards of lace. The most expensive and most delicate, as she always insists.”

Your lips pressed together firmly as you imagined them in the church, standing before an officiant and exchanging the vows to seal their fates together until death. He would be smiling as he always did, as he was doing at this moment. She would be effortlessly beautiful and decadent to suit him. And you... You would be happy for them, you reaffirmed as your eyes swept upon them once more. But that did not mean you wished you listen to more of this chatter.

You were about to move away when a soft voice came from your right, directed very clearly towards you.

“They are rather lovely.”

This was exactly what you did not wish to engage in. Hearing about the couple was one thing, but engaging in the discourse yourself... You cursed your dire luck but knew it was required of you to entertain your new conversation partner as you turned – only to find a young man with lightly styled dark hair and soft eyes where you had expected a socialite.

“The instruments, I mean.”

“The... instruments?” You looked back at where Mr. Jung sat, but this time saw past him to the piano and violin that had been carefully placed upon a decadent carpet. “Oh. Yes, um, they are beautiful. Do you play?”

“Yes, occasionally. When Hoseok has had enough to drink, he will sometimes demand fervently to hear a song,” the man said with a subtle, but fond smile that revealed he did not mind this at all. “I suppose if I began to charge him for such services, I would amass a fortune.”

You let out a laugh. “You are close then?” To use Mr. Jung’s first name, they had to have been.

“Yes, we-”

“Ah, Yoongi, this is where you’ve been!”

It seemed you’d summoned the man himself. Mr. Jung approached you with a welcoming smile. From behind him, you just caught a glimpse of Miss Ingram’s frown before he was close enough to force your attentions all onto him. Not that that would have been a difficult task to begin with. “Miss Kim, you’ve arrived.”

“Yes, Namjoon and I arrived a little while ago.”

“And you’ve made yourself busy, it seems. Have you met Mr. Yoongi Min before? What a rare sight, him socializing so openly with a stranger. You must be quite special.”

Mr. Min was very clearly unamused with this introduction. “Thank you, Hoseok. Have you already begun drinking at this time in the afternoon?” But his features softened when he turned to you to offer the customary bow. “Miss Kim, was it? A pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

Mr. Min had a curious aura about him, one that intrigued you and interested you. Mother would approve of him, having come from the Min family, a name you’ve heard briefly before. That was one obstacle out of the way. And he was attractive, with his mild mannerisms and sweet smile, which was another. But there was nothing urgent in this desire to know him better; instead, it was calm, a slow pull that you were unaccustomed to. Perhaps that was what you needed most.

Mr. Jung surveyed you both with something inexplicable in his eyes. “Ah, Miss Kim, would you like some tea? The carriage ride here must have been chilly. I shall hail the butler.”

“Thank you, but there is no need for such trouble.” You’d been meaning to visit the privy anyhow. Your hands felt slightly sticky from your gloves and you wished for some soap and water. “Please excuse me for a few moments.”

The air outside of the drawing room felt much cooler as you stepped into the hall and took a deep breath. Putting on the proper mannerisms for socializing was nothing short of exhausting, especially when coupled with the intense pressure from your corset. The sun had already fallen in the sky, casting darkness through the large windows of the manor and the hallway. Lit lamps lined the walls to guide your way.

You walked quickly, remembering Namjoon’s directions from earlier. But it was when you turned the corner that you collided into something firm. “Aah!”

It was a lady, her opulent skirts ruffling as she stumbled back from the impact. The drink in her hand splashed noisily, overflowing over the rim of the cup to splatter onto the fabric. “My dress! You’ve ruined my dress!”

That voice...! Oh, no. The woman who stood before you, a stain blossoming on her pink skirt, was none other than Miss Rose Ingram. Her face was first morphed into shock, then that gave way to outrage.

“My apologies!” you said hastily, immediately making for your handkerchief to offer it to her. “Let me pay for a replacement.”

Miss Ingram merely scoffed, batting away your hands as the white cloth fell to the floor. “Please.” She openly measured you, hairstyle, makeup powders, outfit and all with her eyes. “You likely couldn’t afford the bill.” Her voice had turned sharp, like a whip crack that lashed shame upon you. “This is exactly why I instructed Hoseok not to extend any invites out of pity.” She pushed past you, a deep frown on her scarlet.

You stood there, unmoving. You knew you were meant to be insulted, or hurt, but all you could truly focus on was the ease in which she’d called his first name – all but confirming their engagement.

It was after an exceedingly stilted lunch the next day that the entire party retired to the drawing room once more for hot tea. You had tried to the absolute best of your ability to be courteous and friendly to the strangers that sat on either side of you throughout the meal while simultaneously attempting to recall the proper etiquette for drinking soup (with as straight a back as one could muster; with only a medium sized spoon). You most certainly garnered some strange looks in the process, which you were currently attempting to forget as you bundled your skirts around you and sank into the plush armchair nearest to Namjoon - your safe space.

"Alright, sister?" Namjoon leaned over to mutter, his quiet voice juxtaposed against the blaring Mr. Jeon who was currently enthralling the party with his tale of valor, also known as the time he fought off a most vicious chicken. Evidently, it had the devil in its beady eyes.

"Managing." You reassured him with a tight-lipped smile as you shifted, intending on giving Mr. Jeon your attention but that only put a certain gentleman into your eyeline. The exact one you've been subtly avoiding this entire time. Mr. Jung was the picture of mirth, completely enraptured by Mr. Jeon’s heroics and rewarding him with roaring laughter that had his head tilted back, profile absolutely striking. You had cherished memories of witty quips that had invoked similar reactions from him before in the past; he and Namjoon tended to be the only ones to appreciate your oft inappropriate wit.

You hadn’t realized you were openly staring until Miss Ingram cut in with a scowl on her dyed lips. She exaggeratedly maneuvered her face in front of Mr. Jung’s to interrupt your vision, reminding you he was to become someone else’s husband. Her husband (for that, you pitied him a bit). You shouldn’t have forgotten this crucial fact though, you scolded yourself.

“Please excuse me. I have brought the desserts.” One of Mr. Jung’s butlers rolled in a cart laden with sweets to compliment the tea. It reminded you that your own cup had been emptied long ago. You had been nervously sipping at the drink to stave off your silence as you let others speak over you for fear of embarrassing yourself further. It would have been customary to call for one of the maids for more, but many of the party had left their chairs to survey the treats. Not wishing to be a bother, you decided to find your own way to the teapot.

Walking was quite a challenge in your skirt, enormous even though you never wore the customary frame beneath it for your dislike of the thing. Still, you almost managed to make it to your destination without injury. Almost.

An errant chair had been left tilted, sticking out in all the commotion. You had been too focused on the tea to notice. Your foot rammed into wood with a shock of pain. Stifling a dramatic cry, you stumbled, suddenly falling forward. Thankfully your mind worked quickly to tell you to stabilize yourself with a hand on the nearby table before further damage could be done. The cup rattled in its saucer, but that was much preferred to shattering on the floor. You allowed yourself a sigh of relief.

Then a sudden heat made your ribcage tighten again in anticipation.

“Miss Kim. Are you alright?”

Namjoon had asked a similar question before but having the words on Mr. Jung’s tongue took on a dangerous quality. You had now registered that it was his hand splayed unapologetically on the small of your back that was the cause of your fluttering stomach, the blossoming heat that was spreading through you by the second. How easily you felt it through the layers of your dress. The rest of the room was still too occupied to notice you two in the relative corner, but that didn’t mean it would remain so.

“Mr. Jung.” Your voice shook as you dropped it to a sotto whisper. “Are you attempting to cause a scandal?” A betrothed man and a single woman of your ages touching at a public event was nothing short of a raging wildfire that would consume both your social reputations in its wake.

“Mm, would you like me to?”

Gods. You were certain he could see it reflected in your gaze - the impropriety, the utter truth that despite yourself and the logic you had acquired... something in you liked this. You drank in his bold words like fine aged wine, though you were already besotted by his doubly illicit touch. What in the hells was happening to you? Why did you wish to shatter every unspoken rule you’d learned and instead replace them with knowledge of his lips?

“Hoseok!”

Mr. Jeon’s voice had you both startling.

Mr. Jung’s hand fell away immediately, and you realized it had really only been mere seconds since your transgression had taken place. You had almost committed something irreversible, undoing absolutely everything you’d worked to obtain in society. No. You had to escape this temptation. And the door wasn’t too far away. “Excuse me,” you muttered before hurtling yourself towards the exit without sparing a single glance backwards.

The commotion faded with distance.

It did not take long before you were left with only the beat of your noisy heart in your ears and your footsteps echoing off the hardwood floor.

Damn him, you thought with some deflective venom. How were you to interpret his actions when they were so infuriatingly puzzling? You hadn’t a clue why he was being so… forward. Was it simply a case of your misinterpretation? You were his closest friend’s younger sister; it was in his best interest to be friendly towards you. Perhaps his friendship merely extended to such ridiculous notions. Perhaps it was amusing to tease you, to watch you flounder for sanity. Were you so entertaining as to risk such scandal?

Turning this conundrum in your mind as you wandered aimlessly down the halls, you soon realized you had committed a grave misstep. You hadn’t taken notice of where you were going, having fled the room in such a haste. Currently, you found yourself in a section of the mansion previously unexplored. None of Mr. Jung's household staff were around for you to query either. Where was to be your destination now? The bath seemed to be most prudent, so you could splash a bit of cool water on your cheeks to calm what remained of desire. But a few minutes of further walking proved that even that room would elude you.

Eventually, several long moments later, you stumbled upon a lone, winding staircase. There was a door behind the stairs, but you felt drawn to the steps themselves. At a slow pace, you approached it, ran your fingers on the smooth railing as some familiarity sparked in your mind for unknown reasons. It simply felt as if you had been here before, as if upstairs was exactly where you sought.

Being no stranger to trusting your gut instinct, and also being highly unwilling to return to the rest of the party, you began to ascend the flight.

The higher up you went, the more you seemed to recall in the form of hazy memories. They came to you like rounded edges of something you couldn't quite fully grasp, but sought more of as you dragged your skirts across the floor. A hallway awaited you, lined with doors. But there was just the one that interested you. It was before this inconspicuous wooden door that you finally paused and stared. The thought struck you that trespassing was no simple crime, though you hadn’t been told any explicit rules upon your arrival. And your curiosity begged to be sated.

You placed a hand on the doorknob, still yet undecided.

“Lost, Miss?”

The first thought in your mind was a curse.

The second was to swallow that curse and rely on plausible deniability, lest you be branded a hysteric or reported to the authorities.

The third thought... whatever it was simply melted away into nothingness when you turned and found Mr. Jung’s cool gaze focused solely on yours. He stood two doors away, not a strand of hair out of place, infuriatingly calm in his suit of rich brown.

“Yes,” you breathed, more exhale than answer. “Exactly that.”

He remained silent. No rebukes, no witty retort. Instead, he strolled past you to the door as if nothing were out of the ordinary. With enviable ease, he placed his broad hand upon yours, which shook more than you would have preferred. Together, if this could be considered such, you turned the knob you had so hesitated over.

The door opened to the sound of a crackling fireplace. The dim light cast crackling shadows on the patterned chaise, extending to the opposite wall. He gestured for you to enter and you did, watching the embers spark from burning wood. This place... you thought as you turned your head, had to be part of his private chambers. Under normal circumstances, a place kept strictly separate from the outside world.

In lieu of following, Mr. Jung leant against the doorframe with his arms crossed. As if he had to savor the very sight of you. “Yet it seems this is exactly where you were meant to be.”

“I... I have been here before, if that’s what you mean.” Yes, it was too familiar. Though the placement of the furniture had been changed, you seemed to recall the cream-colored walls, trimmed with dark auburn. The same ancient grandfather clock remained in the corner, ticking steadily away.

Mr. Jung pushed off the wall. “Yes, just the once when you were... thirteen, was it? Stealing into my rooms in search of your brother, even when you had been explicitly told to behave.”

“Oh.” That aspect you had completely forgotten. “Please accept my apologies. It was completely unseemly of me.”

Mr. Jung chuckled as he walked past you to a dresser pushed against the farthest wall. “An apology is not what I seek. I know too well you’ve never been fond of those.”

You rubbed the pad of your thumb nervously on the inside of your fingers. “Perhaps not, but it is what’s proper.”

A drawer clattered. You heard fumbling, fingernails on wood.

“And since when have you been so concerned with such things?”

“... Since always, sir.”

“Now, there is little point in lying to me. I had imagined we were much friendlier than that.”

“I am not lying, sir.”

The drawer scraped shut.

“Then they never would have sent you away, no?”

His words, irrefutable as they were, irritated you like no other – not only because they were true, but they proved that he understood you far better than you let yourself believe. No matter his knowledge, he was not yours, after all. Even as he steadily approached you with something clutched in his hands. “Turn, Miss Kim.”

Despite yourself, you obeyed, twisting towards the fire that seemed to leap from the grates. A gleaming mirror hung above the mantle, rested in an ornate frame. You saw how your lips trembled; the hand you brought to adjust your collar was no steadier.

“Let me.”

It had to have been the spirit possessing you that was responsible for this temporary insanity, but you did not resist when he stepped into the space directly behind you, into the folds of your skirt that parted eagerly for him. His chest was mere inches from your back. This distance that could only be described as too intimate was made even more so when his fingers found the fabric of the collar to smooth down the wrinkles.

You sought distraction. Anything. “It was necessary.” Another half-truth, but this one stemmed from the pure desire to defy him at least verbally when your body seemed unable. “For me to leave.”

“Hah, then we are not of the same opinion.” You watched his jaw set as you connected eyes through the mirror. “Then again, when were we ever?”

“Never.” It was true. Between you and he, slightly rude banter had been a constant in your brief meetings. But that seemed an entire lifetime ago. You cleared your throat, a failed attempt to assuage the thick tension settling over you both. “Mr. Jung, your guests shall start to wonder where their host has gone if you remain here.” Your soon-to-be wife among them.

“Let them wonder.” His fingers returned to the column of your neck, but now something glittered between them. He brought it over your bare skin, guiding with a gentleness you had not expected. You felt the coolness of a silver metal, but that wasn’t what caused shivers to work their way down your spine.

“What is this?” A necklace. That was easy enough to decipher. A gorgeous piece of jewelry, much less overwrought than what was currently in style, which meant it was exactly to your tastes. A single jewel hung from the chain: a crimson stone that seemed to have swallowed the fire to contain its flames in its intricately cut edges.

“Five years is quite some time,” he murmured in a dipped tone that was unfairly tender. It was not quite the response you sought but one, nonetheless. “Many things change, as the seasons do. But some things remain ever constant.”

“I disagree. Change is the very nature of life, Mr. Jung.” You would not be swept away by his words, nor the way in which his fingertips brushed the nape of your neck. “Everything in this world changes. Furniture is rearranged. Estates are built. Children grow older. They mature, and eventually they find suitable partners to marry.”

Abruptly, Mr. Jung’s fingers dropped away at your last word. “Do they? Marry?” He asked.

The now fastened necklace hung freely over the front of your dress, a lone spark of color among the white. It was beautiful, but no longer hauntingly so, as you had shattered the moment and its enchanting quality. Still, it fit you as if it had been custom made. Yet he remained not yours.

“You should know better than anyone that they do.”

A silence followed your statement, one he did not deny.

“I should take my leave,” you suddenly declared. Staying here in the mouth of the beast itself was becoming too much to take. You had reached your limit, which you should have met long ago.

He made no movement to stop you as you shook yourself to life, mobilizing stiffened legs to carry you to the door.

“I came across it overseas, a year or so back. It reminded me of you.”

Your heart clenched with hope that did not belong to you.

“...Goodbye, Mr. Jung.”

You shut the door.

Later that night, in the safety of solitude and darkness, you would admit to yourself that you found it difficult to take the necklace off. You fancied it, the color, the shape, the cool feeling of it beneath your fingertips. Evidence of an affection that had existed at one time, even if it were only temporarily. It was the possibility that was impossible to let go. That led to your decision to tuck it beneath your nightclothes, keeping it as close as a secret.

The third day of the party was marked by Mr. Jung’s extreme boredom at having been trapped indoors all this time by the endless snow. While it made for gorgeous scenery, what he truly desired was for it to cease so he could indulge in the fresh air. Thus, when the snow finally took a momentary pause after breakfast, Mr. Jung enthusiastically declared it was time for horseback riding.

Those of the party that wished to participate were led to the stables, you among them. It seemed Bessie had had the good foresight to pack your riding dress or else you would have been struggling as Miss Ingram did in her enormous skirt. Your allotted steed was one with a gorgeously dark coat, shiny and well-kept. He snorted fondly when you held your hand up to him, allowing you to rub.

“Mr. Jung, could you please assist me?” Miss Ingram’s voice was a whine as she stood beside her mare. She had insisted on the horse with the whitest coat, citing it only fitting for her outfit. “I am afraid I’ll step in dirt or worse.”

You watched him smile at her with a knot in your stomach. “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that.” He offered her a hand, which she took without hesitation.

“Do you require any assistance, Miss Kim?” Mr. Min spoke softly as he came up behind you, leading his own stallion.

You shook your head. “No, thank you. I’ve been riding since I was young.” You knew your way around a horse, for it was truly the only activity that allowed you any amount of freedom. But the fact that he had offered warmed your heart. Mr. Min seemed to understand how out of place you felt at these events. For the past few days, he had made a definite effort to seek you out for conversations during the after-dinner wine and miscellaneous games. There was no small, mindless chatter to be made with Mr. Min. Instead, he taught you about the fine arts, which he had studied extensively. It was a perfect distraction from the inseparable couple that dominated the party and your mind.

“You may be even better than I, then,” Mr. Min admitted as he hoisted himself onto the saddle. “I rarely ride.”

“Oh?”

“I mostly spend my time indoors. Studying or practicing music. It’s been quite a few years since I was last on a horse.”

You couldn’t quite understand that. Even at the Parks, you constantly brought Jimin outside to the nearby grasslands, to picnic or to catch insects of interest. There was too much adventure waiting outside, you believed. But to each their own.

“Shall I show you how it’s done then?” You teased.

Mr. Min smiled, exposing his teeth and a flash of pink. “Please do.”

“All ready?” Mr. Jung, who had mounted his own horse after assisting Miss Ingram, lead the group with a large sweep of his arm. “Come on, then!”

Off you went, one horse among the six in total. You could weep tears of joy from the welcome rush of wind sweeping through the strands of hair that fell from your loose updo. The steady beat of your horse’s gallops beneath you was as soothing as it was thrilling. The necklace beneath your dress thumped against your heart to your rhythm. You could almost forget the cold altogether from the winter sun beaming upon the snow. This was the only way to live. In motion, you felt complete.

When you felt you had ridden far enough, you urged the horse into a trot before you looked back from whence you came. Namjoon and Mr. Jeon were frolicking in the snow, no doubt racing each other. You waved to your brother, who returned the gesture with enthusiasm. Back in the distance, you could just barely make out Mr. Min struggling to maintain control. The sight amused you despite yourself, and you decided to see if he required any assistance. Changing directions, you trod the path you had taken before.

You soon noticed another poor rider as you drew closer to Mr. Min. Several yards away, Miss Ingram, who was riding to one side due to her skirt, appeared seconds away from falling face-first into the snow. That was perhaps a sight you would purchase a rather expensive ticket to see. But that thought was stopped short when a speedy horse slowed and approached her, carrying none other than her betrothed. You could clearly see her relief as Mr. Jung helped steady her, then took hold of her reins so he could guide her along at a leisurely pace.

Your mouth suddenly felt dry. You coughed, wetting your lips in habit. When you returned your gaze to Mr. Min, he had unsteadily reached you. He gave you a small smile. “This is more difficult than I remember.”

You could not have put it better yourself.

After dinner, you decided to peruse, with Mr. Jung’s permission, his library. While his collection was not nearly as extravagant as your father’s at home, you found joy in the cleverly designed space. You ran your finger along the seam of a tome as you took in the scent of parchment. You were deciding between two volumes, ones Mr. Jung had brought back from his travels overseas. Finally settling on the ornithology studies, you clutched the heavy book and made your way to the window seat.

“Hmm...” As you flipped the pages, you absently hummed the piece that Mr. Min had played on the piano last night, the elegant notes still replaying in your mind. It was easy to slip into a space of comfort with a pillow tucked behind your back, a warm fur throw laid across your lap.

You hadn’t the slightest idea how long you were caught in this reverie, but it was a movement in the corner of your eye, from out of the window that pulled you from the book.

Resting your arms on the pages, you stared at the scene below you, though you soon wished you had never noticed at all. It was the happy couple, bundled in warm clothes as they paced through the recently cleared path towards the large tree in the yard.

You swallowed, fingering the necklace’s chain as you thought, I must look away, yet could not cease your intrusion upon their private, romantic moment. Looking at them like this, it seemed easy to mistake them for mere, especially if that was what the observer wanted to believe. If that’s what the observer hoped for despite all odds.

That is, until she threw her arms around him in an embrace.

You whipped your head away, your heart throbbing in its cage. The throw fell to the floor as you scrambled to stand, the book abandoned on the sofa. That... You never wanted to see. You could have gone your entire existence without seeing. But now the image was seared into your mind like a horrifying painting. You took a few steps forward out of no reason at all, as if pacing could help you now.

It seemed the gods would not be so kind as to allow you to grieve alone, for the library door suddenly swung open.

You were ready to politely request whoever it was to give you a handful of minutes to compose yourself, but it was no mere acquaintance that appeared from behind the door. Mr. Min, looking dapper in his grey coat and ruffled collar, was already partly smiling when you met eyes.

“Miss Kim. Your brother mentioned I would find you here.”

“Ah, uh, yes. You’ve found me.”

“I... wanted to speak with you regarding an important matter, if you are not otherwise occupied?”

You shifted yourself away from the window to better resist the temptation to find the two figures in the snow once more. “No, please, speak.”

He appeared nervous, which in itself was endearing. “I suppose this is rather sudden. But I would prefer to be straightforward more than anything.”

What was he saying? Whatever did he mean? Your puzzlement must have shown in your expression for he foraged forward.

“Miss Kim, I would like to ask permission to court you. For marriage.”

“Oh.” This was more a sharp intake of breath than noise, but it conveyed meaning all the same. Of the things you had been expecting... This was not one of them.

“If you are not already involved with another, that is.” He paused, managing a small smile. “I have quite enjoyed our conversations these past few days. I believe us to be quite compatible, in our interests and traits. And if I am not mistaken, perhaps you feel similarly?”

He was not incorrect.

In fact, you were actually considering the notion instead of rejecting it outright, which spoke volumes to his character. Mr. Min was incredibly kind, and a gentle, artistic soul. He was handsome, from a well-known family, and young. You could imagine it: life with him would be quiet and peaceful, a suitable union of complimentary personalities to present in society. Most importantly, he was a man who wished for nothing more than to marry you. Your mother had instructed you to find a suitor and here was an incredibly suitable one, the safest choice, with sweet eyes and curteous manner.

Yet somehow, despite all the logic in the world, you found the next words out of your mouth to be “I’m sorry. I appreciate your offer, but I cannot accept your proposal.”

True to form, the only disappointment he allowed himself to show was a muted sigh as he received the rejection with grace. “I understand. Thank you for considering it.” He shut his eyes for a second longer than was necessary, a subtle sign that tugged at your emotions. “I shall let you return to your reading. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Min.”

When you returned to the window seat, Mr. Jung and his paramour had gone. No traces of them had been left behind as imprints in the snow, as they had never strayed from the cleared path. They were likely in his rooms now, perhaps even in the same room where he had gifted you the necklace. With their arms around each other, staving off the cold in front of the fireplace... Belonging to each other while you sat here alone.

Had you made the correct decision? You liked Mr. Min a great deal. You were sure, given enough time, you could grow to love him as a wife did, with a slow, familial affection.

No, you decided with a bit of weary humor, it seemed that despite all that had happened and all the affection you had witnessed, Mr. Jung still remained firmly mired in your heart. But even without his presence, you knew you had never been one to take the safest road home.

“My apologies, but did you just mention that Mr. Jung will not be joining us?”

You stepped into the dining room to this slight commotion and hush of words. It was the evening of the fourth night. Not feeling quite up for socialization, you had been hiding in the library for the better part of the day, not wishing to run into any person save for Namjoon who had brought you a meal to ensure you didn’t starve.

“Yes, I did, Maria.” Miss Ingram sat at the head of the table as if that were her usual place, not Mr. Jung’s. “He’s been called away for urgent business and instructed us to continue dinner without him.”

“What a shame,” one of the gentlemen said. “On Christmas Eve, no less!”

“Hopefully he shall return soon.”

You made to sit next to Namjoon, but a lady slid into the seat before you could. Your hunt continued. It was perhaps too awkward to choose the setting next to Mr. Min, at least for tonight. Mr. Jeon had been surrounded by two other ladies, this time relaying the fishing expedition in which he caught an enormous fish and a cold. The best seat still available was the one two chairs down from Miss Ingram, which was still too close in your opinion. But, you supposed, that was your punishment for coming in a bit tardy.

“The first course!” The butler called as you settled into your seat, and promptly began to serve. It all smelled delicious.

You picked up the medium spoon and dipped it into your clear soup, being careful not to spill a drop. But that was a missive nearly failed when Maria leaned over her bowl to Miss Ingram and whispered in a volume that completely deterred the purpose of a whisper, “Tell me Rose, when are you commissioning your wedding dress?”

Miss Ingram seemed to have no such qualms about even feigning subtly. “Oh, as soon as I return home. I have already had the finest lace chosen from Mr. Markham’s shop. He reserved it especially for me.”

Another one of Miss Ingram’s friends, Alice, chimed in. “Mr. Markham! Oh Rose. It will be gorgeous.”

“Mhm, and the veil will be hand embroidered by Mrs. Capaldi.”

Maria seemed nearly about to faint from excitement. You wondered if it was possible for fashion to kill. “At a mid-length and sheer?”

“Anything else would be highly unfashionable.” Miss Ingram sipped her wine. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Kim? I simply must have the best for my wedding.”

You were not expecting to be brought into this conversation, but now the women were staring at you most obviously, waiting for a response. “Y-Yes, sure. Highly unfashionable.” You returned to your meal, wishing desperately that they would keep you out of it. It was difficult enough to simply see them together, but to be part of the revelry?

“But I do think, if I had to, I could wear anything really. What’s most important is the man I’m to marry, after all. He is the best accessory.”

“With that jawline? Imagine your children!”

The courses came and went, but the chatter never ceased. It must have been a slow winter, for the only topic at hand between the ladies was the cursed wedding, the marriage, the estate moving, even the exact shade of their future wallpaper. A headache was truly coming on at this point. It had started somewhere between the fish and the poultry, and was now continuing through the sorbet into the roast. For the most part, you could play your role. You could smile, you could answer when Miss Ingram forced you to participate even if you wanted nothing more than to flee because it was not you. It would never be you, but you had decided all those days ago to celebrate the choice he had made, no matter what you personally thought. You were an adult, not a slave to your desires.

But it was when she began to speak of the night before that you felt your heart rate double.

“Last night, he brought me outside to the tree in the yard. It was too cold, but he insisted upon it. Such a romantic, you know.”

“And then?” Alice goaded.

“Well, what can I say that wouldn’t be... inappropriate?” Miss Ingram giggled, her eyes just happening to land on you while your stomach wrenched at the thought of her arms around him. If you had kept watching, how much more would you have witnessed? His returning of her embrace? His besotted gaze? God forbid, his lips meeting hers? “He told me I was—”

You had heard enough.

There was nothing more she could say that could cleanse your mind of these fantasies that haunted you. It could only make things more dire, somehow even worse than they already were in your mess of a mind. You could not sit here any longer and be subjected to this torture. You could not remain in this house any longer, not when it was wrapped in such wedding festivities. The only obvious solution was to leave, to put the distance you needed between yourself and his happiness. Selfish, but absolutely necessary.

“Please excuse me, I am feeling a bit ill,” you muttered to the table before you quit your seat, and then the room.

You climbed the stairs with rapid haste, pushing past the burn of your lungs to find your room. Your cases remained half packed, which would make this an easier task. You immediately began to pull open your armoire, removing the layers of dresses you had brought and compacting them. You had just filled one case and started on the other when you heard a knocking.

“Yes?”

Hope soared on gilded wings despite everything.

“Sister, are you alright?”

You plummeted back to earth. “No, I’m returning home.”

"Home? Whatever for?"

It would take time you did not have to explain. "Just… please Joon. Trust me. I must leave. I cannot stay here any longer." You messily folded a skirt, stuffing it inside the overflowing container.

"I…" You knew how confused he must have been. Please, I'll explain it all later, you thought. "Alright. I shall see if a carriage is available."

"Thank you, Joon. Truly."

You returned to the task at hand, working rapidly. It was not difficult – you had not brought too much with you. You slammed the lid of the bursting case, hoping the seams would hold for the journey home. That seemed to be the last of it. Still, you gave the room one more sweep.

You intended on leaving nothing behind.

“Not staying for Christmas then?”

Gods.

There was no mistaking that voice, no dismissing it as a mere spectre conjured by your own desire. But you would not let it sway you.

You faced Mr. Jung with hands fumbling with the latches on your case. “Is it not proper etiquette to knock?” He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a few melting flakes of snow in his air and on his coat.

“It is my manor.”

You exhaled. Yes, this was all his, your silly heart included.

“Answer my query, Miss Kim.”

You supposed there was no hiding it, not with the cases scattered around you. “No, I am not staying.”

“For what particular reason?”

“I believe you are already aware.”

He tilted his head to a side, a faint smile playing on his lips as he stepped inside the room. “Perhaps. But let us compare answers to ensure accuracy.”

“This is not a schoolyard assignment, sir.”

Though your hand made good on its threats to tremble, you grasped the handle on a case. You would walk past him. You would leave this place.

“Miss Kim." When you were shoulder to shoulder, so close to escape, that simple term was all it took to root you to the floor. "Please. Why are you leaving?” That miniscule hint of desperation in his tone was staggering.

He had never even come close to begging you for something before. It was a shock - one that shook truth loose from your lips. “Because my presence is not needed here.”

“As according to whom?”

"As according to your fiancée.”

To his credit, Mr. Jung had quite the believable look of surprise. “My... what?”

“Rose. Miss Ingram. Your fiancée. She made it quite clear that I was unwelcome in this house, and it is just as well." You bit back the memory of her at dinner, openly mocking you. “Please take my congratulations on your engagement.”

“Miss Ingram holds no such title.”

“That is not what she seems to believe.” You forced yourself to look at him, summoning strength from anger, from grief. “Nor what your actions seem to suggest."

“And what are my actions, pray tell?”

You could not bring yourself to admit that you had seen them in the window like some illicit spy. “You did not deny that you were to be married soon when we spoke.”

“I still do not deny it now.” He was staring at you with such intensity, yet you could not make any sense of the words he spoke and the meanings behind them.

“I don’t understand.”

“Miss Ingram, no matter how much she longs for the position, does not have any claim to my heart.”

Had he become utterly insane? "But M-Miss Ingram is an heiress. It is a perfect match. She is pretty. Rich, well-dressed, and--"

"Entirely too boring."

Caught off guard, you were laughing before you could stop yourself. Boring? She would implode upon hearing such a thing, true as it were. But was she not what every gentleman sought? The sort of woman you had been told to become?

“You are correct, Miss Kim. I am to be married soon.” You could so easily drown in the fathomless desire in his eyes. “That is, if you will have me.”

“I… What? Excuse me?”

“Miss Kim.” His fingers found yours, still idly clutching the handle of your case. He coaxed them open and set the luggage on the hardwood, replacing the space with his own hand. “Will you marry me?”

Was this a dream? In that case, you were afraid to wake and shatter the affection blooming in your heart.

“But I am…”

“Utterly beautiful.”

You were suddenly aware he was running his thumb along the curve of your finger, sparking a heat from the friction that was not entirely proper. He was stealing your breath, leaving you no means to reply. Yet this is the effect he always had on you. You. Beautiful. You, who had been told your entire life that you were not a proper lady in this society.

“I have never met anyone quite so fascinating.” His voice was feather soft, delicate as if walking the tightrope of emotion between you. “From the beginning, you unfailingly spoke your mind to me, regardless of propriety or present company. Your thirst for adventure, knowledge, nature, all of it is endlessly spellbinding. I wish you could see how much I adore your distaste for our society’s restrictions, or your disregard for knowing the latest shade of beige thread from Markham’s.” He paused to take a quick breath, as if he were as nervous as you. “Miss Kim, I have always been drawn to you. And if you let me, I will spend the rest of my life ensuring you can live the way you please.”

“M-Miss Ingram…”

“Is nothing more than an honored guest I must be polite to.” His eyes fluttered down to the few inches of silver chain left uncovered by your dress. “You wear the necklace still.”

You tightened your fingers around his, feeling more secure than you ever had in your life. “Always,” you repeated back to him.

Unfettered delight flashed across his striking face. “Marry me.”

What other answer could you give?

“Yes.”

Then you were in the arms you had longed for, the warmth thawing the December chill that had settled in your bones. You set your weight on him, trusting him to hold you as securely as your clothing would allow.

“Will you allow me to kiss you?” He asked.

You pressed your lips to his in silent response.

You knew the qualms about it, every single rule in the conduct books. And you didn’t give a damn. Not when he tasted like the freedom you had sought all this time. You knew you could likely never have enough of it, not as he pulled you closer, crushing the delicate fabric of your dress. It was as if your body knew instinctually how to act, responding when he nibbled at your bottom lip in a wholly indecent, yet titillating manner that had the fire travelling lower.

“Are you attempting to discard all decorum?” He asked with a laugh when you broke for breath. “I suppose I am not opposed to being devoured in such a manner.”

“I… I don’t quite know,” you confessed as you licked your lips and felt the pressure of his touch lingering there. “I have read about such things – such heat, such arousal, but to experience it firsthand is… it is something else entirely. Entirely… pleasurable.”

Oh, the effect your candid words had on that enthralling man, your betrothed (what a thought!), was instantaneous. He exhaled a hot breath, a thing that could only be named lust obvious in his eyes. “You make it too difficult to restrain myself, love.”

“Do I?” You slipped from his arms. Under his watch, you stepped to the door only to shut it firmly behind you. Power thrummed in your veins from how he now looked at you with such open affection, you trembled with anticipation. “And what if I asked you to break your restraints?” It was out of your mouth and into the air before you could think of the consequences of such a challenge.

“I would be afraid of moving too quickly.”

A considerate man. But now you desired to see him without such control, without the gentlemanly exterior he carefully crafted in public company. You wanted to understand the man who so admired that what society condemned. “You would instead prefer a drawn-out courtship?” You teased.

He was smiling. “Do you truly believe me to be so proper, my lady?”

“Not in the slightest.”

With a laugh, he pulled you back into an embrace, your back against his chest, his hot mouth upon your neck. “How ineffective it seems your time away had been...” The epaulette that covered your shoulders fell to the floor. “It only served to keep you from my arms while the minx in your heart remains ever coquettish.” His hands played with the ribbon of your skirt’s first layer, loosening the knot to bring you a step closer to being bared.

You shivered when the layer fell, and he began on the second. You had never been so undone before another as an adult, yet it was not frightening because it was him. “You seem to coax it from me with ease, sir.” The petticoat was discarded along with all else.

“As fond as I am of you calling me sir… As your husband to be, I would prefer Hoseok.” He was smiling as he worked his way down the buttons of your corset, undoing you one by one.

Your breath caught. “Hoseok.” You liked the weight of it on your tongue.

He whispered your name in intimate response. Then the corset was made obsolete, leaving you in naught but your light chemise. Yet you had never felt warmer. “Are you certain we can continue?”

“Utterly.”

Hoseok guided you to the four-poster bed. His gentle fingers traced the lines of your bare arms as you eased your undershorts off. “You are such a breathtaking sight,” he muttered, pressing hasty kisses to your skin that grew hot in response. In everything you had read, no books had ever described this act as this passionate, as this consuming.

You watched him tug the scarf from his neck. He was usually one for tidiness, but not now, not when you were demanding every bit of his attention. His clothes were merely distractions, obstacles to be rid of so he could be before you, bare and taut and firm. You had never seen such a length, a cock the books had called it, in person before. It was… intimidating to say the least.

You fingered the fabric of the chemise. “Should I remove this?”

“It shall be the end of me. But gods, yes.”

When you revealed yourself to him for the first time, he groaned. A guttural noise that your body reacted to with a tensing, a pulse of need between your thighs. “Beautiful,” he reaffirmed when he again joined you upon the bed, sliding his palms across your figure. His mouth found the peak of your breast and his tongue traced the pebbled nipple until you could not help but reward him with moans. The pressure building inside you threatened to consume you whole until there was nothing left but desire.

“Can I go lower?”

“If you don’t, I’ll do it myself!” you groaned, swiveling your hips against him.

“Most definitely an idea for another time,” he teased as he brought his fingers to your slit.

You hadn’t the slightest idea what he was doing, but every time his thumb swiped across a particular spot, you dissolved into noises of pleasure. All you understood was that you craved more, a need beginning deep inside you that could truly only be described as carnal. And when his finger slipped between your folds, a brutish swear fell from your mouth.

It only made him smile to hear it as he curled the finger, pressing against something indelibly sweet and intoxicating. But having him please you without taking any time for himself distracted you. You sought mutual satisfaction, and told him so with a stroke of his arm.

“Hoseok. I’m ready.”

He bent down to kiss you so tenderly. “I will make this as gentle as I can.” You felt him position himself at your entrance. Then he pushed in.

Oh, curses. This was not a pain you were expecting. It ripped through you, the burn of your stretching around a man for the first time but having him over you, eyes shuttered and lost in the feeling was more than enough to balance the scales. You could handle some pain, especially when it was fading with each inch he coated in your wetness. The thumb that remained at that sweet point above your slit kept the pressure building despite the new sensations. Or perhaps even because of it.

“You feel incredible,” Hoseok panted, soon thrusting as deeply as you could take him. It was now dominantly bliss that wreaked havoc upon your system, forcing your thoughts to sharpen upon him, the image of him, and your affections that swelled up like a wave crest.

Everything was so fresh and foreign, you could barely decipher emotions but suddenly you felt a sharp urgency break through the haze of sensation. “S-Something is happening, Hoseok.” You clutched at his shoulders in surprise. “What is it? What is going on?” It simply kept building, surging forth relentlessly with each time he filled you.

He seemed to understand, for he gave you a reassuring smile. “Let go, my love.”

And you did.

The blinding pleasure crashed upon you as you clung to him, pulling him to you as you experienced what could only be described as something you certainly wanted to do again. He gave his deepest thrusts yet, leaving heat inside you that encouraged the pulsing of your body in delectable relief.

Then it was over. You had claimed each other, sealing the union in a way only lovers could. The happiness inside you threatened to overflow as he collapsed upon the bed beside you, exhausted. Still, he held you close against him despite the perspiration that clung to both your bodies.

“That was…” You were at a loss for words.

“Yes. It really was,” he said with a chuckle.

You both lay in the now comfortable silence, staring at each other with fondness in your eyes. How could you not have noticed how he felt towards you when it was so obvious now? The tenderness with which he had always regarded you with was undeniable.

“You left too suddenly, all those years ago,” he suddenly started. “And while absence makes the heart grow absolutely fonder… I never wish to experience such a thing again.”

You gave him a look of horror. “I will not be trapped in this house, Hoseok. No matter of your feelings for me. I wish to travel. To see the world and learn.”

“Please. I don’t think I could cage you, even if I wanted to.” He was smiling. “No, you shall most definitely see the world. And I shall be by your side. We will explore anywhere you wish, my little minx.”

“France?” You queried, excitement growing at so many prospects. So many new horizons that waited to be understood. “Italy? Even America?”

Hoseok pressed a kiss to your nose like a promise. “To begin with.”

a/n: i had such a fun time writing this so i truly hope you enjoyed reading it. Mr. Jung & his striped suits have a special place in my heart.

shoutout to my incredible betas who helped me out even when it was a tight schedule 🥰: @mypurplelamp, @hoseoksdior, @jiminspjm, @bigtiddiejoon! also huge thank you to Fal & Shanna for encouraging me, being the sweetest, & helping when i needed it most 💕

p.s. you can find extra drabbles for this AU on my masterlist!

#ficswithluv #ksmutclub #bts smut #hoseok smut #bts fanfic #hoseok x reader #jung hoseok #victorian au #bts scenario #bts imagines #hoseok fluff #rain writes #matters of the heart

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accuratepicuresofanthropologists · 3 years

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Ruth Benedict

Ruth Benedict at the age of three (right)

Ruth Benedict’s first memory was her father’s death. He was an up-and-coming surgeon who developed accurate kidney failure. She was one year old. In fact, it was not his death so much as her mother’s mourning that she remembered — the hysterical weeping and constant grief. Ruth grew up in the last years of Victorian America, when public mourning was expected. She remembered her mother showing her her father’s dead body an imploring her to never forget him.

The rest of her childhood was not any easier. By the time she was five she developed measles which left her partially deaf for the rest of her life. She suffered chronic bouts of vomiting and terrible tantrums, all of which might have been ways of processing her father’s death. Benedict grew up on a farm near Norwich, New York where her family of stout yeoman farmers had been ploughing the land for over a century and could trace their ancestry to the Mayflower. They valued hard work and industry. Benedict was bad at sewing and didn’t do as she was told (often because she couldn’t hear what was being asked). She had dark hair and couldn’t fit in if she tried. Her younger sister Margery, on the other hand, was industrious, blond, and beloved. Over time Benedict withdrew into her own internal fantasy life, a peaceful realm of imaginary friends full of the serenity the real world would not offer her. She thought death beautiful, gazing at images of Christ crucified and imagining him to be her father. She would go into the barn and lie down in the straw and pretend to be dead — a game which further shocked her relatives.

“Ruth’s graduation picture from St. Margaret’s School, Buffalo, 1905. Courtesy, Vassar College Library.” via Caffrey’s Stranger In This Land. The version of the photo I’m posting here, however, is from Banner’s Intertwined Lives.

Benedict had issues with her mother, Bertrice, but in many ways took after her. Bertrice was a graduate of Vassar college, an educated woman at a time when most people thought women shouldn’t be educated. After her husband’s death she got a series of jobs in education, slowly moving up through the ranks until she became a manager at the Buffalo public library, a good job in a city so advanced that some of its roads were paved with a new invention called ‘asphalt’. Moving from town to town for her mother’s work was not easy for Benedict, but she flourished when she went to Vassar as scholarship student. Before Vassar she had written poetry and short stories. She had talent, and her mother encouraged her. Vassar became a place where her gifts were taken seriously.

Benedict faced many of the same prejudices as her mother. Could women, with their small brains, read great works of literature without experiencing a mental breakdown? Would their studies dry up their uteruses and prevent them from being mothers? Most Vassar graduates followed society’s dictates and became wives and mothers, but often combined their domestic roles with social work and activism. Benedict wanted to make the world a better place, but she had little desire to marry. She had jettisoned most of the Christianity she had imbibed as a child but had kept a keen appreciation for mysticism. She was even more intent on living an intense life of artistic creation. She wanted a rich life of full experiences, of poetry and music.

Benedict from her 1909 Vassar college yearbook. Via Hathi Trust.

Benedict as an adult, via Banner’s Intertwined Lives

She tried fitting into society’s mould for a few years. She did social work, as educated young ladies were supposed to do. When her sister moved to Pasadena, California (in Los Angeles) for her husband’s work, Ruth followed along and tried her hand at teaching — then an accepted career for a single, educated woman. It was poor fit. Her deafness and dislike of emotional intimacy were not well-adapted to teaching. She tried marriage, wedding a biochemist named Stanley Benedict who was doing cutting edge research on chemotherapy for cancer at Cornell Medical School in the upper east side of Manhattan. That worked for a while, but Benedict’s marriage withered. She discovered she could not have children. Her husband had little time for her poetry, feeling Benedict’s time would be better spent on him. They separated in 1920. Benedict, now in New York, decided to go back to school, interested in learning more about gender, the family, and the feminism that she had begun reading in Vassar and continued to read throughout her life. She chose to attend the New School for Social Research.

The New School, as it was called, had just opened its doors in New York, and new it was: Building on experiments in schooling in Europe, the New School was a politically audacious, leftist political project which offered classes for adults, often at night so people could attend after work. You did not need to matriculate as a full time student, and courses were given by intellectuals with something to say, not just staid full-time professors.

Benedict’s first class was “Sex and Ethnology” with the famous feminist Elsie Parsons. Parsons had a Ph.D. in sociology but developed a love of anthropology and conducted fieldwork in the American southwest. Immensely wealthy, she self-funded her activism and provided substantial support for Boas and his students. Benedict also took a course with Alexander “Goldie” Goldenweiser, the most philosophical of the first generation of Boas’s students. A brilliant man with a scandalous private life (including a refusal to return library books, according to Sergei Kan [Alexander Goldenweiser (1880-1940) Encyclopedia of Theory in Social and Cultural Anthropology. Vol. I: 348-351]), Goldenweiser had been fired from Columbia and was teaching at the New School to make ends meet. Benedict was a keen student and was encouraged by Goldenweiser to continue on in anthropology. She soon enrolled as a graduate student at Columbia, where she began studying with Franz Boas.

Ruth Benedict in 1931, from Vassar’s special collection. The attribution is from Lapsley’s Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict. The image itself is from Vassar’s Flickr account.

The 1920s were a time of great growth for Benedict. She worked closely with Boas and his circle (she had studied German in college, which probably helped). She earned her Ph.D. in 1923 with a library thesis, having dipped her toe into fieldwork with Serrano people in Morongo reservation in California in 1923. She spent two summers doing fieldwork in the southwest, experiences which would be very important to her composition of Patterns of Culture. Her poetry, always precious to her, was being published and positively reviewed. Separated but still married to her husband, her romantic life blossomed when she found herself in a romantic triangle with Edward Sapir and Margaret Mead. Benedict was an adjunct and Mead a graduate student during their romance — Mead found Benedict’s “combination of shyness and inarticulateness devastating” [Caffrey p. 117]. Women’s friendships in the 19th century were frequent and often extremely romantic, but not always associated with sexuality. Benedict’s relationship with Mead opened a new door to her and gave her a sense of who she was, as well as raised the problem (always present in Benedict’s life) of what it meant to be ‘normal’ or ‘abnormal’.

The twenties were also hard for Benedict financially. She applied for funding to conduct research and was turned down — in at least one case, because she was too old. Sexism might also have been a factor in other failed applications, but even without these headwinds Benedict might not have been an academic success. She was too quiet and withdrawn to attract large amounts of students. When a permanent spot in anthropology opened up at Barnard in 1923, Boas arranged for the vigorous Gladys Reichard to take the position, not Benedict. She published work and attended conferences, where her papers were well received, but her role was still tenuous.

Benedict in her study at Columbia, via the Library of Congress. Apparently taken around 1937.

It was not until 1931, at the age of 43, that she finally obtained a full-time position as an assistant professor at Columbia. She had separated from her husband — they were never formally divorced — a year earlier, and was now a full-time anthropologist. Boas was in his early 70s when Benedict became full-time at Columbia, and much of her work involved keeping the department going when Boas was ill. The work load was heavy — in addition to teaching and service, she was also editor of the Journal of American Folklore, for instance. But she managed to produce Patterns of Culture, her most important book, in 1934.

Benedict had made a name for herself as a major thinker in her own right, but it did not result in institutional success. Boas was retired by Columbia in June 1936 [timeline]. Boas and his activism had long been a thorn in the side of university president Nicholas Murray Butler for some time. Now 77, Boas was told he was too old and would be replaced. Boas argued that Benedict should take his position, but she was never seriously considered for the position. Instead Ralph Linton took the chair in 1938.

Linton was the sort of man the Columbia administration would like but which Boas objected to. Boas had trained generations of outsiders — Jews, women, immigrants, indigenous people, and African Americans. Linton was a white anglo-protestant with an MA from Penn and a Ph.D. from Harvard, older centers of anthropology [Linton NAS bio]. The conflict between them was intense. Linton described her as “a witch” who “hated men” and “destroyed them by feeding on them”. He even bragged that he had caused her heart attack using a “Melanesian charm bag” and ensorcelling her. [Seymour, Cora Du Bois, 238]. Few people shared his opinion. Mitchell describes her as ‘statuesque’ [get cite in Man with Variations]. Over the years she had learned to make her weaknesses her strengths, using her deafness to develop a keen ability to listen to people. She often held office hours where she could meet one on one with people (where it was easier to hear) and would lecture in the middle of class, rather than from a lectern at the front of the room, so she could hear student questions. As a result many of her students remember her as empathetic, sensitive, and nurturing. She became a noble, emotionally available presence in the department. [Caffrey, see also Cora Du Bois bio].

Benedict’s distance from the department increased when Boas died on December 21st, 1942. She had already been drawn more and more into World War II — even before it began, she had begun to fight fascism at home by raising awareness of the flaws in the Nazi’s ideology. Her popular 1940 book Race: Science and Politics presented the Boasian criticism of racism to a broad audience. No one was surprised when Boas, a Jew, denounced anti-semitism. But coming from Ruth Benedict’s all-American, wholesome pen the message was even more powerful. She wrote several other pieces, right down to a book for school children with cartoons, on the topic, and became a well-known expert in the field.

Benedict also worked actively for the government, joining the Office of War Information and even moving to Washington in 1943 [Caffrey]. Benedict’s work was mostly culture-and-personality studies of cultures she had never visited and personalities she had never met. Nonetheless, the government found it helpful. Her work on the Japanese resulted in her 1946 volume Chrysanthemum and the Sword, an important volume which explained to Americans how Japanese culture — which seemed so barbarous to them — could be comprehensible.

Benedict’s success in the government led to a large grant from the Office of Natan Research to continue studies of ‘culture at a distance’. The project began in 1947 and ultimately employed dozens of people who were broken up into teams to develop descriptions of different cultures, largely in Europe and East Asia. Benedict would not see the program through to completion — she passed away in 1948 at the age of 61. Margaret Mead, Rhoda Metraux, and other scholars would eventually publish the results in 1953.

Benedict played an important part in anthropology in the 1930 and 1940s, but her culture and personality approach would not become hegemonic in the 1950s. In Mead’s hands it became simplistic. Even in Benedict’s hands it is not clear that there was much value in the idea of there being ‘a culture’ with ‘a personality’. Regardless, her methods came to be seen as unscientific and she, of course, was a woman. After World War II anthropology would increasingly belong to men interested in objective science and generalization.

You can listen to Ruth Benedict’s speech “Learned Cultural Behavior in Civilized Nations” given on March 14, 1947 via Wenner-Gren’s Supper Conference Audio Archive.

#Ruth Benedict #Vassar #Intertwined Lives (book)#Stranger in this Land (book)#Margaret Mead and Ruth Benedict (book)#portrait #photograph #anthropology

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atypicalacademic · 3 years

Text

Starfire

Starfire is a reworking of Portia’s route.

Previous Chapter

Chapter 7: Charithram

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: Spicy making out? Mentions of blood, memory loss, mentions of cannibalism, Volta being generally courtier-creepy-

history

Tucking his legs closer around him, Balam leaned against the wall, gathering the egg-shell white fabric of his shawl off the floor. There was a sharpened edge of prickly tension that made his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of how much his presence could be- shawls, jewelry and him- of how easily he could upset one of the pots and pans stacked so neatly up the short shelves, swept beneath the kitchen counter, the small flame at the stove, the soup bubbling over it.

But instead of the harrowing urge that Balam felt to curl quietly into himself the moment he stepped into someone else’s house, he found that he had enough in him to focus on other things. Like draining the steaming bowl of matzo he had propped on his lap, like the way Portia’s eyes wandered to his as she stood beside the stove, bright and soft in a way that felt like her lips on his cheek and her warmth in his arms when they’d woken up tangled in each other on the library floor.

Like Mazelinka’s voice, gruff and strangely soothing, murmuring measures and recipes to herself between chiding Portia, in switching from one language to another, for staying away too long.

This old, stout, sea-hardened pirate had been one of the elders who had raised her, and Portia had sworn by everything she held dear that her cooking could easily undo all of the Procurator’s reservations.

Balam breathed in the delectable scent that permeated the tiny kitchen, spilling out past wide window into the South-End street beyond. He was beginning to see why, and how.

Offering a treat to Aaromal who was sunning lazily by the windowsill, Mazelinka cleared her throat, and stepped into another story.

“They called it the storm of the century.” She muttered, her eyes wistful as she crumbled sparkling bits of hexamite between her fingers. “Long as I’ve been on the seas, I’d never seen anything like it before or since- and believe me, Balam, I’d thought I’d seen everything. The skies split open like they were torn in half. It’s a blessing we didn’t go over ourselves, ‘cause when we weighed anchor at Nevivon, caught between a big old school of seals and washed up in the white sand and wreckage- what do I find?”

Portia laid her own bowl down- “Two pint-sized troublemakers!”

Rolling her eyes fondly, Mazelinka shook her head. “Should’ve seen the way those seals were clinging on to them. Took a fair bit of convincing to have ‘em let go. Ilya was about as tall and wide as a strand of seaweed, and this one?” She laughed, a warm sound deep from her belly. “Rambunctious little redhead that she always was- running around the beach as soon as she could stand.”

The ache the story had left in him- flashes of thunderstorms and the violent sway of the ship, the terror of two young children caught in its midst, little Ilya wrapping one tired arm around his sister and the other clinging desperately to the slippery coat of a seal- eased slightly as he conjured the image that Mazelinka had offered instead.

This, he realized, was how Portia coped too. Taking the bare bones of loss and lacing its roughest edges with silver linings- Lilinka loved us, we never knew a lack, my Ilya can never hide from the people he loves-

Rambunctious little redhead that she always was.

He wondered if he were rambunctious too. It was possible. So was it possible that he had been an angry child, stomping and screaming and kicking up a fuss- a simmering rage held back just barely beneath his skin. So was it possible, too, that he had been the kind of child who would bury himself into a wall, just so, afraid to knock things off their places, afraid to exist in a way that invited anyone else’s displeasure.

Mazelinka, however, did not prod. “And now look at her,” She bumped her shoulder against Portia’s. “No time for old friends anymore- eh, Pasha?” It was neither a threat, nor a demand, and it puzzled Balam in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Portia only giggled, swatting playfully at Mazelinka’s shawl. “Fuck right off with that, Maza- you know I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, I know.” Raising a steel-grey brow, Mazelinka gave Balam a meaningful look. “Just make sure-“ She switched to Nevivic, and Portia gasped, smacking a clump of garlic over the counter. “Maza!”

Mazelinka barked out another laugh. “Alright, alright, let a pirate have her fun, why don’t you? Bet I can trust you to keep her from taking on the whole Masquerade on her shoulders, can’t I, Balam?”

Balam got to his feet, placing the empty bowl on the kitchen counter as he leaned gingerly against it. “Oh, I’ll do the keeping all right.”

“Long as I get to drag you away too, honey.” Portia teased. “You need it more than I do.”

The hexamite spiraled into purplish smoke, permeating the kitchen with its familiar medicinal scent. The clear brew turned golden with the rich juice of bloomberry- Balam could feel its gentle tartness on his own tongue. It threw him back to the earliest days in his memory- pain and its occasional counterpart- cedarwood incense and Asra’s patchworked quilts wrapped around him, Haider’s gentle voice and gentle hands, the vague relief of his poultices in hand- painted bottles and bowls.

“Where did you learn green magic, Mazelinka?”

Portia stiffened in his arms. “What d’you mean?”

Balam bit his lip. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“At sea.” Mazelinka replied, unperturbed. “Had plenty of magicians onboard over the years- learnt their tricks and recipes- it’s a fine art, and useful- I could hold my own in a fight, but to patch up an injury? Calm a fever? Soothe some nerves? What kind of Captain would I be if I couldn’t help ‘em there?”

Wriggling out of Balam’s hold, Portia peered into the stove, watching the smooth, shiny bubbles as though seeing them for the first time. “All of this is magic?” She gestured to the dried herbs hanging from the ceilings, the neat jars piled upon the wooden shelves. “You never told me.”

“Didn’t ask, did you?” Mazelinka shrugged. “Ilya was always-“

“I know what he thinks.” Portia crossed her arms over her chest, drawing herself up with a frown. “ But I’m not Ilya. I’m not.” There it was again- a strain in her voice that spoke of some old, quiet, unspoken bitterness. Balam had recognized the mirror of it in himself- the remark he bit back at the slightest hint of a provocation- I’m not you, Asra. I’m not.

Mazelinka’s steely eyes sharpened to comprehension. “Never said you were.” She said, simply. “If you really want to learn, I can teach you. ‘S no big deal.”

Portia deflated, instantly, the tension rolling off her countenance as quickly as it had gathered. “You will?”

Mazelinka chuckled. “Sure. Green magic’s quiet, but it’s got its strengths. And you’ll have this one-“ She winked at Balam. “For the flashy stuff.”

“I’d love to.” He added, quickly. “Just say the word.”

Seemingly mollified, Portia nestled back into Balam’s arms, leaning them both against the edge of the counter. “Maza and Lilinka’d been making us this soup for years. She’s always had all kinds of tricks up her sleeves. Should’ve known some of it was magic.”

Mazelinka uncorked a tiny vial of ruby-red liquid, and tipping it over the pot. “Lilinka’s always been the better cook of us. Though she’d never had any head for magic.” She sighed. “It’s her Ilya gets it from, after all.”

“And he’s got his own magic now, doesn’t he?” Portia rolled her eyes. “The curse, or whatever the fuck is going on.”

“Bargain seal.” Balam corrected, holding Portia closer. “Technically, it isn’t his magic- he’s more of a conductor for a- something else.”

“Ghosts, bargains, what’s next?” Mazelinka got on tiptoe to fish out a fine wooden bowl from the topmost rack of her shelf. “What’d that boy go get himself into?”

Squeezing Balam back, Portia pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s what we’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

“I’ve got no doubt.” Between transferring the brew from the pot to a large wooden bowl, Mazelinka paused. “They’re bad news, Pasha, all of those courtiers. But I’m sure you know this already. Just-“ She set the bowl down, mopping her face with her shawl. “I hear the Procurator’s a smaller roach than the rest, but be careful. Both of you.”

“There.” She added a sprig of seasoning to the bowl, and closed its mouth with a clean cloth. “I’ll pop out to the market while this sets.” She broke into a grin, flashing a silver canine glinting in the bright daylight as she strode past the kitchen to the door. “Don’t try anything funny in my kitchen.”

Portia stuck her tongue out at her, and laughed at the look on Balam’s face as the door fell shut. “Oh, now I wanna try something funny.” She pouted. “I’d raid her whiskey stash if we weren’t still on the job. But that’s for another day.” Perching on the counter, she wound her arms around Balam’s neck to kiss him, pulling him up beside her on the counter. “Care to tell me all about what’s in that soup?”

The weather had shifted by the time their carriage came to a halt at the front steps to Procurator’s estate.

A lurking storm cast imposing shadows over the mansion cast in marble and stained, foggy glass, towering over the wild, overgrown estate lawns.

Despite Nadia having sent word of their arrival to the Procurator- (on the pretext of lunch, it seemed- an invitation she could never turn down)- the gates had merely been unlocked, rather than been thrown open in anticipation. Neither were there footmen at the entrance- nor any kind of staff.

Straightening his shawl and adjusting his bangles, Balam exchanged a glance with Portia. “Uh- is this a snub, or-“

She shook her head. “The Procurator wouldn’t. Hestion said she’s always hanging off of the Countess’ arm. And she’s always been a bit-“ She made a face. “You’ll see.”

Up close, the few curtain-less windows were coated and misted with dust. A faint, persistent ache tugged at Balam’s magic- turning the grass beneath his sandals to gravel- gravel? It crawled down his spine- raising goosebumps at the back of his neck- something that was not his own-

Abruptly, the door before them creaked open a sliver.

“Hello!” The squeak of shoes on marble, and a tiny form shot like a dart down the front steps.

“Procurator, we’re-“ Portia cleared her throat, about to drop into a bow, when the she caught them both by the elbow instead.

The Procurator’s bonneted head came barely up to Portia’s chest, the rest of her drowning in black robes that dripped down her twig-thin arms and wrists, her small ankles cased in frilled socks. Vagrant tufts of mousy brown hair came undone from loose ends of her bonnet, her pale, watery eyes rendered even larger by the quivering smile that stretched her emaciated cheeks.

“Friends of the Countess? Yes? Yes?” Her voice was lilting and girlish, urgent- an undertone of sweetness contorted into the edges of hysteria. “I know you from the kitchen! Oh, indeed! The kitchen!” She sniffed the edge of Portia’s sleeve. “I can smell it on you! Tell me, did the Countess not come along?”

Portia had asked him to enchant the bowl of soup to mask its heavenly scent. Suddenly, Balam understood why.

“I’m afraid not, my lady.” Balam tried. “Her Excellency sent us in-“

“Is she well?” The Procurator’s eyes widened impossibly, brittle fingers flying to her mouth as she chewed on her nails. “Is something the matter with the Countess? Volta so very much adores her! Her and her cakes- oh such delicious cakes that she gives me- So very much!”

Portia gently closed a hand around Volta’s. “She’s alright, Procurator.” She said patiently. “She’s just um- busy- fixing the menu for the masquerade.”

“The menu!” Volta dropped her hand, her tears drying as soon as they came. “You must tell me all about it! Yes, yes, come in, come in, my friends, oh, Volta must prepare- must prepare for second lunch- So very hungry, so very hungry-“

Balam felt his unease heighten. “Did we keep you waiting, my lady?”

“No, no, no time to lose, no time to lose!” She ushered them in, yanking Portia by her sash and Balam by his shawl, not bothering to shut the door behind them before they stepped into a dark, musty hallway. There was no light here save for the shine in Volta’s watery eyes. “I must prepare for second lunch! My friends will wait for Volta, will they not?”

Struck silent, Balam only nodded.

“Oh, feel free to look around! Help yourself! Volta has few things, so very few- but she loves them all, and her friends can love them too-” She chirped, her fingernails still hooked to her mouth. They chipped and bled under her small, hard teeth. Licking a droplet of blood from the corner of her mouth, Volta smiled wide. “You see-“ Her stage whisper carried like a hiss in cave. “ Volta loves having friends, Volta needs- oh my mouth waters for it-“ She drew a quivering breath. “Lunch! Lunch! I must prepare.”

She swung back into a shadowed corner, her shoes thudding against the rug until they faded into silence.

Portia sneezed, and swatted a cobweb away from her face. “Um, Balam?” She wrapped her free arm around his waist. “A- few?”

It was then that Balam noticed them at all- the things.

He was nobody to call to question what one did with their own living quarters. His shop, after all, was a loving, lively mess of knickknacks and books and teacups and trinkets strewn over the colorful rugs and the painted windows; prone to distraction and forgetfulness, both he and Asra tended to lose track of tidying up- but this- this was different.

Books stacked up to the ceiling so thick that they could barely see the walls- busts and statuettes identical to the ones in her garden, cobwebbed enough that he couldn’t make out their faces or likenesses.

Portraits lined the slivers of the papered walls visible through between one pile and the next- more than one rug, he was certain, formed the muffled mass beneath his feet. Several clocks, all broken, garlanded with dusty pocket watches, winked eerily at them from the end of the hall. Upon all of it, and floating in motes and clusters in the air- were the layers, and layers, and layers of dust.

Aaromal slithered down Balam’s shoulder to wind across his arm. The Procurator. She is troubled.

“You don’t say, Omal.”

It was stifling, closing his throat into suffocation, and by the pinched, pained look on Portia’s face, he could tell that she felt it too.

“Eek, what is this place?” She whispered, narrowly veering Balam out of the way of a giant, crumbling marble statue. “There’s no way she’s staffed. No self-respecting housekeeper’s going to let a place come to-“ She wrinkled her nose. “This state.”

A quiet sense of dread deep in the pit of Balam’s stomach whispered that it was not by accident, but design.

“Fuck.” She froze in her tracks. “D’you think there are ghosts in here?”

Balam shook his head, trying to sift through the heavy, oppressive desperation that weighed against his magic. “If ghosts can even breathe in here. Let’s just-“

“Look out!”

Too late. Balam tripped over the edge of a folded rug, his veshti catching at its beaded tassels. Portia caught him in time before he hit the ground, steadying him easily with one arm.

Instinctively, he slid his sandals closer, leaning against a spot on the wall when- with a shudder, the solid plane giving way like water- it shifted, and opened.

“What the-“

An unlit chandelier hung low over the center of the small chamber, its crystal teardrops refracting the light threading through-

Mannequins. Arranged in concentric circles around a large, gilt-framed mirror- they were decked from their heads to their toes in velvets and silks and jewelry- necklaces around their vacant necks, a faceless gallery tilted towards the scattered light.

Balam could make out the amorphous shapes in the darker corners of the chamber, though his eyes were drawn to this center of resplendent fabric and jewels, and when Portia stepped forward, mouthing “pretty,” under her breath, he found that he could agree.

A headiness, an intoxication came upon him.

Her hands inches away from one of the silk clad mannequins, Portia hesitated. “Is this okay?”

He shrugged. “She told us to help ourselves.”

She undid the clasp of the robe fitted over the mannequin, blue silk folding over her like waves of an ocean as she slipped it on. The light played over her freckled skin like beads in a kaleidoscope, the too-long neckline plunging beneath her uniform, silk pooling at her ankles.

Portia met his eyes in the mirror with a smile. “And?”

“Gorgeous.” His voice dropped an octave, and Aaromal unwound herself from his shoulders, slipping out of the room in polite silence. “Though I have an idea.”

He plucked the mannequin’s tiara, feeling the golden links brush cold against his fingertips. Coming up behind Portia, he placed it delicately between the wild locks of her red hair. He felt her breath catch as his hands brushed the bare skin at her neck, his lips following suit soon after.

“Sirenian opals.” Balam murmured. “Volta must’ve gone to some great trouble to get these crafted.”

The stunning white stones and the elegant golden lattice-work that held them up shone back at him from Portia’s blue eyes.

“I’ve always wanted one of these, growing up.” She whispered, tilting her head as Balam’s lips followed the trail of her freckles down to her shoulders, and back up. “I used to pretend I was a lost Princess from some faraway land- that someone’s waiting for me- somewhere, where I’ll be-“ She swallowed. “Where I’ll be important, you know. Just-”

Balam wound both his arms around her lacing his fingers over her stomach. He admired their reflection, how his dark brown complexion melded warmly with her rosy one.

“I know I’ve told you I’ve never felt a lack- and I haven’t- you’ve met my brother, you’ve met Mazelinka- but I-“ She leaned back against him, her hair brushing his chest. “Sometimes I wish I was- more.”

“I know.”

He did.

More, more, more- it was the thing that gnawed at him from deep beneath his skin- the thing he could swear had been buried in him from the moment he’d opened his eyes, three years ago. He couldn’t tell if it was want or need or want that felt like need- only that he wanted, needed, with a ferocity he couldn’t keep quiet, with an intensity he couldn’t shut away, even if it made him loathe himself- the way he stained the world with it, made him shrink into himself, frightened of what that hunger could mean.

He thought back to Mazelinka’s house- of how he couldn’t bear to break, or be, the ugly voice in him hissing at him to render himself harmless, stop wanting, stop wishing, stop gathering the sun-drenched house and the sweetness of chatter to his chest and needing.

Hunger was a creature with teeth and claws. He wondered if that were why this estate, and its Lady had unsettled it so. How they bared it so openly, how they sank them into their own flesh.

And yet.

I’ve always wanted to be more.

Hearing it in her voice, her lovely, starlit voice wound with hope and strength and courage and an honesty, a beautiful, precious honesty, he wondered if it might have only ever meant something simpler and without shame.

If existence was thin ice, he was incapable of treading softly, of wanting gently.

Of loving quietly.

I’ve always wanted to be more.

“I think you are more.” He could have cried, at the relief of saying it as a compliment. He smiled, instead, his lips curving against the crown of her head. “Crown or not- you’ve got your own kingdom, no?”

Portia cocked her head, questioning.

“Everyone in your life- your brother, Mazelinka- where’d they be if you hadn’t found them? Hell, how d’you think Julian manages to hide in plain sight in this city for so long? You think someone- unimportant- can effect anything of what you’ve done?” Portia’s eyes fluttered shut as Balam’s hands travelled the length of the robe. “From the chamberlains to the Countess herself, everyone listens to you like you’ve hung every star in the sky, haven’t you noticed? And to me,” He blushed, but powered through it. “I don’t um- want to be presumptuous- but to me? You make all the difference in the world.”

He turned her around in his arms, tilting up her chin like he had done back in the broom closet. He pressed the pad of his thumb against her lips, and she bit down, with an impish grin. “I’ve read of plenty of sovereigns who’ve been loved far less, Portia.”

He didn’t wait for her to respond before he kissed her, pressing her back against the mirror, tugging through her hair as he braced his arms against the mirror to cage her between them. Her hands skated down his chest, and she looked up at him, her smile taunting.

Beneath the robe, beneath her uniform, he knew every bite and bruise from the night before- knew the noises she made and the way her fingers tightened in his hair, knew the way they looked against her skin.

This too, was hunger. Or greed. Whatever- fuck- whatever.

He bit down on the side of her neck- darkening the barely fading hickey there, and she was panting, laughing, saying something, though the sound was muffled with another when he slipped his thigh between hers.

The mirror swayed in its frame, knocked something clean off the wall with a clatter that startled them both.

Balam would have paid no mind to it, had it not been for the wicked curve of that metal blade, the worn wooden handle that belonged nowhere in a noble estate.

“It can’t be.” Letting Portia go, he picked it up, holding it up to the light.

“Is that a-?”

“A sickle.” He traced the fading lettering etched into the wood.

Nam Ooru -

Our land.

“How- how is this here?” He whipped around, wildly, and Portia touched his arm.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“It’s- it’s from East Prakra. From the time of the Great Strikes. Do you see the engraving here? It’s from the-“ He caught his breath, but even as he forced himself to slow down, he found himself rushing through the story, his heart pounding in his throat.

Aside from the storms, The Great Strikes were about the only historical event in East Prakra he could find traces of- passing mentions in books on Prakran history, from travelogues of those who had been stranded there. The class of landlords who’d attempted to buy the backwaters of his homeland, turning his people into nothing more than indentured labourers, and the aftermath of their hubris; the Strikes were a culmination of East Prakra’s simmering fury at having been betrayed and excluded and attempted to be annexed. They’d had taken to the grounds to armed with nothing but their sickles- many of them wounded and killed by the cronies of the rich.

His people had struck back, swarming the roads and taking mansion after mansion until their blades were drenched with the tyrants’ blood and their land was theirs again.

Nam Ooru. Our land. That had been their cry.

When he was done, his words falling into breathlessness, Portia stared at him. “Where-“ She hesitated. “Where d’you think Volta found-“

“They’re not sold. You don’t just-“ His head spun, and he tore himself away to pace the chamber. “You don’t just walk in and buy something like this- it’s not a piece of- of jewelry- and now I’m-“

“Don’t you see?” Why the fuck did his voice tremble so? “You can’t just- collect history.” He cried. “The Strikes are our legacy- they aren’t aren’t meant to be hung up on a wall for fucking decoration to be fucking displayed- It’s tearing it up into pieces to be bought and sold and fuck- it’s so wrong!”

“Honey,” Portia caught his hand. “I know, I know. You’re working yourself up. Take a breath.”

Balam tried, though his breath formed back into his words again. “She stole it. We don’t buy or sell it- she’s got to have stolen it. Or-“

All at once, it was as though the magical haze of the chamber split into fragments- shattering back into menacing shadows. The mannequins gleamed sinisterly around them. Attires from many lands, artifacts from oceans away- not made but taken- Dead.

Balam paled. He tugged gently at Portia’s robe- the silken threads felt like ash beneath his fingers. She undid it, hastily, letting it fall to her feet. The tiara rustled to the floor with a clink.

He caught the fabric, and then another, taking a deep, steadying breath as he let his magic course through them.

Teeth ripping into skin, molars damp with blood, claws, fur, agony- With a gasp, he held it open again. An old, thin, rusted trail of blood, running from the inside of the neckline to the sleeve.

Portia covered her mouth.

Balam looked back at the mannequins- composed- so oddly neatly- as though they were people caught in stillness.

The silent shapes rustled from the shadows. There were no windows in the chamber. No breeze.

He thought of the things crammed up and down the halls, thought of the number of halls, of floors, of rooms, of holes in the walls, of gardens and headless fountains.

“You think she-“ Portia shuddered.

Killed them? Ate them? What was he thinking?

“She took this- all of this- and they’re- um-“

“Dead?”

He nodded, his stomach turning.

Her jaw set in determination, Portia picked the sickle up from where it had fallen to the ground. “Then take this, Balam. It’s yours more than it’s hers.”

“No, Portia-“

How was it his? He wasn’t even East Prakran enough to remember it- how could he put on an attire and speak a language and claim a land as his if all he did was play at being part of it? What if his memories never returned? What then?

“If history’s not meant to be collected, or fucking stolen-“

“It’s meant to be understood.”

“And you understand it. And honor it.”

He couldn’t deny that.

She crossed the distance between them, closed his fingers around the grainy wooden handle. He wondered if he was only imagining how it felt like home. Maybe he wanted it to feel like home. Perhaps he was good at deluding himself.

“Then it’s yours.”

Was that enough? Was that all it takes?

“I don’t remember.”

She smiled, a small, flickering thing. “I don’t remember my parents, either. You think that means I’m no Devorak?”

“Sorry.” Balam winced, his eyes watering all over again. “I’m-“

She kissed him, even there, in that revolting tomb, slow and gentle as though they had all the time in the world.

Gods, he wanted all the time in the world.

It was that thought that anchored him, bringing the storm of swirling distress in the room into its- source? A small, insistent, feeble voice, cutting through the clamor of many screams, many nightmares.

Balam took out his deck, and the card slid into his palm like a plea.

Temperance, Reversed.

A river running over. A bird with trembling feathers and a bloodied beak, and her whisper, with what felt like the last of her strength, one word over and over and over again.

Help. Help. Help. Help-

The passage door opened. Volta stood at the entrance, her small, sharp teeth glinting in the dark, her fingernails dripping blood on to the floor.

“Come, friends.” She said. “It is time to eat.”

#the arcana #portia devorak #ot3: you are all of my devotion #balam maitreya #cw cannibalism #procurator volta #cw blood #damn these chapters are long but this is pure self indulgence #like sure balam couldve asked haider to do the green magic but he just needs some peace and quiet #its all getting fun #is this way too long #yes #will i stop with the pointless description #no #apprentice x portia #portia x apprentice

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riversofmars · 3 years

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Answers at last! Well, I saw answers... :D

Chapter 7: So We Meet Again

The Library, 52nd Century

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?“ A male figure appeared in their midst. Dark hair and beard, stout frame, he took a twirl, looking around, delighted at the surprise and shock on everyone’s faces.

“It’s can’t be…“ River mumbled, trying to catch up with what was happening. How did he get in here? He was not part of the memory.

“It’s been a while, Professor Song.“ He turned to face her with a wide grin, baring his teeth.

“He’s not the Doctor, is he?“ Anita spoke slowly. She had learned enough about Time Lords during their extensive research to understand about regeneration and River had shown her pictures of all her husband’s faces. That man was not one of them and even on first impressions, he seemed in no way similar to the man she herself had met. He certainly didn’t look at River like someone would look at their wife, he looked at her like she was prey.

“The Doctor? Oh, don’t be ridiculous.“ He nearly burst out laughing as if it was the funniest thing he had heard all day. “Been there, done that, just wasn’t my cup of tea.“ His voice turned to a snarl, it seemed to change ever so slightly; he shushed himself.

“No, this is another Time Lord.“ River said, balling her hands to fists, trying to maintain her composure.

“Of course you get it, you’re clever like that.“ He mused, tilting his head. “I’m difficult to forget, didn’t we have he best of times.“ He interrupted himself, his voiced higher and more excitable. He smirked with a mad sort of glee in his eyes. “No, no, shut up, it’s my turn now!“ His voice turned normal as he snapped angrily. Anita and CAL exchanged confused and worried glances, fearing they might be dealing with a mad man. River, however, already knew for a fact that they were:

“You’re the Eleven.“ She circled around the room slowly, coming to stand protectively in front of CAL and Anita. She didn’t know whether he was really here or just a projection, but she couldn’t take the risk. She had to keep them safe. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

“The Thirteen, actually, but who’s counting.“ He retorted graciously and took a little bow.

“Must be getting pretty crowded in that head of yours.“ River hummed and in response, another personality emerged:

“Long time no see, Ms. Song.“ His face contorted into a grin.

“Hello again, Nine.“ River remained calm. She knew it was the best way to deal with them.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.“ His voice turned higher, almost feminine.

“Twelve?“ River could only guess, as it was the regeneration of his she hadn’t met before.

“Shut up, the lot of you.“ The Thirteen regained control of his personalities. “Sorry, this is not how I was going to introduce myself, best foot forward and all that, but they’re just so excited to see you again. The Six, in particular, is very eager but we’ll save that for later.“ He smiled apologetically.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?“ River decided to ignore the games and cut right to the chase. She glanced to CAL, hoping she was paying attention. If they found out how he got in, they surely would be able to get rid of him as well. She would have to regain control of the computer.

“Seven hacked the system, child’s play really; and now I can see why.“ He smirked at CAL who took a fearful step back and Anita put a protective arm around her. “I’m not really here, of course, just a projection, but I liked the personal touch. Better than talking to a screen, you know?“ River felt a little better for knowing he wasn’t actually part of the artificial world of the Library core but hacking the system was just as bad. Who knew what else he was planning on doing?

“So you’re responsible for this?“ Anita concluded gesturing around to the woman and child that had stopped moving. She hadn’t really followed who exactly he was but it was was blatantly obvious that this scary vision was his doing.

“It’s from the Matrix.“ River stated and the Thirteen grinned:

“Indeed. I didn’t really have the means to play it. I needed a bigger computer, something able to convert it. And I needed someone who’d be able to interpret it.“

“So you used the Library, a computer big enough to handle Matrix data.“ River was beginning to understand. They weren’t her memories that had bled into the artificial reality. It was data the Thirteen had fed into the system. In turn it had helped her unlock her own memories of what she’d seen in the Matrix. “What is that memory? What’s the story behind it.“ She asked, drawing his attention back as he seemed momentarily distracted. Not by his other personalities, for once, but seemingly by something outside.

“A missing puzzle piece.“ He answered briefly and gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “Now we best get going.“

“What?“ Anita asked confused while River remained silent, her mind racing. What was he planning? She knew better than to underestimate the renegade Time Lord.

“The shadows will be back in a moment.“ He explained in an off-hand sort of way. “Get your coat, Professor Song. Oh wait, you haven’t got a body to put it on.“ He laughed, then disappeared.

“River…“ CAL reached out for River’s hand but she grasped into thin air, River was gone as well.

——

Glasgow, 2021

“So this is where you went once the Daleks were gone?“ Ryan asked Jack as they started walking further into the underground building.

“Had to go say hi to Gwen here and she filled me in on what’s been going on. I’ve been out in the universe too long it seems. Time to look after the home front.“ Jack explained with a determined nod and Kate smiled:

“We’re glad to have you, Captain.“

“How many people have you got here.“ Graham looked around, marvelling at the size of the place. It could have housed a hundred easily and there was an erie quality to it with how quiet and seemingly empty it was.

“Not as many as you’d hope. Friends of the Doctor’s it’s quite an exclusive club, but it’s not quantity, it’s quality.“ Kate answered leading the way.

“So how do you know the Doctor?“ Ryan asked Gwen who was walking alongside him.

“Only met him briefly, during one Dalek invasion or another. Honestly, it all blends together.“ She chuckled.

“Ms. Cooper is one of Torchwood’s finest.“ Kate interjected and Gwen sighed:

“And only remaining member…“

“Hey!“ Jack took offence and elbowed her.

“You don’t count, you’re off doing other stuff all the time.“ Gwen slapped his shoulder affectionately and carried on to explain: “I have been trying to rebuild the Torchwood Three hub as well, seeing as it’s closer to home, but it’s slow progress.“

“Torchwood, like UNIT, is like an agency, is it? To ward of aliens?“ Graham asked, trying to wrap his head around it.

“In a nutshell, yes.“ Kate nodded as she lead them down some stairs. “If you come through here, I will introduce you to the rest of the team.“ The steps opened up into a large room. “I know it’s late but they have been waiting up for you.“ They reached a big communal living and working area. There were several tables, desks, computers and such and amongst it all: four people.

“Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Sinclair, let me introduce Dr. Martha Jones and Mr. Mickey Smith, two of UNIT’s finest field agents and former travelling companions of the Doctor’s.“ Kate gesture towards a couple who were lounging on a sofa, currently devouring a Chinese take away with great enthusiasm.

“Nice to finally meet you.“ Martha smiled at them warmly and Mickey, his mouth full of food, couldn’t speak and just gave a wave with his chopsticks. They got up to shake hands as the group approached.

“Likewise, I guess.“ Graham managed an awkward smile as well. During their travels with the Doctor, they had never really stopped to think how many more people had taken trips in the TARDIS before them. It was strange to think that there were other people out there who would understand what it was like, experiencing the vastness of the universe like they had.

“And these are the Osgoods, the scientific hearts and minds of UNIT.“ Kate carried on and gestured to two women, apparently twins, who were sharing a work station. They simultaneously looked up and smiled in greeting.

“I’m Ryan, this is my granddad Graham.“ Ryan introduced them. “We don’t usually do, like, formal…“ He looked around the room awkwardly. This was a lot more official than he was used to. “Like if you don’t mind, first names are fine.“ Graham nodded in agreement.

“Petronella.“ One to the Osgoods smiled.

“Petronella.“ The other Osgood smiled.

“So… you two have the same name? How do we keep you apart?“ Graham asked, confused, wondering what their parents had possibly been thinking.

“You don’t.“ Kate answered in amusement. “That’s the whole point.“

“Right.“ Ryan decided it was best to just accept that. They had just been recruited into a secret organisation to fight of extraterrestrial threats and entered what looked like a very fancy underground bunker… identical twins with the same names really wasn’t top of the weird-list right now.

“Care for some Chinese?“ Mickey offered. They had ordered way too much as usual.

“Don’t mind if we do.“ Graham grinned since they hadn’t had time to eat before setting of on the long drive. He had been eyeing it up, hoping that was where the evening would be going.

“Ma’am, if we might have a word…“ One for the Osgoods demanded Kate’s attention as everyone else settled down to eat.

“What is it?“ The UNIT chief asked and walked around the desk to be able to look at their computer screens.

“We have found another two bodies.“ The other Osgood answered, pointing something out on the computer and Kate frowned:

“Same MO?“ She asked, leaning closer.

“We fine-tuned the algorithm, running through police data bases and found two matches.“ Osgood confirmed.

“Where?“

“Greater London.“ The other Osgood answered. “Pulled out of a lake. It was fortunate that a couple was walking nearby and spotted movement by the water. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been found for weeks probably.“

“Captain?“ Kate looked up to Jack who was currently recounting to Gwen, Martha and Mickey how he had met Ryan and Graham. “Two for pick up.“ She announced.

“On it, will be back in a flash.“ He gave a dazzling and apologetic smile to the others and came to join Kate and the Osgoods. “Just tell me which morgue they’re in and you’ll have them on your slab momentarily.“ He looked at the screen and skimmed the report.

“So… not just people disappearing from time, murders too?“ Graham asked, listening in.

“This is not your garden variety homicide, I’m afraid, Mr. O’Brian.“ Kate retorted thoughtfully. “You’ll see when the Captain returns with the bodies.“

Jack gave a nod and engaged his Vortex Manipulator.

——

Orbit around the Library, 52nd Century

“Here we go.“ Jenny slipped her hand into her wife’s. She had a bad feeling about this but it couldn’t be helped. They had come out of hyper speed a few minutes ago and had fallen into orbit around the Library.

“A whole planet full of books?“ Yaz couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of it. The idea of having every book ever written together in one place was overwhelming and beautiful.

“And shadows that can kill…“ Dorium couldn’t help but point out. The idea that a world so beautiful was forever lost made Yaz’s heart feel heavy. What a waste.

“Right, here’s what we’re going to do: your UV grenades, Strax: our best bet would be to send one down ahead of us.“ Vastra looked to her butler who grinned with excitement as he proudly presented the grenades. “We arm ourselves to the teeth with torches and such. We won’t have to stay long. Just contact the Professor, ask our questions, fill her in, and be on our way.“ Vastra gave her wife’s hand a reassuring squeeze and looked around the room into determined faces. “Strax, Jenny and I will go.“

“I want to come, too!“ Yaz insisted immediately, she thought herself just as capable as any of them and she didn’t want to be left behind.

“That’s not part of the plan.“ Vastra shook her head.

“I have been in tight spots with the Doctor as well, I can handle myself.“ Yaz retorted, frustrated.

“I don’t doubt that but someone needs to teleport us back. Mr. Maldovar sadly won’t be able to.“ Vastra pointed out. She had no doubts about Yaz’s ability to hold her own but they needed someone to stay behind. She refused to be split up from her wife and Strax was best placed to handle the weapons equipment. It was the logical solution. “We all have a job to do and we need you to keep us safe from up here.“ She carried on to explain.

“Fine.“ Yaz huffed after brief consideration. “Doesn’t mean I like it though.“ She could see her point but she still felt like she was being sidelined.

“We will be back in no time.“ Vastra assured her.

“Right, let’s get this over with… before I change my mind.“ Jenny sighed feeling anxious. She ran her hand along the hilt of her sword despite knowing it would be useless against shadows.

“Oh, well that’s a surprise.“ Dorium pipped up, drawing everyone’s attention.

“What is it?“ Vastra frowned, confused.

“There is an incoming transmission! Someone in that Library is trying to reach out.“ Dorium explained quickly. He closed his eyes, trying to focus with the help of the communications chip connected to him.

“How do they even know we’re here?“ Vastra asked, worried. That didn’t feel right.

“Beats going amongst the shadows, doesn’t it.“ Jenny pointed out and Strax huffed in disappointment:

“I have been looking forward to this for hours…“

“Put it on screen.“ Vastra ignored his complaint and turned to the large screen at the front of the ship. Yaz turned Dorium’s box around so he could see as well.

“River! River! Where are you!“ A small girl appeared on the screen, looking distraught. She couldn’t be older than ten years old, taking everyone by surprise. “Who are you?“ She demanded to know before any of them could get over their shock. Her eyes jumped between all of them. Her message clearly hadn’t been meant for them.

“I’m Madame Vastra, these are Jenny Flint, Strax, Yasmin Kahn and Dorium Maldovar. We mean you no harm.“ Vastra raised her hands appeasingly, trying to reassure her. What was a little girl doing in the Library? And why was she looking for River Song? “You were calling for River, I can only presume you mean Professor Song, we’re here to talk to her.“ Vastra carried on, hoping to explain and gain her trust. She seemed scared.

“You’re too late.“ The girl sobbed, getting more upset.

“What?“ Yaz asked, with a frown. They all exchanged confused glances.

“She just left, I was trying to reach her but it drains the power, so much energy…“ The screen flickered. There was a blip in the transmission, it wasn’t stable.

“Hang on, hang on, you’re in the computer?“ Vastra asked to clarify.

“I am the computer.“ The girl answered, taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She was not as little as she looked. “I’m CAL.“

“And Professor Song, she’s not with you anymore?“ Jenny deduced and her heart sank. This was the one eventuality they had not been prepared for.

“She was taken.“ CAL confirmed, nodding, wiping her tears away.

“By whom?“ Vastra gripped the back of the pilot’s chair and dug her claws into the fabric. Wherever they turned, it seemed as though they were one step behind.

“A Time Lord.“ CAL answered, after brief consideration, seemingly deciding to trust them.

“What did he look like? Did he give a name?“ Yaz asked quickly.

“He called himself the Thirteen.“ The girl said quickly, as the transmission stalled again. “I’m sorry, I can’t maintain this much longer. Why are you looking for River?“

“We’re friends of the Doctor’s. There are some terrible things going on out in the universe and we need to talk to her.“ Vastra rushed to explain.

“Please find her, he… “

The connection broke and for a moment, there was stunned silence.

“How is that possible?“ Yaz turned to the others, slowly finding her voice again. “You can’t just, like, download a consciousness onto a USB stick or something…“

“Don’t underestimate Time Lord technology…“ Vastra mused, mulling over what they had learned. This was far worse than facing the Vashta Nerada. They had fallen another step behind in a race in which the goal posts seemed to keep moving.

“We need to find her.“ Jenny said, shaking her head to herself. If only they had been a little earlier, they could have prevented this.

“Who’s the Thirteen?“ Yaz looked around the room, hoping for an explanation. Was this another of the Doctor’s enemies she didn’t know about?

“Doesn’t mean anything to me either, I was hopeful you might have come across them?“ Vastra retorted with a frown as they exchanged confused glances. They had each assumed the other would have the answers but the alias was familiar to any of them.

“Oh no…“ Dorium mumbled, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Can you shed some light on this, Mr. Maldovar?“ Vastra asked, turning his box around to face them again.

“I’ve heard of a Time Lord that goes my numerical designations… The Nine, the Ten, the Eleven… depending on which regeneration he is on…“ He answered slowly. The reluctance in his voice gave them all pause.

“Stands to reason this is a new regeneration then?“ Yaz nodded, relieved that they weren’t completely in the dark after all.

“Why change the name though with every regeneration? Must be quite… disorienting, mustn’t it?“ Jenny asked.

“He is a very unique case…“ Dorium hummed thoughtfully.

“How so?“ Vastra could already tell she wouldn’t like the answer but she asked anyway.

“From what I have heard, he suffers from a strange affliction… called regenerative dissonance. While the Doctor and other Time Lords retain a sense of self and just change their appearance, he becomes a new person every time and when he regenerates, the other selfs are still present.“ Dorium revealed. He had never actually met them but he had heard enough stories to make sure he never would.

“Like a schizophrenic?“ Yaz asked, unsettled. That didn't sound like the kind of person they wanted to be dealing with.

“Anything else you can tell us, Mr. Maldovar?“ Vastra asked and Dorium gave a wary smile:

“He is a thief, a killer and utterly mad.“

——

The TARDIS

“Do you always leave the door open like that? Anyone could wander in.“ The Doctor found the Master leaning against the console as she reached the control room. Dark hair and beard, stout frame, he hadn’t regenerated, just looked a little worse for wear.

“Master…“ Her voice was barely above a whisper. All sorts of emotions boiled up in her: Disbelief at finding him alive. Worry for having him inside her TARDIS. Hate for all the things he had put her through.

“Hello, Doctor.“ He smirked pushing off the console to step closer. “Nice of you to finally show up.“

“How are you not dead?“ It was the most prominent question on the Doctor’s mind.

“Dying is for other people, dear.“ The Master laughed at how ridiculous that notion was.

“How did you survive the death particle?“ She pressed through gritted teeth as they started circling each other slowly. She was assessing her option for subduing him.

“Did you really think the Cyberium would let its host die?“ The Master’s grin was patronising, as if the answer had been obvious.

“Is it still inside you?“ The Doctor hadn’t even thought about the Cybermen AI that resided inside the Master. She had assumed it dealt with, just like the Master themselves but she should have known they wouldn’t be that easily destroyed.

“Nah… Fizzled out.“ He gave a dismissive wave with his hand. “The effort of creating a force field to protect me was a bit much… Plus, I expelled it and electrocuted it until it stopped moving. I was getting fed up of sharing my memory space.“ He snickered and the Doctor couldn't help but feel a little relieved; one thing she didn’t have to deal with at least.

“You’ve been here this entire time?“ She questioned.

“Where was I gonna go? I destroyed everything! No TARDISes, no space ships left… I did start fixing up a TARDIS but turns out your death particle wiped out the organic components in there as well. I’d have to grow a new one but where to start when every living thing has been destroyed!“ He started rambling in a maniacal sort of way, snapping with increasing anger.

“How long has it been?“ The Doctor asked, hoping he had at least suffered in the meantime. She wasn’t proud of it but after everything he had done to her, she felt he deserved it.

“Oh… a few years, blink of an eye. Ten, twenty? Not sure. Anyway, nice of you to turn up.“ He smirked and his eyes flickered to her reaching for something on the console. “Oh no, you don’t!“ He snapped and pointed the Doctor’s own sonic at her. That’s when she remembered leaving her coat; what a stupid thing to do. And to leave the door unlocked… “So why are you here, Doctor?“ He asked as she raised her hands appeasingly.

“To see if you’re still alive.“ She answered slowly.

“Well I am. What difference does it make to you?“ He snarled.

“And you haven’t left Gallifrey?“ She carried on, hoping to at least get her answers.

“I already told you, are you going soft in the head?“ He snapped.

The Doctor remained silent, unsure how to respond. Should she believe him? Did he have reason to lie? But why would he be back here if he had managed to escape in the meantime?

“And what’s this, Doctor?“ The Master demanded her attention again and held out another item he had found in the pocket of her coat: the green prayer leaf.

“Give that back.“ The Doctor exclaimed, quick to anger. She tried to snatch it off him but he pulled away, putting the sonic between them again.

“Oh, is it personal by any chance?“ He hummed, delighted.

“Give it here.“ The Doctor’s voice turned low and threatening. In her mind, she ran through the possibilities of what the Master could do with her sonic in here. There was so much sensitive technology, a blast at the wrong thing and they could either be thrown into the vortex or explode.

“A prayer leaf from the Gamma Forests if I’m not mistaken… traditional gift for a child… tell me, Doctor, are congratulations in order?“ The Master was quick on his feet as always.

“That’s none of your business.“ The Doctor bit back.

“I take that as a yes. But where is the little devil? And where is the wife?“ He asked feigning surprise. “I presume it is the Professor’s child, isn’t it? Not a little bastard born out of wedlock?“

“Hand that over.“ The Doctor demanded again, holding her hand out.

“No, I think I’ll keep it for the time being. Return it to the little one myself… Like Maleficent taking a gift to little Aurora. Why don’t we go see them.“ He suggested circling around towards the console but the Doctor didn’t move away, instead she stepped right up to him. “Come on, Doctor, I know how much you like your Disney movies. That was funny.“

“Where is he?“ She demanded to know, ignoring his giggling.

“Who?“ The Master frowned.

“My son!“ The Doctor practically yelled, losing her temper at last.

“Ohhh so he is missing? Let me guess, someone took him while you weren’t looking?“ The Master grinned and the Doctor couldn’t tell whether he was pretending not to know anything or if he really didn’t. “Was he getting ice cream across the street and a stranger snatching him away?“

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dorium saw you, you have something to do with this!“ The Doctor wasn’t thinking now. Anger and pain were overshadowing her rational thoughts.

“Dorium? Doesn’t ring a bell…“ The Master shrugged, unimpressed.

“You told him about the Timeless Child, that’s how this whole thing started!“ The Doctor yelled and gave him a shove.

“The Timeless Child? Why would I tell anyone about that dirty secret? Give you all that power? Elevate you? I don’t think so, that secret died with the Time Lords and it’ll die with you.“ The Master spat, suddenly furious as well. They were done doing their dance and playing games.

“You and me are the only people who know about it and I sure as hell haven’t told anyone!“ The Doctor snarled stepping into his personal space again. She wasn’t scared of him anymore. He had no power over her.

“Why would I tell anyone?“ The Master seemed genuinely disbelieving of her accusations. “I killed everyone that could possibly have known about it. And I’m gonna kill you, too.“ He jabbed his finger at her.

“You just try.“ The Doctor pressed through gritted teeth. “Where is my son?!“ She shoved him again and he stumbled backward.

“I haven’t got the faintest idea.“ The Master laughed and the Doctor could tell he was speaking the truth. It threw her for a moment, until a more horrifying idea occurred to her: What if she was just enabling this whole series of events to start? What if she was the reason the Master managed to get off Gallifrey? What if this was how he found out about her child, about Dorium, about the whole thing?

So, just to clarify, the Thirteen (well their previous regenerations), plays a huge part in the Eighth Doctor's audios but you really don't have to know them to (hopefully) follow this story. I fully intend to write it like he's a new character and weave all the information necessary into the plot as everyone else, the Paternoster Gang in particular, learn about him. Originally, I intended to just use Time Lord OCs but as I thought about it, I realised how pointless that would be seeing as there are so many interesting Time Lords in the extended canon. So, if anything is difficult to follow, please let me know! <3

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alloftimeandspacetosee · 3 years

Text

Museum Interview

In which Arlette is still struggling with her war memories.

In the aftermath of the whole Adventure in Time thing! Arlette... I don’t think I dealt with it well at the time, tbh, but it fucked with Arlette a lot. She was always a little bit darker than Aurora - it shows more in some of the pieces that I think need more edited before they go up - and she kinda came face to face with that over this (And other stuff that went down in this roleplay lmao)

Arlette walked on until she could no longer hear the rest of the group, and doubled back through the corridors to get to the Dragon Wars exhibit. She stopped before the doors for a while, eyeing them up. Xenos whistled, pressing a hand into her neck.

“Just curious, Xen,” she murmured. “It’s fine.” And she stepped into the corridor.

There were people in here, kids. On a field trip, it sounded like. Arlette wrinkled her nose, but examined the relics carefully.

The first ones were from the first Dragon War, and she didn’t recognise most of them. But still she read about them, moving slowly until the children were ushered into a different hall and the place fell silent.

At the beginning of the second Dragon War, they had a rough photo of the tapestry from the castle, blown up to full size but still a little fuzzy. Arlette sucked at the side of her mouth, staring up at it. She found new details, even within the fuzz. It had been dark in the castle, after all. The memory of that night came rushing back, and Arlette clenched her hand on the railing in front of her.

Xenos whistled and she blinked, taking her hands away from the railing just as a stout, black woman bustled round the corner.

“Is there any trouble?”

Arlette glanced down at her hands and hurriedly hid the armour, shaking her head. “No… did I set off an alarm?” She glanced at the railing. “Sorry.”

The woman gave her a long look, and glanced up to the photo. “Quite impressive, isn’t it? To have survived that long… we’ll have the real one soon enough.”

“It’s coming here?” Arlette shot her a glance.

“Well, of course. Once it’s had a copy made for the castle.” She nodded. “We are the best museum for Unovan history.”

“Of course.” Arlette nodded, staring up at the copy again.

Lenora marked her gaze to the winged warrior’s face. “Interested in the Truth Blessed? We don’t have much on her, I’m afraid.”

“It’s fine. I know what I need to.”

“You do?”

Arlette bit her lip. “Uh…”

Lenora glanced between the photo and Arlette closely. “Is she an ancestor of yours? The resemblance is uncanny.”

Arlette paused and then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, on my da’s side.”

“Do you have any information that you can give us about her? I am afraid we know very little.”

“What do you know?”

“Her name was Arlette Nightgale, she had a sister called Aurora, and she appeared and disappeared in much the same way.”

“Which was?” Arlette eyed her carefully.

“In the middle of a battle.” Lenora nodded to the photo. “That’s the last sight anyone had of her, we are told.”

Arlette chewed at her bottom lip, looking back up at the photo. “How long after that did the war end?”

“Imeda and Abner came to a truce not long after that battle, bringing the Blessed’s prophecy to fruition.”

“There was a prophecy?” Arlette frowned.

“That there would be peace, but neither side would win.”

Arlette nodded slowly. “Huh. Ok.”

“Would you come with me?” Lenora turned away. “If you are not too busy, of course.”

“Why?”

“I am interested to know more. Is there anybody waiting for you?”

“They’re seeing the fossil pokémon.” Arlette glanced at Xenos, who nodded. She hurried to catch up with Lenora.

They returned to the library and then under it, into the space that had been Lenora’s gym and was now just her office. Lenora bustled around the room, lighting one of the lamps by her desk and gesturing for Arlette to take a seat.

Arlette looked around and tried not to jump as the watchog appeared from a pile of paper. “I don’t know if I have much more information that you about this.”

“Still, you must have some information – small things, family things. Stuff that may not have been widely known.” Lenora sat down, pulling a notebook and a pen towards her. “Such as the relationship between her and the royal family.”

“Relationship?” Arlette blinked. “Like…?”

“Blood ties. Only those of royal blood can be marked by the Tao Trio.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.” Arlette shrugged.

Lenora sighed. “I suppose that’s not the sort of thing one remembers… especially after the Civil War two centuries ago.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it… is there any more?” She gestured to the seat across from her. “Take a seat, do!”

Arlette sat down on the edge of it as the watchog ran back and forth with more paper and books, shifting them around the room. “I don’t know. What sort of things would be of interest to a museum?”

“We know so very little about her, I think anything would help.”

Arlette closed her eyes. “She – we were always told that she didn’t want the blessing. That she took it to protect her sister.”

Lenora nodded and started to write. “Which castle did they live in?”

“They lived in the Veil. Behind the army of ideals, but they were safe. They were family.” Arlette started to play with a scrappy piece of paper. “She flew to the Chasm as soon as she was given the blessing.”

“It would have gotten dangerous for her, behind enemy lines.”

“They were family.” Arlette trapped the paper between long fingers. “They were never enemy.”

Lenora paused. “Of course. Do go on.”

“We don’t really know much more.” Arlette shrugged, gazing at the paper. “She fought for them, tried to talk sense into them.”

Lenora frowned. “Watch – notes on the Dragon Wars, book three.”

The watchog chirped and scurried around. Arlette watched with interest as it pulled a book from a pile and carried it to the table. Lenora took it with a murmur of thanks and opened it, running her hand down cramped words.

“It says here that she had a… ‘terrible Beaste, like unto a stunted and dull Emboar–’”

Arlette smirked, beginning to roll the paper again.

“‘With flames around its neck and a fearsome disposition’.” Lenora looked up. “Do you know what that is?”

“Ty-” Arlette hesitated, then shrugged. “Typhlosion, probably, by that description.”

“Are you sure? They are hard to get.”

Arlette shrugged, releasing the paper. It loosened, but didn’t lose the rolled shape. “That’s what we were always told.”

“‘We’?”

“My… sibling and I.” Arlette glanced upwards. “And I think they’re done, so…”

“You won’t want to keep them waiting.” Lenora nodded and marked down the last of the information. “Of course. Thank you.”

Arlette stood up. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“Do you need help finding them?”

“No, I’ll be fine. We’re – connected.” She gestured at Xenos. “Easy.”

“Ah, well… thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Arlette grinned and backed out of the room, almost running up the stairs.

Soise and Lairisse were waiting in the library.

“That was stupid.” Soise looked up as she appeared from the passage.

“Oh, shut up. I knew what I was doing.”

“As long as you didn’t fumble anything, anyway.” Soise pushed the book back onto the shelf.

“I didn’t,” Arlette said, forcing confidence. “Come on. Are the others really done?”

Lairisse nodded. {They are waiting near the entrance}

“Let’s not keep them waiting, then.”

#pokemon #nacrene #Lenora #unova #oc #Arlette Nightgale #mainverse #2nd gen #writing

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kelyon · 4 years

Text

Golden Cuffs 48: The Search

Cover art by @paradigmparadoxical

Rumbelle Dark Castle BDSM AU

Belle comes home

Read on AO3

By riding Phillippe up the mountain, Belle was able to travel in a single afternoon the distance that had taken her two days of walking. Phillippe was a farm horse, but took easily to wearing a saddle instead of a harness. He carried Belle all day with no signs of distress. They kept up a constant pace until they approached the gates of Rumpelstiltskin’s castle. Only then did they stop. Only then did Belle reconsider the gamble she had decided to take.

It might not work, she thought as she looked up at the imposing iron gates. Rumple might not care for her as much as his letter had hinted. He might be angry that she had come back. Worse, he might ignore her or push her away again. Belle remembered when she had seen him last, when his mask of indifference had completely hidden his true heart. She had known it was a mask, even then. But in that moment she had been too worn down to force him to take it off. If Rumple would have rather lied to her, she hadn’t wanted to have to compel him to be honest. She hadn’t wanted to fight him.

But now she was stronger. She had rested, and recovered, and considered her options. She knew that she wanted him, and she was sure that he wanted her. He loved her--probably--and she was ready to fight for even the possibility of that love. At least once more, she would see him again and try to talk with him, frankly and sincerely. She would give him a second chance.

The gates were open, and Phillippe took her through without hesitation. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Horses were supposed to have a sense about certain things. He could have shied away at the castle of the Dark One. He could have refused to go in, and that would have been a horrible omen. But this good, solid, horse had no qualms about going into the courtyard, and Belle took that to mean she was doing the right thing.

She dismounted when they got to the gravel path and took the saddle off Phillippe’s back. It fell to the ground and she left it there. The thing was too heavy for her to pick up again, and it would also be too heavy for Phillippe to wear while she was inside. If she needed to leave in a hurry, she could always ride bareback down the mountain, and then give that stupid Sheriff another gold coin to buy a new saddle.

Belle held out hope that she wouldn’t have to leave in a hurry.

Leading Phillippe by his reigns, she walked slowly up the gravel path to the castle’s front steps. She had never gotten much opportunity to explore the courtyard. By the time the weather had turned fair enough to venture outside, Belle had been locked in the library.

The last time she had been out here had been the night when Regina and Maleficent had returned her. Regina had dragged her to the stairs, half-naked in the cold, the gravel biting into her bare feet. The queen had tossed her back to Rumpelstiltskin like a sack of rotted vegetables. Belle winced at the memory.

Every time she had seen the courtyard had been in the winter. The lawn had always been an expanse of mud, the trees and hedges bare sticks. But now it was spring, and even in this magical castle, nature had taken hold. Grass grew on the ground, thick and verdant. Phillippe looked at it hungrily. The trees were red with budding flowers about to burst into bloom. Thorny vines climbed on trellises along the walls. Tender new shoots revealed where, in a month or so, there would be roses.

Mama had always loved roses, Belle thought sadly. She used to love them too, though the thought of them was now tinged with grief. Her mother’s casket had been decorated with the flowers. And Maleficent had tortured her with thorns. Rumple used to tame her hair with oil of roses, but then he’d stopped, and the lack of them hurt more than their presence ever had.

Nevertheless, Belle admired roses. They were so singularly themselves. Like life and love, they were made of both thorns and petals, beauty and pain together. Perhaps that was why Mama had liked them too. Perhaps she had understood them. She had always wanted Belle to marry in the early summer, when the roses were in their fullest bloom.

There was a decorative pond in one corner of the courtyard. Belle led Phillippe over to it. Rain water trickled down from the roof and poured out of a spout to collect in the pond. Cupping her hands, Belle took a drink from the spout to test it. After a moment, when she could determine that drinking the water from the magic castle didn’t immediately turn one into a frog, she dropped the reigns and let Phillippe take a drink.

“And enjoy the grass too.” She pet his flank as he took his fill of the water. “I’ve never found a stable in this castle, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. When I find it I’ll come back for you. If nothing else, I’ll get my plate and think up a nice pile of oats for you. How about that?”

Being a horse, Phillippe didn’t answer Belle’s question. But it was still nice to have something to talk to. Better than talking only to herself.

She patted him again. “You’re a good boy. Thank you for taking me this far.”

She would have to go the rest of the way herself.

****

The front doors opened on their own as she approached. Slowly, and with more than a little trepidation, Belle climbed the stairs up from the courtyard and entered the foyer. This was where she and Rumple had waited for the guests on the night of the party. More importantly, this was the first room of the castle she had ever seen.

She had been so frightened then--a child who had just made a deal she’d had no ability to understand. She’d had no idea what the Dark One would want from her, and no idea how much she would end up liking it, liking him.

The same table stood in the center of the room, with the same wide vase of dead flowers on top of it. Suits of armor guarded the corners and the stone room gleamed with polish. It was chilly in here. Belle wrapped her cloak around her and pressed on.

Two staircases led to the two different wings of the castle, but right now Belle’s focus was on the center set of doors. They led to the dining room and the rest of the main building. That was where she had spent the most time with Rumple. That was where she wanted to go first.

The doors to the dining room also opened at her approach, and as she entered the room her mouth dropped in horror. Late afternoon light poured in through the windows, where she had pulled the curtains down so long ago. She could see everything that had happened, the shambles that remained of this great room.

Her first thought was that vandals had broken into the castle. They must have looted the place, then destroyed everything they didn’t want to take. The glass cabinets at the end of the room were smashed, the wood frame that held them together in splinters. The tools and trophies within the cabinet had been taken out and thrown around the room. The little wooden cupboard where she pulled out the tea set had the door hanging open on one hinge.

The tapestries had been pulled from the walls and ripped to shreds. The artefacts on pedestals had been thrown to the ground. Rumple’s chairs--both the wooden chair at the table and the stuffed armchair by the fireplace--were toppled and discarded. Papers littered the floor, whole books seemed to have been ripped open and scattered. Rumple’s prized possessions were destroyed and discarded, tossed around like they meant nothing.

Belle put her hand to her heart. This was her home too, and it hurt her to see it violated. Especially this room, where they had spent the most time together. The lush carpet in front of the fireplace was covered in ashes and burn marks. The table where Rumple liked to lay her out for his enjoyment had been upended. There was a terrible, splintered crack that almost broke the varnished surface into two. This room had been a place where she’d felt safe, no matter what Rumpelstiltskin did to her. But now it had been invaded and ruined.

Even the tea set had not been spared. Shards of white porcelain piled up in one spot along the wall, as though someone had thrown the cups and saucers there with force. The teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl were a part of the mess, the sugarcubes disintegrating from the impact. She had served Rumple tea from that set a hundred times, the cuffs pulling her hands at his order. And now it was shattered. It was in such a disarray that she couldn’t even look for pieces of the chipped cup.

She kept looking around. On the ground in front of the cabinet there was a stout stick, perhaps a walking staff. Belle crouched down and picked it up. The wood was worn smooth with use, and there were markings notched into the side. Whoever had smashed the cabinet must have used this to do it.

“Rumple?” Belle closed her eyes and gripped the staff to let it steady her. “Rumpelstiltskin, are you here? Are you all right?”

There was no answer. Perhaps he was out. Perhaps he had gone on one of his deals. Surely no one could have plundered the home of the Dark One if he was still in residence. What kind of fool would have the temerity to break into a place like this? Who would destroy the possessions of the most powerful being on earth?

Could Regina have done this? But why? And how? Surely the castle had defenses against such an obvious enemy. Surely her magic was no match for his. Surely Rumpelstiltskin would protect his home from all outside encroachers.

A terrible thought entered Belle’s mind: No one could have done this except Rumple himself. She had seen the results of his temper often enough to know what happened when he got upset. He hurt his things when he himself was feeling hurt.

Holding the staff, she remembered one of the drawings in the safe room. Young Baelfire had drawn his father walking with a staff. And the markings along the side, they were the height of a young boy growing throughout the years.

Belle set the staff upright along the wall. It had been Rumple’s, before he had lost Baelfire, before he had become the Dark One. And he had used it to wreak havoc on his own home, his own possessions.

“Oh Rumple,” she murmured. “What is going on inside your mind?”

She gave the room another look around, then shook her head and went out the back door. She went up the stairs to the landing and the wide corridor where the twin bedrooms faced each other.

When she had worn the cuffs, they had never allowed her to enter the angry room, but now nothing stopped her. Her walking boots crunched on the glass as she examined the debris. The curtains were ripped to tatters but still blotted out the fading daylight. There were no candles, and Belle had to pick her way carefully through a maze of broken furniture. This place looked like an older version of what the dining room was now. It had been subjected to years of raging destruction instead of mere days.

The darkness in the room could not obscure the outline of fists punched into the stone walls. Belle reached up and traced the dents with her fingertips. At the sight of this power and anger, Belle was filled not with fear, but with a deep and abiding sorrow. That a man as brilliant and gentle as Rumpelstiltskin could be reduced to a howling animal, without reason or self-control--it made her heart swell with sympathy.

“You’re not in here, are you?” The torchlight from the corridor cast a thousand shadows and illuminated nothing. “Please don’t hide from me, Rumple. Not now. Not if you’re still in pain.”

She waited for a moment, but there was no movement in the darkness. Nodding, Belle stepped out of the angry room.

On the other side of the corridor, the luxurious room was just as empty. It was easier to tell he wasn’t hiding among the royal blue draperies and polished wood furniture. As soon as Belle entered this room, candles in a dozen gold candelabrum burst into glowing life.

She had always thought that this would be the room he would sleep in. He had never taken her in the velvet-draped bed that was bigger than her old cell. She had thought that was because it was private to him. This was by far the grandest bedroom in the castle. It was the place for the master, the most powerful person in the world.

But Rumpelstiltskin didn’t sleep, so he didn’t need a bedroom of any level of grandeur. This room was as empty as any other she’d been in. And though there was no dust or musty smell, there was a distinct feeling of disuse. It was empty now, and had been empty for years.

She went to the door at the end of the corridor, the door that led to Rumpelstiltskin’s tower. It was where he spent the most time alone, where he brewed potions and read magical texts and spent whole days spinning straw into gold.

This was where she had seen him last, where she had lost their final battle of wills. With a frozen smile, he had told her she was free, told her that a happy ending was one where they had nothing to do with each other.

Had he really believed that?

There was no noise as Belle walked up the spiral staircase into the tower. There was no whir of his spinning wheel, no muttering or footsteps or clinking of glass vials. When Belle reached the tower room itself, it was deserted.

At least it wasn’t destroyed, she thought as she looked at the worktable. It was lined with delicate instruments, tools Rumple had ordered her not to touch. On the other side of the room, the tall cabinet still stood upright. That was where he stored spools of golden thread, shelves and shelves of them. Each ball of gold measured out a full day when he’d had nothing else to do but spin.

His wheel still stood by the window. Suddenly exhausted, Belle sank onto his stool and lightly touched the wooden spokes of the spinning wheel. Bundles of straw lay in a basket at her feet, a single stalk poked out of the orifice, leading to a bobbin wound with gold. He might have just left. He might have been away for years.

Only now did Belle begin to understand the enormity of the task she had set out for herself. There were over a thousand rooms in the castle. It had taken her months to explore as much as she had, and she knew that there were places she hadn’t been to yet. If Rumple wasn’t in any of his regular places, there was no way to know where he could be.

“Assuming, of course, that he’s in the castle at all,” Belle said. “Are you?” She looked around the empty room, never giving up hope that he could hear her, that he would answer. “Rumpelstiltskin, are you somewhere I can find you?”

She could almost imagine his voice, almost hear him teasing her. You won’t find anything if you’re not looking!

“But do you want to be found, Rumpelstiltskin?”

In the dimming twilight, Belle looked around the tower. Her heart was heavy, until she spotted something familiar.

Belle stood up, not quite believing what she saw. She reached out to the worktable and picked up a small glass vial. It was half-full of coarse powders. It had been sitting exactly where she had placed it before she left.

“The memory potion,” she said aloud. All of a sudden, she was smiling. She laughed, just as she had when she had read the letter.

He hadn’t taken the memory potion! He didn’t want to forget her! When they saw each other again, he would know who she was. Perhaps he would want them to be together. Perhaps he too held out hope that they could be happy together. Perhaps he believed that they could love each other.

“Right!” Belle said as she headed down the stairs. “Back to work.”

****

She went through the castle as quickly as she could. She took one of the candelabrum from the royal blue room and carried it with her in the darkening twilight. Most candles were already lit, or ignited themselves as she approached, but she felt better for carrying her own light in the darkness.

Her search was methodical and thorough. She made her way to the highest floor of the east wing and then went down and across, room by room, covering the entire floor before she descended to the next one. All the while she called out his name. Even if she was wrong about his affections, at least she could get his attention. Even if he was ignoring her, even if he hated her, calling out might get him to appear out of sheer annoyance.

Passing through the rooms was a journey through her past in this castle. There were so many places she had discovered before, on those long and dreary days when he had left her alone. And there were so many places he had taken her to, where they had been together, where they had delighted in each other. She saw the pink bedroom where he had taken her after she had nearly frozen, the orange drawing room where he had hidden a book for her to find, the ballroom where they had danced together.

The pus-green room where he had carried her during her illness was a sobering reminder that their times had not always been good. When she was sick, she had been too weak to enjoy him pleasuring her, but he had done it anyway. He had used her body for his own satisfaction, regardless of what she’d wanted to allow. And after he realized what he had done he had whipped her, beaten her bloody for the first time. He had been angry with himself, and he had taken it out on her. His thing.

“Now I fear your anger less than your indifference, Rumpelstiltskin,” Belle said as she moved on.

He had tried to make it up to her. That incident had led to their arrangement, the way he would pay her for any extraordinary pain or humiliation. He had given her the right to ask any question of him, and he would have to answer truthfully. And that was all she wanted from him, when it all came down to it. She wanted him to be honest with her. Even if the truth was terrible, she would rather have that than the sweetest lie.

Belle turned a corner and found herself in a hallway that was sickeningly familiar.

She still didn’t know why he had ordered her to stay in the library and never pleasure herself again. It was the cruelest order he had ever given her, and all the more painful because of how senseless it was. By then, he had known how much she valued his honesty. Belle could endure anything as long as she understood the reasoning behind it.

But he had given her no reason. He had locked her away and hadn’t spoken to her for weeks.

The door was still open from when she had disobeyed him, after weeks of isolation that had almost driven her mad. She had escaped, and she had bolted, because some things could not be endured. Not even for him.

Belle took a deep breath and looked at the door, the door that was never supposed to open once it had shut. She couldn’t bring herself to step foot in the library. She told herself she wasn’t wearing the cuffs anymore, that Rumpelstiltskin’s orders had no power over her. But all the same, she could not fight the idea that if she went inside the library she would never come out again.

“Please don’t be in there,” she whispered. Then she lifted the candles to the darkened doorway and called, “Rumple?”

Her free hand drifted over the threshold and Belle felt a tingle of magic. She gasped, but then relaxed. So, the protection spell was still working. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t be in the library. No one could enter except Belle herself.

Giddy with relief, Belle took a breath and turned her back on the library. That room had been a place of too many sorrows. She was glad that she wouldn’t have to face it again today.

Turning another corner, Belle came upon the scarlet bedroom, the place where she had asked Rumple to take her body back after her time with Regina and Maleficent. That was more like it. Those were the times that she wanted to remember. She wanted to think of reconciliation, of all the ways Rumple apologized when he did something wrong. He always made sure the scales balanced.

Even her time in the library, it seemed, was merely the price of her freedom. She had borne weeks of the cruelest punishment imaginable and he had paid her by releasing her from their deal altogether.

But that was never a price Belle had agreed upon. She didn’t want to be away from Rumpelstiltskin. She wanted to be near him, and have him trust her with the truths of his heart.

She kept going down every staircase she could find. There was no reason to think that Rumple would be in the nurseries or the servant’s quarters, but Belle wouldn’t leave any stone unturned. When she got to the massive, empty kitchens, she knew that she had reached the end of this wing.

It was fully dark outside. The flames of the torches and the candles in Belle’s candelabra cast shadows on the pale walls. Belle sat at the long kitchen table and rested for a moment. She watched the lights and the shadows dance together, gold and dark and beautiful.

Belle rested her head on her arms. She had searched half the castle and she hadn’t found him, hadn’t gotten the slightest hint of his presence. She had called and called and he didn’t answer. She had searched and searched but he wouldn’t be found.

The bag was still on her shoulders. Belle pulled it off and took out some of the bread and cheese he had packed for her journey.

She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop looking for Rumple, even just to sleep for a few hours. Where would she sleep, anyway? Was there a single bedroom in this castle that would be a place of rest for her? Was there an inch of this castle that didn’t haunt her with memories of Rumple?

She hadn’t found stables either, so there was nowhere to put Phillippe to bed. But he was a sturdy horse. A warm night under the stars would do him no ill.

Belle stood up. All that mattered now was finding Rumple, or at least establishing that he wasn’t in the castle. She could do that. She was already halfway done.

“Right,” she said. “To the west wing.”

She wouldn’t give up. Not yet.

****

It was slower to search this part of the castle. Belle kept closing her eyes as she walked the familiar halls and staircases. Her feet plodded along in their boots, relying on reserves of determination that Belle was not aware she possessed. The candelabra in her hand grew heavier and heavier as the night wore on. Her calls to Rumpelstiltskin grew weaker. She muttered, instead of speaking clearly, as exhaustion threatened to overtake her.

Belle went up to the tower room where they had spent the night with Jefferson and Leona. Then the light blue room where she and Rumple had made love for the last time. Those places filled her with a wistful melancholy. She was glad for the things that had happened in those rooms, but they seemed so long ago now. The joy she had felt then, the feeling of being loved, now seemed so distant that Belle was sure she would never know such feelings again.

She found the room hung with tapestries that told the story of the seduction of a unicorn. The magical creature slowly came closer to the maidens in the wool. They tempted him with the joys of the senses, with flowers to smell and food to eat, and the reflection of himself in a mirror as he rested his head in one of their laps. In the end, the unicorn was tamed. The final tapestry showed the beautiful beast in a collar, but he didn’t seem unhappy. He looked up in adoration at the woman who held him by the horn.

Belle knew exactly how he felt.

The next door down the hall was small and wooden, and had no way to be opened. Vividly, Belle remembered Rumple shutting this door and pulling the latch away from wood. He had made it disappear, so she could never again go into the room he had kept for the things that had belonged to his son.

“Are you in there, Rumple?” she spoke as clearly as she could into the wood. “If you are, I won’t disturb you, but please tell me.” Belle rested her forehead against the door and closed her weary eyes. “All I want is to know where you are, that you’re alright. I can’t stop until I’ve found you,”

She waited, but there was no sound from Baelfire’s room. Belle could not abide talking to a closed door, so after a moment she backed away.

The hallway ended in a rounded wall, very similar to the entrances of all the various towers of the castle. Everything Rumple cherished, he seemed to put near a tower.

Blinking, Belle raised her candles to the stone. The bricks in the center of the wall were slightly different than the bricks along the edges. The color was off, and they were just a bit smaller. Belle reached out and touched them. Some of the bricks were noticeably smoother than the others. As she looked, she saw that the different bricks made up the shape of a small archway. The shape of a door.

“The safest room,” Belle whispered. Then she banged the flat of her hand against the stone. “Is this where you’re hiding?” she shouted as loudly as she could, slapping the bricks with all the force she could muster. “Rumpelstiltskin! Answer me!”

But, as usual, there was nothing. She stepped back and looked at the bricks again. This had to be the door to the room that had no door. The room where Rumpelstiltskin felt safest could only be entered by magic. But maybe she could think of something. Belle would come back with a hammer and a chisel. She would tear the wall apart if she had to. She would dismantle the castle brick by brick if it would help her find the man she loved.

“I’ll be back.” She pointed a finger at the wall, as though giving it a warning. “The only place left is the dungeons, so once I know he’s not there I will be coming back here and I will find him!” Exhaustion and passion made it easy for tears to well up in her eyes.

Belle took a deep breath, and then another. She was almost done. One way or another, she would have an answer soon.

****

The dungeons were as dark and cold and horrible as ever. It was hard for Belle to believe that she had lived in one of these cells for months. Even in the warmth of spring, even in her cloak, she felt the damp chill seep into her bones. The torches down here were unlit. All the light in this place came from Belle herself, and the candelabra she carried with her.

Three cells in, Belle was ready to give up. He wouldn’t be down here in the muck and the misery. She called his name, but he didn’t answer. He would never answer. He wasn’t anywhere in the castle, and he didn’t want to speak to her. She should just go upstairs and collapse in the first bed she found.

Belle rubbed her face with her hand. No. No, she couldn’t give up, not when she was so close to finishing. There were only a few more cells left. All she had to do was look at them and see that he wasn’t here. Then she could go upstairs and finally sleep. She just had to be able to say that she had searched the entire castle.

“Right,” she said one last time. “Just a little further.”

She stumbled through the dungeons like a sleepwalker. With weak arms, she pulled open door after door. With bleary eyes, she poked her head and candles into the cells and looked around. With a weary, rasping voice she croaked out, “Rumple?”

But he wasn’t in that cell. Or the other. Or another.

The last cell in the hallway was the one where he had put Belle when she had first come here. How fitting, that she would end this journey in the same place where she had begun it, all those months ago. Perhaps she would even sleep on her bench, for old times’ sake. Belle was tired enough that it would probably be easier to sleep on the wooden planks than to make the journey back upstairs to a proper bed.

She opened the door, the door that had been closed but never locked. She thrust in the candelabra and looked around. But there was nothing in her cell. Nothing but her bucket and a pile of old rags by the bench that was… trembling… sobbing...

“Rumple?” Belle could barely breathe out his name. The candelabra was suddenly much too heavy and she set it on the ground.

His eyes were closed, but he still winced at the light and curled in tighter on himself, until he was just a ball on the floor. His clothes were ripped into shreds, his gray-green skin visible through the tattered fabric. His hair was wild and filthy. He shuddered and twitched as though attacked by a thousand invisible monsters. In the flickering candlelight, his face looked drawn and haggard.

“Rumple, what happened?”

But she knew what had happened. He had done this to himself. All the fury that he had lashed out on the dining room had found a new target in his own body.

Belle crouched in front of him and tentatively placed her hand on his arm. He jerked back at the touch, losing his balance and sprawling backwards onto the filthy dungeon floor. Only then did he open his eyes. They were wide and panicked, bloodshot. His gaze darted around the room until it finally landed on her.

“Belle.” It was less than a breath, almost less than a thought. His body trembled but his eyes stayed steady on her. “You’re real.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I came back. I…” she couldn’t think of how to say what she wanted. “We’re not done.”

“No,” he agreed in a hushed tone. His breath came in heavy pants. He seemed to be forcing himself to recover. He stared at her like she would vanish if he blinked. “There is something you must have, before anything else happens.”

His arms still covered his chest and abdomen--the defensive posture of a man who had been kicked in the stomach. His shoulders hunched up around his neck. He seemed so small, so weak. In one hand, close to his heart, he held something white and smooth. Was it the chipped cup?

The objects in his other hand were easier to identify. Thin bands of gold encircled two of his fingers as he clutched his hand into a weak fist. Belle recognized them at once.

Her cuffs.

#golden cuffs #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfic #rumbelle fanfiction #ouat

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thorbunni · 5 years

Text

heartbeat

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader, natasha romanoff x steve rogers (platonic)

warnings: cursing, mentions of torture, angst

summary: you’re kidnapped in order to torture and lure the black widow, but it becomes a trip down memory lane for the both of you.

a/n: sorry about my short hiatus, life has been a stressful place for us all as of late. i started this a while back, but i randomly got the inspiration to finish this early this morning. this is set in the time frame right before the winter soldier, when both steve and nat were working for S.H.I.E.L.D. enjoy!

The door to Natasha’s room was thrown off it’s hinges, revealing a disheveled Steve Rogers standing in the hallway. His eyes were bloodshot with defined bags underneath them, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Sweats hung low on his hips and his shirt was loosely splayed across the muscles of his upper body.

“Nat, come on. You’ve been at this for days. We’ll find her, but you need to sleep first. Tired eyes and terrible judgement will do you no good once we find her location,” Steve said as he flipped on the light switch. The red-haired woman winced at the sudden influx of light into her corneas.

Steve took this opportunity to look at her surroundings while she desperately attempted to find something to cover her eyes. The walls of her room were covered in pictures of you, all connected by pieces of red yarn and sticky notes. Every mob boss, every criminal, every high-level enemy the Avengers have ever fought (including Tony Stark) had their portrait and information stapled onto the wall above her bed. The furniture had been shifted and there was a shattered lamp in the corner of the room. Steve gawked at the mess that was unusual of Nat to create. However, he couldn’t be surprised, as you made her do things that Steve would never have thought she would do.

“I can’t, Steve,” she spoke softly, voice cracking as she looked up at the super soldier with teary eyes. “You know I can’t do that.”

“But you can,” Steve walked over to sit next to her on her unmade bed, carful to avoid the dirty clothes and hidden pieces of glass. “Look, you haven’t been getting anywhere. Maybe a pair of fresh eyes will help you discover something useful that would lead us straight to her.”

Natasha said nothing in reply. Her endeavor for something to cover her eyes led her to smother her head in a bed sheet, and her body gave into her exhaustion. Steve placed her entire body into her bed, tucking her in for the night. He rose from the bed, turning off the light and picking up the broken door, resting it on the doorframe.

“Miss Romanoff, Director Fury wished for me to inform you and Captain Rogers that we now have a location on Miss Y/L/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s voiced blared through the overhead speakers. The morning drowsiness was wiped from her system as soon as she heard those words. She rushed from her place in bed to get her suit, almost throwing onto her body while she awkwardly hopped down the hallway.

The Quinjet ride was longer than usual, even though they were flying halfway across the world. Somewhere in Southern Europe, Nat thought she remembered hearing Fury say. She wasn’t listening during the briefing, her mind consumed with the thought of getting you back. You hadn’t been gone for very long, just under two weeks, in fact. But Natasha was a mess without you. You were the only stability in her life. You were her light. You were the only positive thing her life had ever seen. So when you went missing, her mind crumbled. Natasha was so obsessed with getting you back, that she no longer took care of herself. As far as she was concerned, you were probably being beaten and tortured to get to her, so she shouldn’t waste any time on things that took time away from finding you.

Finally, the plane touched down on the snowy ground. The door unfolded, the frigid air flooding the Natasha’s senses. Steve placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Nat, you okay?” he asked of her. She nodded timidly, just barely hearing his question.

The cold didn’t affect the two agents, as Tony had a heater sewn into all of their suits to prevent them from dying. Their trek through the snow lasted for what seemed even longer. Every thought that dragged through Natasha’s head revolved around you. Except for one. She thought of what she was going to do to the person that took you. Natasha would use every ounce of her training to ensure that whoever had you was going to die a slow, agonizing death. She would make them suffer until death seems like the best possible option. Lost in her head once again, she didn’t realize that she had arrived at the base. Natasha would’ve ran straight into a wall had Steve not taken her by the shoulders and forcefully moved her in front of the gateway. It was a normal-looking, abandoned military base, mainly comprised of bricks and steel beams. With a nod of agreement, the two pulled out their weapons and stealthily marched up the steps and into the base, determined to bring you back home.

Not long after forcing the heavy door ajar, Natasha found the base completely empty. Every corridor, room, hallway, and staircase was barren and left devoid of evidence that anyone had been there recently. A particular room caught their attention more than the others: the library. Still remaining on high alert, she began to flip through the pages of the open notebooks that sat on the wooden desk in the center of the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, most tall enough to require a ladder to reach the top levels.

“Hey, Nat,” Steve whispered from the elaborate doorway, “Come here. I think I found something.”

Natasha placed her hands on her gun once again, raising it to eye level as she moved towards Steve. The super soldier pointed down a dark, narrow corridor with a gesture of his head.

“Can you hear that, Nat?” Steve said, lowly. She closed her eyes, trying to listen out for footsteps or any other sign of the enemy approaching. For a split second, the assassin could’ve sworn that she’d heard classical music playing deep down the hallway. The kind of classical music that the Red Room would slowly train the girls to hate as their bodies crumbled to the floor in exhaustion.

The farther Nat and Steve travelled down the hallway, the more prominent the music became. In just a few seconds, the faint music filled Natasha’s ears. A loose brick in the wall caught her eye. Steve held his shield out in front of her as she felt around the wall, finally pushing the brick into the wall. The sound of Nat’s quick-paced heartbeats echoed off of the walls, possibly the only sign that gave away their position. She released her hand outstretched hand from the wall. At this point, the Black Widow was desperate for any trace of you or your presence.

The wall slid to the side, making the entire room tremble around them. Steep stairs heading down into a basement now laid in front of the two agents in place of the large wall. She descended down the staircase without a second thought, foregoing all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s protocols and all of her training. When it came to you, fuck protocols. The red-haired woman no longer held her gun and completely ignored Steve’s silent warning signals. She didn’t care. All she had to do was get to you and get you home safe. Only then would she be okay.

As soon as the tip of her boot touched the base of the last stair, bright lights cut on. In the exact center of the room was a table and a chair setup in a classic forceful interrogation manner. Little blood splatters covered the entire concrete floor. A two-way mirror had been installed into the wall to the left of where they had entered the room, but they had no time to peer into the tinted glass.

“Nice of you to join me, Miss Romanoff and Mister Rogers,” a stout man revealed himself from behind another door in the room. He couldn’t have been much over five feet, complete with a thin bone structure and sparse, scraggly hair. A set of oval-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his wrinkled nose and a white lab coat seemed to smother his skinny frame. He struggled to stand upright, and instead leaned on his right leg more often than the left. Overall, a classic bad-guy-mad-scientist look.

“Where is Y/N?” Steve’s deep voice boomed in response to the feeble man. Natasha’s throat went dry. She had allowed a man like this to take Y/N. Her Y/N. She was supposed to be the greatest and most efficient killer in the world, but she couldn’t even protect you. Tears began to prick her eyes at the thought, but Natasha knew she could not let them fall. Not in front of a man that was going to be dead as soon as she found you.

“And I suppose you would also like the answer to that question?” the old man inquired sarcastically. He continued his statement after being met with a glare in response to his question, “I had her brought her so I could have a little chit-chat with at least some of the Avengers.”

“What would you like to speak about?” Natasha spat, “Because I can guarantee you that you have exactly 15 seconds to live after you tell me where you put my girlfriend.”

“Is that a threat, Miss Romanoff?” the man smiled knowingly, eyebrow cocked in a manner that could only be executed by the most evil of evil.

“A promise,” she replied, crossing her arms while keeping a gun in her hand.

“Anyways,” he clears his throat, but that only leads him into a major coughing fit that leaves him wheezing, “I suspect that you also want to know why I took her.”

Natasha took a handful of his lab coat and brought his entire body extremely close to her face, ensuring he could hear her say, “Tell us the location of the damn girl before you’re struggling to breath for a different reason.”

Psychotic laughter fell from the lips of the estranged scientist, a chuckle only a madman could even think of doing. Natasha then looked into his eyes for the first time, only seeing the insanity within his green orbs. A permanent grin was painted across his face as he gestured towards the two way mirror.

“Why, Miss Romanoff, she’s just in that other room,” he said maniacally. As if it was connected to it’s words, the mirror cleared, revealing a simple ballet studio. On cue, the music became much more climactic and dramatic as he continued his words, “She seems to love dancing. She even panics when I turn certain compositions on. It’s adorable.”

A leotard-clad woman comes spinning into view, body bent and elongated in ways only a Red Room trainee could achieve. Natasha panicked, feeling her catsuit get incredibly tight when she saw your strained face. She finally has sight of you, but only in pain. Weeks and weeks of no sleep brought her here in the same room as you captor, but not you.

Natasha dropped the scientist and jolted forward, fists pounding on the tinted glass, “Let her out, you bastard! Let her out!”

“If you can get her out, you can have her. But I believe I should be taking my leave,” he confessed before he began foaming at the mouth. His eyes glossed over before his body hit the ground with a quiet thud. Steve rushed over to feel for some kind of pulse, but the dead guy was the last thing on Natasha’s mind.

In half an hour, Natasha had tried everything. She ignored the dastardly memories of her training just so she could get to you. You continued to dance, terrified of the guns that were aimed directly at your heart. Nat continued to attempt to pry at the edges of the mirror, hoping that it would amount to something.

“No bombs, triggers, anything on the premises,” Steve announced as he waltzed back into the room and laid his shield on the table, “Everything dangerous is in that studio.”

“Well, big guy, I’m going to need you to punch this glass really hard because that’s my girlfriend in there and I can’t get to her.”

Steve nodded and lined himself with the glass. His fist connected with the glass: nothing. The captain pulled his fist back once again, with the same end result. On the third try, his fist connected with the glass and it shattered on impact. Natasha jumped through it and dragged you back into the room. Your exhausted body slumped into her arms, little whines coming from your mouth as Natasha guided you to the floor. She knew you’d never cry in front of anyone, but she didn’t need tears to know that you were struggling. It broke her heart to see you so broken. The assassin wrapped her toned arms around your body, and smiled as she teared up herself.

“Shh, shh,” she whispered into your hair, “You’re okay now.”

What she didn’t notice was the foam dripping from your mouth onto her suit.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff imagines #black widow x reader #black widow imagines #black widow imagine #black widow #natasha romaonff #natasha romanov #natalia romanova #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #mcu #captain america #steve rogers

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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DARING DO and THE GRYPHON’S QUEST! : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 17 of 19

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DARING DO

and

THE GRYPHON’S QUEST!

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

and

Carmen Pondiego

Cover art by Aranel the Cyborg, now Wind the Mama Cat

29584 words

Writing begun 03/29/16

This is a Fan Fiction based on My Little Pony. Canterlot, Princess Luna and the name Daring Do are owned by Hasboro Inc.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

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Chapter 17. The Coward’s Weapon!

Daring Do was pleasantly surprised at just how good her half brother Blendin was at specimen preparation. There was another surprise for her too.

Friend spent much of her time crooning to her Eagle eggs. She did frequently leave her nest and lend her green magic to the task, usually greatly simplifying the work. It was the greatest assistance at particularly difficult or delicate times in the preparation of the failed nymphs that she had loved so dearly and watched over for so many centuries.

Almost any time that they took a break from the arduous task before them, Friend would leave the eggs and nest protected by a nearly invisible glow of green magic. She would take a place beside Daring Do and purr/croon softly. Daring Do found real rest and comfort in the love that Friend shared with her. She often rested her head against the changeling’s horn and shared thought and memory.

It was from that sharing that she learned something surprising about Friend. When her hive was attacked by war equipped and battle ready unicorns, Friend defended the hive’s precious eggs.

She slaughtered ten of the enemy, literally tearing them to pieces in the defense of those eggs. When her shared hive mind felt the Queen die, she went briefly berserk. Four of the ten attacking unicorns that she killed fell in those few moments.

It was duty and love for the eggs that she tended that brought her back to something resembling sanity. Taking all of the eggs that she could carry, she fled into the night.

The world outside of the hive was a strange and confusing place at first. By luck alone, she found a long disused road that led to the mountains. She did the best that she could but it was not enough. One by one, she felt the spark of returned love die out of each of the eggs. Her heart was torn asunder by the loss.

Daring Do knew the rest of the story. What she did not know was the sheer depth of feeling that Friend had developed for her. She meant it when she said that Daring Do was Matunen, Hive Queen, in the ancient tongue of Early Middle Equestrian.

Friend was totally contented for the first time in ages. That in no way interfered with any whit of her egg tending.

Blendin saw his half sister’s serene relaxation around Friend and was glad. The Apprentice Librarian of the Great Library in him was glad too. He was learning things about conservation of irreplaceable delicate artifacts and relics that would apply to his work in the Great Library.

Once everything was ready, he stared at the results of their work in wonder. He had not only helped to prepare the whole foundation for the creation of an entire intelligent species, he had it and all of his half sister’s notes cataloged for the Great Library!

Together, they sent a note of their progress to the Empress.

The door, upon opening, showed the Empress, Grata, and Hisst, the Right Wing of the Imperial Throne. The hallway was blocked by heavily armed Imperial Guards in full battle armor.

Daring Do was about to ask if such precautions were necessary when a loud, harsh voice from up the hallway demanded, “This is all Blasphemous! Even if it were the truth and showed our ancient roots, it would still be blasphemy! The Holy Legends declare that Faith alone is sufficient and seeking truth beyond its holy pages undermines Faith!

“Whatever is here must be destroyed!”

The Empress responded, “What is about to be destroyed is YOU, Krapper! You have fifteen seconds to be around the curve and out of OUR sight before I order my troops to open fire!”

“You would not dare!”

“Nine seconds left, Krapper.”

There was a clatter of claws on stone as the speaker retreated!

The Empress drew a deep breath, her crest showing disgust. “The entire lot of First Creation Idiots want to destroy the only real history that our kind has.”

Friend spoke up, “Your Majesty, they are wrong. This I/we know. Before I/we loved the eggs that became the nymphs of your kind, I/we saw changelings. I/we saw unicorns. I/we saw Eagles. I/we saw pegassi.

“I/we helped matunen Daring Do and brother Blendin to be sure that these failed nymphs truly show how I/we loved the eggs that became the nymphs that are your kind.”

The Empress, crest showing deep thought, began tracing the development of her kind. She was reading the placards set by each step of the way. Looking over to the true mother of her whole species, she asked, “Why did you go from pony to big cat for our hindquarters?”

Friend crowded over to point as she spoke. “Not all big cat. See how these bones go? That is from the pegassus. The head was carnivore, Eagle. The hindquarters had to eat meat too or fail. I/we did see a lion in mountains once, close enough to feel its insides by loving it. I/we used what I/we knew.”

Grata, crest rippling in laughter, exclaimed, “We are so lucky that she didn’t see a bear!”

After the fit of laughter passed around the room, the Empress asked, “How will this all be presented, Doctor Do?”

Daring Do sketched rapidly. “The case, to be portable must be of stout woodwork. The front viewing window should be made of glass that has been spell strengthened like a Magic Net mirror.”

The Empress nodded, crest showing some concern. “You mentioned not risking the real relics and that is a good idea.

“We have General Iron Hooves here with some of his munitions experts. The team that they are consulting with is known to you, though we know that you do not like them much.

“V.I.L.E. Is here. They have sent Carmen Pondiego, Baron Von Nighthoof, Marehem Skadefryd, and Kiros Asbhy. I understand that they have also got a number of Agents here too.”

Crest smiling, the Empress went on, “I was warned to be sure that I still have both mandibles of my beak after dealing with them. However, they will be absolutely honest with family.

“They have several missions. One is being worked on now with General Ironhooves and his aides. Another is to be the agency for creating your cases and making the copies for display. I will be ordering twenty sets.”

Daring Do, looking doubtful, did agree, “I have to admit that when it comes to museum quality duplication, Mom’s company is unexcelled.”

An all too familiar voice caroled from the doorway, “So sweet to hear you actually say something nice about my company! Of course we are honest! V.I.L.E. has never been caught or proved to be guilty of ANY crime at all!

“Suspicions? Poof! Suspicion and a cup of tea will get you anything from a nice Bergamont to bag of Lupton’s Worst!

Carmen Pondiego strutted into the room in her trademark porkpie hat and fire engine red dress. She called over her shoulder, “General, Dear, would you please come in and see for yourself what my daughter found that is causing all this mess?”

General Ironhooves entered the door. He was in his simple field uniform.

He tipped his Campaign Hat to the Empress and her Wings. He approached the study tables, examining the relics with care. He picked up Daring Do’s voluminous field notes and sketches, seeming to leaf through them, except that once in a while he stopped long enough to separate pages that stuck together.

He put down the books and turned to the Empress. “Ma'am, you have chosen your battlefield perfectly. Better, you have the enemy in the sights of your artillery.

“I hope that it does not come to armed conflict, but if it does, after consulting with Carmen here, I think that you will have a LOT of surprises for them!”

Daring Do managed to look skeptical. “Only them?”

Before Carmen could snark back, Marehem wandered in, right past the security detail. He grinned. “Helps to be a misfortune changel …”

His eyes bugged out. It was the first time that Daring Do could remember that her uncle Marehem was caught totally off guard!

“An Egg-tender, HERE? How did that happen? How can she live without a hive?”

Friend looked up from serenely turning the eggs in the nest. She smiled as she said, “Matunen Daring Do.”

Uncle M stopped like he’d hit a brick wall headfirst. “Adora, Matunen? A queen?”

The Empress nodded, crest rippling amusement. “It hit us like that too, when we realized that Friend is OVER two thousand years old. She was the sole survivor of a destroyed hive.

“Tending eggs kept her sane. She is the Mother who loved an unstable and fatal hybridization into becoming our strong race. I gather that for her, loving means something other than a simple feeling.”

Marehem got it together to say, “It sure does. The eggs a queen lays are sort of neutral. They will develop as random kinds of changelings. Give them to an Egg-tender and tell her how many of which sort, worker, other egg-tenders, drones, even a queen, and that is what you will get. Their love is a very complex magic that no other kind can do.”

Daring Do, eyes twinkling, suggested, “Make the order for V.I.L.E. twenty one copies. We will donate one to the Nightmare Wars Collection of the Royal Museum!”

General Ironhooves grinned hugely. “You really want to shaft those First Creationists, don’t you?”

Daring Do simply said, “Yes. They defile and deny the history that I have devoted my life to.”

Carmen pointed to the work tables and said, “Will you take a real compliment from your mother, Adora? This, notes, restorations, preparation and all is a fantastic piece of work.

V.I.L.E. will duplicate it with the greatest of care. With your permission, we will keep a copy for our own private museum.”

Mutely, Daring Do nodded.

She saw Uncle M talking to a Magic Net mirror and turning it to show everything.

Carmen pointed to an especially fragile relic and said, “Be especially careful of this one, Baron.”

One by one, the laboriously prepared relics, notes and all quietly vanished. General Ironhooves simply noted, “Handy trick, that!”

Daring Do, Friend, with her nest, and Blendin were brought to a large suite with an open airy feeling. One Gryphon port was open enough for the Eagles to get in and out but not Gryphons. The rooms were swarmed with Eagles.

Friend immediately shared that soft green magic of hers to include all of the waiting Eagles. The way that they crowded close about the nest, it was clear that they had been waiting for Friend’s loving magic. Several shuffled aside and one reached out a beak and snagged Daring Do’s tunic, making her join or get a torn tunic. She joined the Eagles in luxuriating in the literal glow of Friend’s shared love.

After a few days of resting up, Rahak came by. Crest at attention, he requested, “Doctor Do, master Blendin, would you come please? The display copies are ready for examination.”

They followed the Wing Commander back down to the workroom. There were twenty one large cases of fine solid woodwork, each faced by stout glass armored by a spell to the toughness of steel. The contents were beautifully displayed to make the whole progression from hippogriff to Gryphon utterly clear. Each item of the display had its explanatory placard.

Neatly done on each placard was an exact copy of a reference to the actual original Legend Document, with translation. After that part was a clear, simple note explaining the item.

Central to the whole display was Daring Do’s detailed sketch of the remains of the failed nymphs in place, as they were found.

The whole thing had such an impact that Daring Do’s breath drew in, in a way that she had heard so many times as a child riding her mother’s back in a knapsack, when her mother saw some beautiful thing that she was about to steal.

Turning to an equally awestruck Blendin, Daring Do said, “Tell Carmen that this is the best display preparation that I have ever seen.”

“Thank you, dear,” said a familiar voice. A khaki colored unicorn mare in a form fitting fire engine red dress stepped out of the shadows. Daring Do was shocked to see bags under her eyes.

Carmen Pondiego told her, “The General is sleeping now. I have been working along with every agent that I have available. I cannot tell you what we have been doing. Imperial Security is involved. I only hope that it has been enough to prevent the war.”

Rahak suggested, “Let us all prepare for this evening’s banquet. That is when you will make your presentation, Doctor Do.”

Daring Do was looking around the Imperial Banquet Hall, at the many war banners that fluttered in the light breeze. There were also the banners of the provinces of the Empire. The wood and stonework was outstanding for its solidity and rich carving.

Perched on every place that they could find claw room were hundreds of Eagles, looking expectantly at Friend. Her nest had been placed conveniently close to Daring Do’s place.

The dining tables were all set so that every diner could see the big glass fronted case with its display. There were two small books by each place.

One was a copy of the original document of the Legends, written some time shortly before 54 Post Nightmare Wars. It had an exact copy of the document itself, a line by line literal translation and a third line in modern Gryphon with notes to explain the meaning of idioms used when the original was written. No commentaries. No editing. Only a foreword explaining that this was a true copy of the Legends that they all revered and tried to follow. Commentaries were dispensed with in the hope that the reader could understand what the words said and form their own opinions based on solid fact.

It was signed and sealed by the Empress herself.

The other small book contained copies of Daring Do’s expedition notes and sketches that were relevant to the display showing the origin of their species.

The First Created believers started to scream, “Blasphemy!”

The Empress herself cut them off. “Silence, Krapper! These are the Legends that you CLAIM to revere!”

“You have left out the rich and ancient commentaries!”

Her crest rippling with laughter, the Empress exclaimed, “Ancient? Krapper, the FIRST commentary was inserted into a small book like this only thirty five years ago! It had a note that it WAS NOT HOLY WRIT, only opinion. That note was removed and further commentaries added. More than half of the mass of your book has been added in just the last five years!

“It must be wonderful to be able to write up whatever you please, insert it into the next edition of your book and have it called HOLY WRIT!”

“Our Book is the true Law! Holy Word is higher than mere secular law!”

“NO, Krapper! That is direct sedition! Guards! Stand behind Krapper! If he utters one more word of sedition, cut his wing tendons at once. He will be given the LONG DROP at sunrise for the crime.”

The Empress paused for effect and added, “Now, we have a banquet laid before us. Let not Krapper’s ill manners spoil your appetite. After we have eaten, we will hear from Doctor Daring Do, whose actual facts, well documented and proven may provide you with much food for thought.”

The server placed a plate in front of Daring Do, commenting, “I hope that we got it to your taste. It is a sauced alfalfa steak. We don’t eat such fare, so we are not much used to cooking it.”

Daring Do replied with a smile, “I am sure that it will be fine. You have been doing well the last few days.”

She cut a bite and began to chew. Numbness spread from her mouth. She gasped and could draw no air. Her vision was fading slowly.

She heard, “The Blasphemer has been struck down! Any means to strike at blasphemy is honorable, the Holy Writ is clear!”

The voice of the Empress cried, “Poison is the Coward’s Weapon! Seize them! Do not wait for the Long Drop! Kill them now!”

The voice of Friend cut across the fading din, “No! Matunen still has love. I/we need them! They will wish for your long drop! I/we promise …”

Then no sight. No sound. No touch. No taste. Nothing …

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#DARING DO AND THE GRYPHON'S QUEST!#Part 17 of 19 #MLP Fan Fiction #Written by De Writer and Carmen Pondiego

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