#that it is his neck we could consider how kings often are beheaded and what that symbolizes

[druidonity2]

For The Alliance.

[welllpthisishappening]

falling feels like flying ['til the bone crush]

Someone should revoke her title. 

They’re trying, Emma supposes. Inevitable death probably means people can’t call her savior anymore, but they shouldn’t call her that now and that’s almost entirely because of what an absolute and complete liar she is. Telling Killian she would have done the same after he admitted he didn’t get rid of the shears isn’t her most massive lie, although it might be her most ridiculous. And they both know it’s not true. She wouldn’t do the same thing, she has. More than once. 

AN: That gif has nothing to do with the story! Here is approximately 3.5K where I once again force Emma and Killian to acknowledge their trauma. Not in the Underworld this time, though! So maybe we’re all evolving here. I blame this gif set, which I saw this morning and felt compelled to write something about. Maybe that evolution is also a lie, actually. 

———

“I lied.” Killian hums, exhaustion clinging to the sound, and Emma understands that. Less so why she’s talking right now, but neither one of those words seemed particularly interested in preserving the quiet calm of this particular moment, and she’s never been a lightweight quite like this. In more ways than one, she supposes. Hazy thoughts drift through her brain, muddled as it is by buttered rum and the steady flicker of flames in the fireplace because naturally this is the sort of house that has multiple fireplaces, and she burrows her face closer. 

To Killian’s chest. 

Takes a deep breath, not quite slow, but maybe a little greedy, and they ordered both things. Pizza and Chinese, half-finished egg rolls and beheaded slices of cheese with extra peppers strewn across the coffee table because Emma always likes that extra bit of crust and Killian’s nothing if not a frustratingly endearing sort of pushover. 

With her, especially. 

She closes her eyes. 

“I lied,” Emma repeats, “in the hospital, I mean. Wrong verb tense.” “You’re not making any sense at all, darling.”

Her nose must be cold — if the way Killian tenses as soon as it brushes his skin is any indication, but Emma knows it’s far more than that and far deeper than that and she might be the world’s biggest idiot. Looming death does that to a person, she supposes. 

Breathing isn’t particularly easy. And that’s not only because she ate four pizza slices worth of crust. Still, using death as an excuse again seems like an emotional crutch and an unreasonable reason, her muddled mind capable of clinging to every single letter in that particular endearment. It might be her favorite. 

She’s not sure she’s ever told him that. 

Stupid, really. 

“I told you that I get it; what you did today, and that part’s definitely true. But, uh, the rest of it. That I would have done the same thing? Total lie, right? I mean, I did it. That’s what happened.” Nothing. Just flickering flames and the quiet hum of a TV, neither one of them has been interested in actually watching all night. Emma doesn’t even know what channel they’re on. For all she knows, the remote’s in the kitchen. 

She counts inhales. Tries to keep her exhales measured, most of her face still pressed into the collar of Killian’s shirt as it is. And it takes about five full seconds before his hand moves, starts tracing a calm line up her spine, following that path until he reaches the base of her neck and the goosebumps that have already exploded on her skin and oxygen is overrated anyway. Holding her breath as soon as his fingers card through the ends of hair is basically instinct at this point. 

“Felt wrong to point that out at the time,” he mutters, “all things considered.” “Been kind of a long day.” “Reuniting with long-lost relatives will do that.” Scoffing is not the best reaction. Nothing about this is funny. Includes far too much death and dismay, and Emma’s gaze flickers up. Of its own accord and something much deeper, like the absolute refusal to accept a world where he does not exist. 

Goddamn Captain Hook. 

She loves him so much sometimes she thinks she’ll simply burst with the force of it all. 

It’s a gross thought, honestly. 

And they’ve already spent far too much time in the hospital today.

“Is he ok? Li—” Cutting herself off, Emma grits her teeth, but one side of Killian’s mouth is already tugging up, and the kiss that lands on her forehead is as soft as anything. Maybe bursting isn’t so bad, actually. So long as she can come up with another word for it. “God, that’s so weird.” Killian hums. “Indeed.” “Thoughts, feelings, et cetera?” “Vast. And none of them particularly pleasant.” “Seems fair. That sort of day, huh?” “Indeed.” They need more blankets. Need more things that are theirs in a collective sort of way, but that’s a dangerous and disingenuous train of thought, and Emma’s fingers twitch towards the fire. To ward off the sudden chill that’s settled between her shoulder blades, and it almost works, but it does absolutely nothing to help the sway of her stomach and the acid lingering in the back of her throat, threatening to burn far more than what these meager flames are able to do. 

“Should have finished high school,” Emma mumbles, “then I could choose more accurate verb tenses from my inevitably vast vocabulary. Did. Have done. Would do again, several thousand times over.”

“That’s the future tense.” None of his words come with any kind of pointed emotion, but Emma hears it all the same. Can see the tightness that lingers in the corners of his mouth and the way he’s holding his shoulders, straight as a line, and some joke about rigging that she no intention of making, and the furrow between his brows makes every muscle in her chest twist. Ache too, for good measure. 

With the promise of everything she wants to say and everything she hasn’t or can’t and—

Fuck magic, quite honestly. And the rules no one’s bothered to mention until now. Seems like poor planning on everybody’s part. 

“You heard me.” “I did,” Killian agrees lightly, and his hand has never actually stopped moving. It’s nice. Steady. Something Emma can almost nearly time her breathing too. “I would also choose that particular tense. If given the choice, that is.” “Do you not think you have that?” “I don’t particularly enjoy the thought. I’m rather partial to the option of whim, you see. Pirate and all that. We don’t much abide by schedules and fated decision.” “Seems like it’d be in the by-laws.” “Well, by-laws by their very nature are rather contradictory to the entire pirate notion, but you’ve got the gist of it at least.” Emma laughs. Doesn’t quite regret the sound, even as out of place as it is — just presses it into the edge of Killian’s shirt and the buttons he never bothers to do, trying to brandh the smell of him and the feel of him into every corner of her memory and she’s not really sure what happens after. Once the prophecy is fulfilled, and all that. 

She’s got too much unfinished business. 

To totally leave this particular plane of reality. 

She doesn’t mention that either. Not when the crux of that business is breathing steadily under her hand, and Emma can’t remember when she moved her hand, only that Killian’s warm under her touch, and he’s always so much warmer. Than just about anything else she’s aware of. 

“I thought you were dead.”

Of all the things Emma expects to happen in the midst of this night and this moment — and it’s really not a very long list, admittedly — that did not even make the cut. Wasn’t a consideration or a fledgling idea in the back of her mind, several different vertebrae almost audibly objecting when she jerks her head up. To find Killian staring straight ahead, lips not much more than a thin line across his face. 

Seriously, the rigging jokes almost write themselves. Which is more than Emma can say about her clearly piece of shit list, as metaphorical as it might be. 

“I don’t—” “—When I saw you,” Killian interrupts, and none of the words shake. Come out like a stream of consciousness and memories neither one of them have able to shake yet. Or talk about. Can’t possibly be healthy. “Chained to that stone, blood dripping into my mouth, and then all of a sudden, there you were. Worried I’d simply dreamt you up, couldn’t imagine how you looked quite that lovely in that hell hole, otherwise.” “Oh, that’s kind of insulting, actually.” “Hair like the bloody sun.” “Better,” Emma murmurs. Reaching up, her fingers tangle with the charms around his neck. Pieces of luck and trinkets she hasn’t learned all the stories to yet. The idea that she won’t makes her nauseous. “You told me ‘you shouldn’t be here.’” “Aye, and I meant it.” “Because you thought…” “Living people don’t often appear in such a God awful place, do they? Not without something tragic happening, and my mind was impressively efficient on that front.” “Which one is that?” “Every threat that’s ever lingered, every person I would have gladly run through if it meant you were safe. Half of goddamn Camelot.” Emma might snicker. Killian’s arm tightens, though. And that’s all she’s really worried about. “I think I could have taken Arthur. Y’know if it had come to that.” “Likely not a very good swordsman,” Killian nods, but that’s only so his lips can trace Emma’s temple and the top of her hair. More than once. Like he’s still making sure. “Pampered prince—” “—He was totally a king, babe. That’s like...the most basic Camelot knowledge.” “Ask me in five minutes if I care at all about anything to do with Camelot.” “Should I time it, or…” He scoffs. Presses another half dozen kisses to any spot he can reach, and he can actually reach a fair amount of places. Emma’s impressed. Swooning too, but also pretty impressed. “I kept thinking about you,” Killian says, softer than the last few words have been, and it sounds like an admission and another promise, and it’s weird that it can be both. At the same time. “This house. What it was and wasn’t. All those possible verb tenses.”

“I’m sorry.” “Ah, that’s not your fault, love. None of this is, really, but—well, it did make it so seeing you, realizing you were there...left all of those thoughts crashing down around my ears, so to speak. Falling apart, like an avalanche of what hadn’t been and what I still wanted so desperately. No matter what Hades did.” “Stupid stubborn.” “I believe there’s something about a pot and a kettle in this realm.” “Don’t have that cliche in the Enchanted Forest, huh?” “Not that I’m aware of, no.” “Maybe you just didn’t go to a good college.” “Tell me every Greek word you know,” Killian challenges, and Emma rolls her eyes. Ignores the first few flutters of a headache brewing at the base of her skull. “It didn’t seem fair.” “Which part?” “All of it is also rather vast, but mostly that if you were there, then it happened again.” Narrowing her eyes, Emma tries to piece together those letters and the syllables they make, only to be marginally annoyed when she can’t make sense of them. Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. 

She might have to go get Tylenol soon. 

“Losing you without fighting, without challenge the goddamn reaper myself, was worse than anything He could have done,” Killian continues, and he doesn’t have to be more specific. “Worse than whatever pain I’ve ever suffered. Cut off twenty more limbs; it wouldn’t even come close.” “Do you have that many?” “Your humor lacks a little something; you know that, Swan?” “It’s a defense mechanism.” He noses at her hair. Drags the soft hum of what could very well be either an agreement or the opposite, or maybe even the sort of deep-rooted understanding that’s allowed him to sneak his way into the center of everything, across her skin. The specifics don’t matter, only that Emma’s magic roars under her skin, an inferno, and a symphony, meeting the challenge that no one has really laid down yet. 

“Do that again,” Killian mutters, a low chuckle as Emma’s scratches at his side. 

“I’m not sure I can, honestly.” “Pity.” “Something like that, yeah. And you’re not totally right, you know?” “Ah, and that’s almost rude.” “I’m serious,” Emma says, “that’s—none of that was your fault either.” Tilting his head only ensures that several strands of hair he still hasn’t bothered to cut fall almost artfully across his forehead, and Emma is grateful to a variety of gods, Greek or otherwise, that Killian doesn’t mention how much her hand shakes. When she tries to brushes them away. His hook finds her wrist instead, cool metal against freezing cold skin, and the state of her tongue is going to be a problem. Large as it is in Emma’s mouth, making it all but impossible to properly swallow while Killian’s lips sweep the bend of her knuckles. 

“Charmer.” “Aye, that’s my endgame.” There’s not enough room between them for him to run his hand across his face like Emma knows he wants to, and part of that isn’t really a bad thing, but the rest just seems like another entirely unfair thing, and Emma knows the rest is coming. Makes tears burn her eyes all the same. “They were just...gone, you understand? No chance to do anything about it. One moment they were living and breathing. Then Liam was dead. Slumped in my arms in the corner of a cabin he was supposed to spend the rest of his career in. He—he would have been a very good captain.” “So are you,” Emma says, fierce and determined, and Killian kisses in the inside of her palm. She’s moved her hand again. To cup his cheek. 

“For a time, maybe. But then she was gone too, and I thought I could feel it, you know. The exact way her heart crumbled in his hand, tiny bits of dust that I never wanted to blow off the deck. Like some of her still managed to stay. Is that—” The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching, and Emma has to blink. She hopes the moisture on her cheeks isn’t tears. She’s not sure what’s a better option, really. “Must sound daft.” “No. I—I get that too.” “Do you?” “Not the only one who’s watched Rumplestilskin hold the heart of someone you loved.”

He can’t be holding his breath. His chest is moving much too quickly, but the burst of air that all but flies out of Killian is enough to ruffle the ends of Emma’s hair and possibly even dry some of the tears she’s still refusing to acknowledge, and she can’t get closer to him. 

She makes an admirable effort all the same. 

Like occupying the same few inches of space will ensure that she stays there. 

“Did you—” Killian starts, looking almost pained as the words war for his voice on the tip of his tongue. “Did you like her?” That didn’t make the list, either. It’s entirely possible that Emma is just garbage at making lists. She nods. “Anyone who loves you as much as I do is fine with me. Better than, even.”

His expression shifts again. Light lingers in his gaze, cautious hope, and misplaced optimism, gears whirring in his head that Emma can’t almost convince herself she hears. Her verb tense was on purpose that time. 

That’s a confidence boost, all things considered.

“She was something fierce,” Killian says, sounding reminiscent and not as sad as Emma has worried he must be. “Once she got away from him. Could get a grown man to do her bidding with a single look, the kind of glare that’d set you on fire from the inside out. It was—they loved her too. Men on the ship, would have followed her to the ends of the Earth if she’d asked. Probably even if she hadn’t.” 

His next inhale becomes an exhale almost immediately.

“She never would have asked,” Killian adds, almost entirely to himself, but then his eyes are back on Emma, and they’re a little glossy and just as blue and she’s holding her breath now. “She liked you too, I know it.” “I think she thought I was crazy, actually. Gold didn’t really have much tact in the...introductions.” “Ah.” “Right?” “Right,” he echoes, a pale imitation of her voice that makes Emma’s cheeks ache. From smiling. Legitimately smiling. Huh. “But I suppose that’s part of it, though. She was there again, and I—” “—I’m sorry. For...for all of it.” “Still not your fault, love.”

“How did you know?” she asks, and her voice doesn’t sound much like her either. Wobbles and warbles and some other word that fits the alliteration. “About me. And not being…”

“Dead?” Killian’s eyebrows jump. “Strawberries.” “Excuse me?” “That soap you use in your hair. Smells like strawberries, or strawberry adjacent maybe. Manufactured just a bit. I think it’s my favorite smell in the world.” “Backhanded compliment.” “No, no,” Killian shakes his head. His hair moves again. “It’s not. It’s—well, it’s you, love. Smells like everything that you are and—”

“—I’m manufactured?” “If you let me finish,” he chides, and Emma all but yanks her lips behind her teeth, “It smells like home. Smells like falling asleep next to you and a distinct lack of blankets.” He nips at the tip of her nose. She scoffs again; that’s why. “And your distractingly cold feet, and leather jackets, and how the smell clings to the collars, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve worn them. Lingers on your pillow too, and the fronts of my shirt. You fall asleep against me quite often, you know that.” “Can sleep anywhere,” Emma reasons. “Might be my greatest talent.” “I don’t know about that.” “If I call you charmer again, will you hold it against me for lack of synonyms?” “Tell me how charming I am again.” Emma scrunches her nose. “Now it sounds like my dad.” “Let’s leave the prince out of this. He’s only a prince, aye?” “Far as I know, yeah.” “Good, good. Strawberries, love. Touching you helped too, though. If we’re being frank.” “Anything except blunt force honesty seems silly now, doesn’t it?” Killian nods. Slow and measured, like anything else will snap this tenuous peace, and maybe they can just sleep on the couch. Getting up is an impossible prospect right now. Maybe they can make out a little before they fall asleep. 

“It’s a very big house,” Emma whispers, and they should really figure out a schedule for conversations like this. Talking about it all at once is exhausting. 

“It is.” “You don’t want to expand upon that?” “Oh, I want a great number of things I shouldn’t,” Killian admits, “but as much as I appreciate this fresh round of honesty we’re engaging in, the false hope would—” “—There’s no such thing,” Emma interrupts. “False hope. It’s an oxymoron, ask my mother. And I think you should get some sort of crew again.” “How would you suggest I populate such a thing?” She shrugs. Nearly hits Killian in the chin in the process. “Untold stories. Dwarves.” “I will not have dwarves on my ship.” “See, I knew you’d have opinions. And there was a possessive pronoun in there that time.” “Was there not before?” “No,” she says. “Just called it the ship. Like it’s not the most important thing you have.” “Well, it’s not.” Emma’s cheeks warm. “That was very smooth.” “Someone did guarantee I was a very good captain earlier.” Space continues to be relatively minimal between them, but Killian’s nothing if not adaptable, and he works with what he’s got. Swinging Emma’s legs perpendicular over his, she’s nearly sitting on his lap, an arm slung over his shoulders, which makes it even easier to get her fingers into his hair and his head to rest against hers, and he takes another deep breath. “I know you understand, Emma,” he says, soft and serious, and she doesn’t bother doing anything except cling to him. With everything she’s got left. “All of it, from the very start. So I don’t think I’ll apologize, actually. For what I’ve done, or what I’d still be willing to do. I won’t give up on you, do you understand me?” “Didn’t,” Emma says, only a little optimistic that’s the right verb tense. Maybe she can get her GED, or something. Before all of this ends. “In Camelot, or after. Accept or acknowledge, and I probably would have—” 

Announcing that killing Gold for what he’d done to Killian regularly crossed her mind in the twenty-four hours or so before they finally made it to the Underworld doesn’t really have the right sentiment for this conversation. Far too violent, and just as honest. 

She’d consider killing him now, too. 

For everything he’s doing, and everything he hasn’t, and she should have shoved him in that river. 

Killian doesn’t smile. At least not in a way that reaches his eyes, the same ones that are looking at Emma again, all blue and earnest, and his shoulders shift. When her fingers graze his chin, more than stubble there because, she imagines, spending a day or so underwater with a sibling he only sort of wants and kind of knows doesn’t leave much time for facial-type grooming. 

It’s a good look, though. 

Most of them are, in Emma’s experience. 

“This entire time,” she continues, “you haven’t given up on me yet.” “Works both ways, darling.” “That one crosses realms, huh?” “Pick up things spending so much time with you.” There’s nothing extra in the words. No sap-filled sentiment or promises she’s only a little hopeful will become actions. And they haven’t talked about the rest; might not even have time, but Emma will let herself think about all these empty rooms anyway, of the exact shade Killian’s eyes go when he stands at the helm, and she hopes he doesn’t cut his hair. Not yet, at least. Longer strands make it easier to touch him, to leave a lasting mark, and settle into his center the same way he’s taken root in hers. 

They fall asleep on the couch. 

[springtimebat]

The Autumn Meeting (Part 4/4)

{The Unicorn and The Moon}

This is the story of my parents; of how they lived and died, and how my mother met my father as she danced along with the moon. 

It all began a long, long time ago. When the world was just dust. When the woods were rivers. My mother was a child and she was told of unicorns who returned to virtuous girls when the full moon arrived each month. She heard of it from her mother, as they watched the stars in the sky. 

“If you wait for long enough at a time like this,” My grandmother explained, and her voice didn’t just come from her throat, but from the earth, the air and the trees, “The creature will find its way to your lap. It’ll raise its head to the stars, just as you young maidens raise your heads to the moon and the sun. Then it’ll settle down and let you pet it. Just like that. No cages required.”

“I will catch the unicorn,” My mother decided, “I will tame them with a silver tongue.”

A week later, my mother set herself in the moss and the grass, her hands hidden in her dress pockets, fingers fastened tightly around a pair of scissors.

Predictably, the unicorn arrived and began its maddening dance. My mother shot up and dropped her scissors in the dirt. This creature, this sublime creature, was the most precious thing she had ever seen. Regrettably, she fell in love.

My mother slipped beside it and twirled its mane in her fingers. It was all smoke and reflected the soft creases of the moon. The creature's eyes were milky and opaque, yet my mother looked at them with admiration. She wished to be hidden too. God she wished that she could hide. She wished she could practice the creature’s dance and shield herself with the magic of the moon’s tide. 

They danced along the moss and frogs for hours, my mother and the unicorn. They appeared to fly up into the sky on imaginary stairs. The unicorn let its muzzle fall to my mothers neck. It closed its eyes. My mother closed her eyes. They let each other sink. By dawn, the myth was gone and the young maiden was left alone on tired feet that hummed. Nine months later, I arrived, my eyes silver like the stars that fall. And that’s all she had left. She told me that she had cut the unicorn’s hair that night, but she never showed me the locks, tied with a ribbon in a pocketbook. I think she only wishes she had taken her scissors to the unicorn that night. 

And so my mother and father met. And so my mother and father parted. 

“The end,” The Queen opens her eyes to the circle and gives a small smile. Emillian picks his jaw off the forest floor. Guy turns his head to his old friend, apparently confused.

“Do you have any notes?” 

“You’re not human,” Emillian states, his voice low and scratchy. The Queen shivers and lowers her gaze to the ground.

“I suppose not.” She hesitates for a moment, but continues, “I am but a leaf in the wind, being pulled to and fro by various mysterious figures.”

“Are these forces familiar or unfamiliar?”

“They are both. Simultaneously.”

“How does that work then?”

“It doesn't. I’m a mess.”

“I wonder about you.”

“Why do you wonder?”

“I try to imagine where you would be if you hadn’t grasped power in that once in a lifetime moment.”

“I don’t know and I don’t particularly care. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“How convenient.”

“I could have you beheaded, you know.”

“I know. But you won’t. You’re a coward.”

“I find you interesting. The world’s better with you here. When I consider killing things, those are my terms.”

“What did I miss?” Asks a voice from the shadows. Abram stands by the camp entrance in the oaks, his scales greased. 

“Unicorns Abram,” Emil chuckles, “You missed unicorns.”

“Aw I missed the whole story?” He turns to the queen and gives her a bow, “I’m sure it was wonderful, your majesty.”

“Come and sit with us again Abram,” Emil requests, patting a rock beside him, “Come and long with us.”

“I would love to but…there’s something coming.”

“Something’s coming?”

“Yep. It’s this...castle, or town...it’s something okay? It’s a building crawling through the trees. It’s heading this way.”

“It’s the corridors.”

The three storytellers turn to the Queen, who pats down her skirts and rises from her throne.

“It’s coming for you?” Abram asks.

“Yes. My husband’s realised I’m missing.”

“Huh the man himself,” Emil mutters, drawing lines in the grit below him.

“Indeed.”

“He’ll be here soon.”

“Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”

“Not to be rude, your highness, but none of us were worried. How can you be worried about a man you’ve never seen?”

“Very easily,” The Queen winced, “Though, I suppose it's hard for Emillian. He doesn’t have a soul.”

“Of course I own a soul! I am a soul! How do I talk? How do I move? All with the assistance of a soul.”

“Are those rhetorical questions?”

“They’re whatever you want them to be.”

“I see a spark in that empty eye socket of yours. It’s an occasional flash. That’s all that remains of you.”

“Of me?”

“Of your soul”

“That idiot just wanders off and does what he wants.”

“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t have a soul. Not really. He just likes to complain.”

“You don’t say?”

“Hmph, you’re one to talk about souls,” Emil growls, “I suppose your heir will dance in the light of the moon.”

The Queen frowns, “Our baby will be fine.” 

“Just fine?”

“Do people wish for more?” 

“From a future king? A future immortal? Yes.”

“You really shouldn’t get involved with other people’s children. It gives you wrinkles-”

“Uh guys its-”

“-I am composed of creases and grooves, plain and simple. Babes make no difference to my complexion.”

“I’ll be happy if the baby’s fine. If they’re simply ordinary.”

“Will the king be pleased?”

“Ecstatic. His son will have something he can never have.”

“A soul?”

“Yes. A soul in the shades.”

“How loathsome.”

“How tragic.”

“Such a waste," Abram sighs, "But fellas, that creepy crawly thing is here.”

The town made on the backs of the devoured came to a stand still, its eyes straining in the shade. After a few moments, it finds its monarch in the dark and gives a tired groan. The Queen sighs and gives a little wave. 

Slowly, a door unhinges itself from the city’s brow, curling like the strip of tongue. The king appears in a blur of yellow, grinning down at the storyteller’s guild sitting in the Autumn leaves. He focuses on his bride, who is trying to suppress a similar smirk. Raising a bony hand, The King beckons her to follow him into the city’s gut. His Queen nods and smiles at the rest of the group. 

“I really enjoyed talking with you all. Thank you for tolerating me at your meeting.”

Abram grins, Gus waves an arm and a leg and Emil gives a curt nod as their guest returns to their nest. All three men watch as the city of tomorrow engulfs its figureheads and disappears back into the never ending woods.

“Well that was something huh?” Abram gasps.

“Abe?”

“Yep Emillian?”

“Remind me to never invite royalty to our meetings.”

“The air was different there.”

The King and Queen sit inside their screen porch, peering out at the world on its side. The Queen whistles a lullaby long forgotten by time, smiling at her husband’s confusion.

“It would be love. You’re a long way from home now. A long way from the bones and the cold.”

“Not far enough it appears. How far have we travelled?”

“Hmm, if I had to estimate we are about two hundred miles from the mountains.”

“Huh. Is that far?” 

“Very, very far for you and I. To some, two hundred miles is a single step.”

“Is “Some” Your friends down there.”

“No. They’re like us.”

“Like the corridors?”

“No. Not like the corridors at all. They have...something in there with all the flesh and the bones and the metal-”

“Souls?” The King’s eyes flash in the dying sun. 

“Maybe. I’m not too sure.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Yes it was very...beneficial,”

“Did you tell them about your ma?”

“Yes and my father,”

The King gives a wistful sigh and rests his thin face in his palms. The Queen relaxes in her throne, her feet tired from the day’s work. Her husband gives her a small smile.

“I wonder what colour my soul would be.”

“Silver. A flickering silver that disappears every so often.”

“I hate being read.”

“I’m not reading you. I’m simply analysing.”

“Ah! Simple analysis, you old, old fool! What started this conversation again? I’ve forgotten love.”

“We were discussing souls, as we always seem to do.”

“Hmm, silver. Grey even? Grey like feathers.”

“Like your aura.” The Queen giggles.

“Auras? You think we have auras? Auras are distractions,”

“Oh? What do we have then?”

“Phantoms are what we have. The world moved on from enjoyment and left it as just a string of words and moments. Much like what the world did to me. It abandoned me.”

“You are not abandoned. You still have an old, old fool, right by your side.” His wife reaches for his arm and places her hand in his, finger intertwined. 

“That’s true. The world left me with phantoms, to contemplate in the dark. It left me in the lonely corners to wait for you. And now that’s all I desire. My old, old fool with a soul made of gold.”

“You know, you really should have gone to the meeting in my place. My friends would have loved you.”

“Maybe so. But it was your quest to complete. And I’m very proud of you. Now you can let the past go and look towards the future.” He lowers his gaze to his wife’s  stomach and gives her fingers a squeeze. 

“It was helpful. I had fun.”

“I’m glad. The corridors were getting anxious,”

“They’re always anxious,”

“They thought you’d leave me,”

The Queen sighs, “You shouldn’t listen to them all the time. They don’t live and they never have. You wish for a soul and they loathe consciousness,”

“We were lonely. I was lonely.”

“I know. I could hear you. But I came back, didn't I?”

“Yes. Yes you did. But sometimes-”

“Sometimes what?”

“Sometimes... I dream of that unicorn,”

“My unicorn?”

“Yes. I dream of you and me. You’re a unicorn, all smoke and mirrors, and I try to cut your mane. I startle you and you run away from me,”

“That will never happen love. I would never do that to you. Or him,” The Queen pats her stomach fondly.

“The corridors don’t help,” The King sighs. 

“Don’t listen to them. Just sit here with me.”

“Things will get better,” The King whispers, and he tries to relax on his chair, tries to appreciate his family’s return.

The screaming walls make it difficult.

[astra-and-atlas]

On Medusa: The Myth

Part IIa: Some of her myths

It’s been a while, but I finally have time to keep sharing my thoughts. This section of “on Medusa” will discuss the various interpretations of her myth, and the modern reception. I’ll be covering a few ancient versions of her myths and their most common interpretations.

This section includes a content warning for the themes discussed in Medusa’s myth, namely, her r*pe and m*rder.

Check part one of the series here, or visit here to see my other original posts on the Theoi. Let’s begin!

Her Story in Summary:

Sections in brackets are where accounts differ.

Medusa was a [monster or human], who, at one point in time, [laid with] the sea-god Poseidon. Here, accounts differ on [where, and why]. She was then [turned into, or banished] because of her monstrous appearance. Accounts differ again on [who, and why]. The various stories all say she was then living in a far off cave usually referred to as “the cave of the gorgones”, which was either [in Libya or the Island of Cisthene]. There, she terrified men and was accordingly a danger to many. She was beheaded by Perseus as part of his quest, and gave birth from her corpse Pegasos and Khyrsaor. What happened to her remains varies on the myth.

This is an long post- longer than I anticipated. Whoops. 

Hesoid

The first account to cover is Hesoid, who writes of her twice. The myth is not covered in great detail by him, but this is both from what I can find, and from the issue that most accounts of Medusa are from what we can piece together from Perseus’s myth. However, accounts of the Gorgones we can find elsewhere, which help characterize Medusa in later works.

Hesoid is the first author to fully develop the story of Medusa- Homer writes of Gorgon-heads and Perseus, but makes no connection between the two. The other two depictions are in art at the time, however it is unclear how the story formed in full.

Hesiod, Theogony 270 ff

“ Medousa, whose fate is a sad one, for she was mortal, but the other two immortal and ageless both alike. Poseidon, he of the dark hair, lay with one of these, in a soft meadow and among spring flowers. But when Perseus had cut off the head of Medousa there sprang from her blood great Khrysaor and the horse Pegasos, so named from the springs of Okeanos, where she was born."

Medusa is characterized by her mortality-- both in this account and in all other tales of her myth. It sets her apart from her siblings. She retains her monstrous form in this account, and is never referred to as beautiful or enviable in any way. She is a figure of pity-- doomed from the start.

In this quote it’s not directly specified which of the three sisters Poseidon sleeps with, however, as later Medusa gives birth to the two it is clear Hesoid was referring to Medusa when he says “one of these”.  What is also important to note is that Poseidon and Medusa’s relationship is gentle. Their union happens in a meadow, not a temple, and there is no implication of violence. There is no “transformation”, or wrath, in this myth beyond the mortal wrath of King Polydectes (who orders the beheading of Medusa, forcing the role upon young Perseus).  

Hesiod, Shield of Heracles 216 ff

The head of a dreadful monster, the Gorgo, covered the broad of his back, and a bag of silver--a marvel to see--contained it: and from the bag bright tassels of gold hung down.

Hesoid’s later descriptions of Medusa describe her when she is already dead, but we can see here she is a monster for her entire life. Not only does he list her mother as Keto (Keto being the mother to sea-monsters), but in this depiction she is a “dreadful monster”.

She is also referred to as “the Gorgo” most likely just as the singular of Gorgones because of her central role, but also similar to how Aix, the Elder Gorgo, is referred to during accounts of the Titan Wars. Their myth has similarities in their death, as they are both beheaded and turned into the aegis.

Hesiod, Shield of Heracles 216 ff

And after him rushed the Gorgones, unapproachable and unspeakable, longing to seize him : as they trod upon the pale adamant, the shield rang sharp and clear with a loud clanging. Two serpents hung down at their girdles with heads curved forward: their tongues were flickering, and their teeth gnashing with fury, and their eyes glaring fiercely. And upon the awful heads of the Gorgones great Phobos (Fear) was quaking."

This is further detail towards the appearance of the Gorgones. This scene describes the sisters of Medusa, Stheno and Euryale, chasing Perseus. Their descriptions match how gorgones are formed in grecian art at the time. As Homer and Hesoid are mentioned at the beginning of this post, so a piece of art should also be referenced, namely, the gorgenia, which had wide, grinning faces with snakes for hair, and often grotesque features. At the time when Medusa’s myth is first being formed, Gorgones are not beautiful like Medusa is sometimes called in later myth. True to their birth, they are monsters.

Ovid

I consider this to be the most well-known version of her myth, and the one most commonly used for retellings and poetic twists. Do I have statistics for this? No. Shh.

In this version of her story, Medusa was not yet a Gorgon before her tragedy, but presumably a fetching woman. She would be desirable to a god such as Poseidon, and to many others as well. The following quotes attest to her beauty.

Ovid, Heroides 19. 129 ff

“nor Medusa when her locks were not yet twined with snakes,”

Ovid, Metamorphoses 4. 770 ff

Her beauty was far-famed, the jealous hope of many a suitor, and of all her charms her hair was loveliest; so I was told by one who claimed to have seen her.

You may note it doesn’t specifically state she is not a Gorgon, and this is because technically she is- but not as we know them. I wrote above that she was “not yet a Gorgon” because it is easier to understand here when we look at the next few aspects of her myth: violence, wrath, and transformation. She is only truly referenced in these texts from a time after her transformation, and while I would not want to presume what Ovid intended for her to be, he does say that before Athena’s wrath, she had lovely tresses and they were turned to snakes afterwards. If we look at nearly all of the mosaics and pottery that represent the Gorgones, the most identifiable piece of their figure is their hair of snakes. Her lack of this here presents the idea that she is a woman, not a monster.

In the next part of her myth, she and Poseidon have sex in Athena’s temple. Whether this is consensual or not is unclear, as it depends on what translation you’ve used- here I’ve attached multiple translations so you can decide for yourself. Personally I believe it is most likely she was raped, given Poseidon’s characterization in his other myths and the violence that Ovid uses in his telling of her myth.  

From Ov. Met. 4.706

(translation: Golding)

Fame declares the Sovereign of the Sea attained her love in chaste Minerva's temple. While enraged she turned her head away and held her shield before her eyes. To punish that great crime Minerva changed the Gorgon's splendid hair to serpents horrible. And now to strike her foes with fear, she wears upon her breast those awful vipers—creatures of her rage.

(translation: More)

It is reported how she should abusde by Neptune bee In Pallas Church: from which fowle facte Joves daughter turnde hir eye, And with hir Target hid hir face from such a villanie. And lest it should unpunisht be, she turnde hir seemely heare To lothly Snakes: the which (the more to put hir foes in feare Before hir brest continually she in her shield doth beare.

(translation: Melville)

She, it's said, was violated in Minerva's [Athena's] shrine by the Lord of the Sea (Rector Pelagi) [Poseidon]. Jove's [Zeus'] daughter turned away and covered with her shield her virgin's eyes. And then for fitting punishment transformed the Gorgo's lovely hair to loathsome snakes. Minerva [Athena] still, to strike her foes with dread, upon her breastplate wears the snakes she made.’"

Already we can see how each translation uses words with specific connotations, which is quite compelling to study. Moving on from this, in these three translations I’ve also included the second piece of her myth, the wrath of Athena, where she transforms Medusa into the form we know (and love) so well: that of a monster.

Athena’s wrath is one of power, as she is commonly portrayed. The punishment here is removing Medusa’s beauty, her hair, for the desecration of her temple. Athena’s wrath is appropriate in the way it is shown later- Athena is often credited to helping Perseus slay the Gorgo and this thread of vengeance rationalizes why Athena might be favoured towards Perseus.

Ovid, Metamorphoses 5. 250 ff :

"Through all these mighty deeds Pallas, Minerva [Athena], had availed to guide her gold-begotten brother [Perseus]."

Medusa’s death is told by Perseus in the following manner:

Ovid, Metamorphoses 4. 769 ff :

Along the way, in fields and by the roads, I saw on all sides men and animals--like statues--turned to flinty stone at sight of dread Medusa's visage. Nevertheless reflected on the brazen shield, I bore upon my left, I saw her horrid face. When she was helpless in the power of sleep and even her serpent-hair was slumber-bound, I struck, and took her head sheer from the neck.--To winged Pegasus the blood gave birth, his brother [Chrysaor] also, twins of rapid wing.’

Medusa is a monster when Perseus kills her- no trace of the enviable maiden Ovid once hints at. She is sleeping when he slays her, and thus defenseless. It is largely unclear whether Medusa had the power to petrify before her transformation- it is a common power of Gorgones but a power such as this could also be reasonably granted by a goddess during Athena’s transformation and curse to Medusa.  This version is often used to make Perseus into a monster himself, or to make Athena a hero and to vilify the power of men in Greek mythology. This is all valid (although poor Perseus had no choice but to kill her? Don’t make this his fault, but I will discuss this and other modern interpretations later).

Other Versions

There are a thousand different versions I could choose to write about (well, not thousands), but namely Nonnus, Suidas, Pindar, and Pausinias. Because of attention span, time and length constraints (this post is already so long), I’ve chosen to write brief summaries with key quotes as to the various remaining versions.

Rationalizations: Suidas, Pausanias

In these accounts, Medusa is credited as being a Libyan queen who terrorized others until Perseus had killed her. It is a rationalization of the myth- Pausanias says he “omits the miraculous”. She is described as beautiful yet warlike, explaining perhaps why she is monstrous to some and enviable to others. It gives a reason why Athena may have been angry specifically towards her (she harmed those who were sacred to Athena).

Pausanias, Guide to Greece 2. 21. 5 - 6 :

“going out hunting and leading the Libyans to battle. On one such occasion, when she was encamped with an army over against the forces of Perseus, who was followed by picked troops from the Peloponnesos, she was assassinated by night. Perseus, admiring her beauty even in death, cut off her head and carried it to show the Greeks.”

“ Among the incredible monsters to be found in the Libyan desert are wild men and wild women. Prokles affirmed that he had seen a man from them who had been brought to Rome. So he guessed that a woman wandered from them, reached Lake Tritonis, and harried the neighbours until Perseus killed her; Athena was supposed to have helped him in this exploit, because the people who live around Lake Tritonis are sacred to her."

Diodorus Siculus, Library of History 3. 52. 4

Now there have been in Libya a number of races of women who were warlike and greatly admired for their manly vigour...[Perseus]  who accomplished the campaign against these women, and that this was his greatest Labour may be taken by any man as proof of both the pre-eminence and the power of the women we have mentioned.

Nonnus: Her death.

In Dionysiaca, Nonnus makes no mention of Medusa’s creation. We do not know if Poseidon forced himself on her or even if he is the father of Pegasos and Khyrsoar, although it is implied by the references to horses. However he does make the interesting claim that each of the Gorgons had one power: Stethno to turn others to stone, Euryale with her bellow, and Medusa with the hair of snakes. He also makes great reference to “harvest” when referring to her and the birth of her children, which is interesting to me, at least.

Nonnus, Dionysiaca 24. 270 ff

then shore off the snaky swathe of one Medousa (Medusa), while her womb was still burdened and swollen with young... and reaped the neck of the pregnant Gorgon, firstfruits of a horsebreeding neck? There was no battle when swiftshoe Perseus lifted the lifeless token of victory, the snaky sheaf of Gorgon hair, relics of the head dripping drops of blood, gently wheezing a half-heard hiss through the severed throats

listening for no trumpet but [the Gorgon] Euryale's bellowing--having despoiled a little Libyan hole!"

Nonnus, Dionysiaca 30. 264 ff

Have you set foot in Libya? Have you had the task of Perseus? Have you seen the eye of [the Gorgon] Sthenno which turns all to stone, or the bellowing invincible throat of [the Gorgon] Euryale herself? Have you seen the tresses of viperhair Medousa (Medusa), and have the open mouths of her tangled serpents run round you?

Pindar: The flute

Athena invented the flute to mimic the bellow of the gorgones when Medusa had been slain. He also says that Medusa is attractive in some way. In this version Athena is in support of Perseus as well.

Pindar, Pythian Ode 12. 8 ff

The art that long ago Pallas Athene invented [the flute], weaving in music's rich refrain the ghoulish dirge of the fierce-heareted Gorgones. From those dread maidens' lips was heard streaming, and from those writhing serpent heads untouchable

the head of the fair-cheeked Medousa

But when the goddess maid delivered from these labours the man she loved, then she contrived the manifold melodies of the flute, to make in music's notes an image of the shrill lamenting cries, strung from Euryale's ravening jaws. A goddess found, but finding, gave the strain to mortal men to hold, naming it the tune of many heads."

I’m really only adding in Pindar’s account here because the flute is an important piece of one of the next posts I have planned for Medusa and I figured it might be best to introduce the concept now.

If youŕe interested in further resources relating to Medusa, I recommend the book Perseus by Daniel Ogden, which provides an in-depth analysis of Medusa and the Gorgones as well as the myth of Perseus. (This was recommended to me by @adri-le-chat , and I recommend checking out their posts on Perseus as well).

You can also use Theoi. com to browse Perseus and Medusa’s pages, and the Perseus Tufts database to find some valuable translations.

If anyone would like to go back in time and recover the Aeschylus, Phorcides, um, please do, because the Phorcides was the second in a trilogy and was supposed to focus specifically on Perseus’s encounters with Medusa. An entire play? About Perseus and Medusa? Imagine the information we could’ve had, I’m so upset that it was lost. Just imagine! But all we have is one fragment and it’s really not all that helpful, so if anyone would like to visit that time period and miraculously defy the laws of time so I can read about Medusa...

Anyways this post is long enough! I hope you enjoyed it and keep an eye out for the next section which will focus on my analysis of the myths presented!

| Part One | Other Theoi Notes | Resources | 

[dreamcatcherfication]

Like a Dream That You Can’t Quite Place

So this was a fic requested by @burntuakrisp at one point, and even though it took some time to get around to, here it is! This is a mash up of Satisfied from Hamilton, but Anna singing about Kat. Now I didn’t want to do a direct song-to-story format, so I tried something a little different. This is more of a “inspired by” type, so you’ll catch references to Satisfied, but it’s not actually sung at any point. There’s a part of this that might be a little controversial so let’s hope I don’t get cancelled for it. Sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, turns out it’s because I’m a ten year old boy who finds sex jokes funny.

Writing Masterpost

And note: Just because this takes place in the past does not mean I am writing about the actual wives of Henry VIII. These are still the musical characters but set in the past.

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas. Now featuring random asks:

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Random Asks

Trigger Warnings: Vague mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of beheading, Henry VIII

In truth, Anna had not wanted to come to the wedding, nor had she found it appropriate that she had been invited. Who would think it would be anything less than awkward for the former wife of the king to come witness his marriage to the new queen. However, it wasn’t jealousy that made the situation awkward, but rather the groom who now stood between two extremely close women. Or in Katherine’s case, girl. 

Anna had not attended the actual ceremony, but she was amongst the dancers in the banquet hall who surrounded the king and his new queen as they feasted. It was strange seeing her dear friend Katherine now wearing a crown of jewels and sitting next to a man three times her size, but Anna could say nothing. She approached the queen and kneeled down. “Your Majesty,” she greeted courtly.

Glancing around uncomfortably, Katherine gently put a hand on Anna’s shoulder. “You do not have to kneel Anna, you were a queen just as I am.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Anna continued to remain formal. If they were in private, Anna would find it absurd to use the royal terms with her former lady in waiting, but she wouldn’t dare cross that line with Henry sitting right next to Katherine. “I’ve come to congratulate you on your marriage.”

Henry clutched his large stomach and forced a smile towards Anna. “How sweet of you, dear sister. Have you brought gifts?”

Nodding, Anna unclasped the locket that she had hanging around her neck. “An antique locket from the House of Cleves. I’m sure her majesty will enjoy it greatly.”

Gasping as she was handed the locket, Katherine admired its beauty. “It’s stunning Anna, thank you so much. Will you help me put it on?”

Realizing he was being forced out of the conversation, Henry cut in. “I can do that, my darling.” He leaned over and grabbed the locket, holding it up to Katherine’s neck. The girl frowned when he fumbled with the clasp, his fat fingers unable to hook it properly. Katherine uncomfortably shifted in the long amount of time it took before Henry finally got the locket in place. “Perfect. It looks radiant on someone as beautiful as you,” he flirted with Katherine, who seemed far too nervous for someone who was married to the man.

Anna started to back away, knowing that Henry had already dismissed her by turning his attention back to Katherine. The girl shot one last longing glance in Anna’s direction before she was forced to return her attention to her husband.

Meanwhile, Anna found herself exiting the hall to go for a walk about the grounds. She could not stand staying in that stifled hall, surrounded by the people who had once ridiculed her. She missed the comfort of Katherine as her lady in waiting, the soft moments they would spend together away from all the horrors of the real world. It was hard for her to see everything they had built together fall apart because of the king. As she traversed the palace grounds, Anna couldn’t help but feel herself start to rewind time, falling into a memory she so clearly remembered.

The sky was bright and the breeze blew through Anna’s hair, the sound of birds chirping almost picture perfect. Of course Anna wasn’t alone (her ladies in waiting were a few feet behind her) but Anna could almost feel free when roaming outside. “Milady,” one of the girls called.

“Yes?”

The lady in waiting made sure there was a wide berth between her and her queen. “The king has requested your presence, he has a new lady in waiting he wishes for you to meet. I believe he has taken rather a,” the girl spoke disdainfully, “liking to this one.”

Sighing, Anna turned away from her freedom and followed her ladies back into the palace where her husband awaited. As much as she disliked her husband, she knew there were far worse men to be wed to. Henry spoke so lowly of her, yet he let her do as she pleased throughout the palace. If he was requesting her presence, then clearly he meant business.

Henry was standing outside of Anna’s bedchambers, his hand on the shoulder of a young girl. The girl was a teenager, and her gaze was thoroughly frightened (although she was doing her best to appear calm). “My wife,” Henry said, his tone a mix between disgust and politeness. “It seems we have received a new lady for you, a one Miss Katherine Howard.”

Katherine was one of the most beautiful girls Anna had ever seen. Sure, she considered herself to be quite beautiful no matter what Henry said, but this girl was a rose, plucked directly from the Garden of Eden. For once, Anna felt something deep in her heart start to stir. “Miss Howard, how kind of you to join us. You must be special if the king has brought you here himself.”

“Oh no,” Katherine spoke and curtseyed. “I am of no importance, but his Grace is most kindly.” Anna had to hide a scoff at that comment. Henry was far from kindly, but he loved hearing praise, something Katherine seemed to understand very well.

Growing bored of the women’s interactions, Henry’s voice drowned out any other conversation. “Well I must return to my duties, and you ladies to your needlework, I assume. It was lovely to meet you Katherine,” Henry gave her a full toothed smile that made all the ladies nervous. He spared a glance to his wife and muttered, “And you do as you will.”

There was a clear tension among the ladies as they realized what was going on. Henry was very clearly showing his wife that he had interests in Katherine, knowing that neither of the girls could do a thing about it. “Hello, my queen,” Katherine cut into the silence, doing her best to retain any semblance of proper court. When the girl looked up and gave Anna that smile, oh the queen could almost forget her name. 

Anna dismissed the other ladies and went inside her chambers with Katherine. “Tell me, where is your family from?”

“Unimportant,” Katherine replied, her face flinching. “I am your humble servant, my background does not matter.”

Watching the way she fidgeted, Anna elected not to push further. She knew Katherine probably came from a bad family she did not want Anna to know about (and by acting the way she did, Katherine had unintentionally given that away). Everything about Katherine was so immediately endearing, and Anna knew from the start they were meant to have some sort of connection. Not the kind Henry was trying to form, but the kind that would last. 

And that was why Anna tried so hard to stomp it out.

B l i n k i n g back into the present, Anna realized she had come across a small grove of trees and plants in the palace grounds. She vividly remembered the times she would bring Kat out into the grove to practice dancing with her. The two of them rejoiced in the private time they spent in each other’s company. Of all Anna’s servants, she had grown comfortable with Kat, enough that they would forgo appearances when free of any probing eyes.

Now, alone in the grove with only the dark of the night, Anna felt as if the memories were ghosts of a past life. She was no longer the queen, and Katherine was no longer her servant. They were different people than the two who had hidden within the grove.

Humming a low tune, Anna walked in circles around the trees, twirling as she passed rocks and cobblestone. She had her arms up as she so often had in the past, leading Kat through courtly dances. “I feel we would still be together if not for the three truths I’ve realized,” Anna spoke to the empty grove. It was easier for her to tell Kat her feelings when the girl was nowhere near enough to hear her.

“The three fundamental truths,” Anna whispered, mostly to herself. There was a stumble in her dancing before Anna resumed with more vigor than when she started. “One. Henry is the king. No matter how much you or I disagree with him, he can have what he wants. And if he wants you, there’s nothing I can do but try and make it easier for you.” Anna had no choice but to obey the king, but that did not quell her desire to defy him and keep Katherine safe with her.

Continuing to hum her tune, Anna came up next to a gnarled tree. Resting her back against the tree, she mimed pulling her partner closer to her. “Two. Your family is of low status. You’ve never disclosed your upbringing to me, but I can tell by the way you act. If Henry had any idea how close we had grown, he would not allow it. Servants and royalty do not mix, unless it is the king and his mistress. The only way he will allow us to be around each other publically is if you are his wife and I am his sister.” 

The image of Katherine standing next to the King wormed its way into Anna’s mind. She wanted to tear the image in half, never to be seen again. But the picture was reality. Anna had no power to rewrite reality. “Three. You’ve always been vague about it, but you confided in me about what had happened in your childhood. What those men had done to you.” A choking sound made its way through Anna’s throat as she realized what she was trying to say. “To tell you that I feel that same connection with you that they did… I cannot do that to you in good conscience. So I will suffer in silence, knowing that I can never be satisfied of this hunger deep within me.” 

Her dancing halted as Anna stared at her empty hands. “I hope you will be happy with your groom.”

Inevitably, Anna knew there would be a catch. She tried not to grow close to Katherine, knowing that Henry was pursuing her. Anna and Katherine were being pitted against each other for the title of queen, and Anna would not allow herself to come between Katherine and the most powerful man in England. She didn’t want Henry to marry Katherine, but she also didn’t want to be exiled by the king for fighting back, ultimately resulting in Katherine and Henry’s marriage anyway.

When it came down to it, Anna was helpless to stop Henry.

But if Anna had known Kat’s fate, she would have allowed herself to be exiled a thousand times over, she would’ve put her own head on a chopping block if it gave her the chance to prevent Kat’s death. Henry had known how close the two girls were, so he ordered that none of her servants tell her of the girl’s imprisonment. It was no act of mercy on his part, but rather for efficiency. If Anna knew what he planned to do to Kat, she would have fought tooth and nail to save the girl.

When she received news about Katherine after six months of silence, it was the news of her death. The pain it brought upon Anna was like no sickness she had ever known. Without being conscious of it, Anna made the vow never to be remarried. She would not betray Kat’s memory by moving on and pushing the love she felt for her best friend to the side. She could never feel the love she felt for Kat with another man. For weeks she refused to interact with her servants beyond what was absolutely necessary. She could not forgive them for keeping Katherine’s imprisonment from her.

But the most painful part were her fantasies. The nights where she could still see Katherine’s eyes, the innocent, most beautiful gaze preserved. In the candlelight, Anna could still remember the way Kat had looked at her when they first met. Anna felt her stomach tighten, knowing those eyes would never rest on her again. She had thought that by allowing Kat’s marriage to Henry, she would still be able to see those angel eyes. But Henry had taken that away from her as well.

Standing in the empty ballroom at Richmond only reminded Anna of the time she had with Kat. When the girl was married to Henry, it had been hard to keep their friendship alive, but they had managed as best they could. Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Anna turned around

and came face to face with Katherine in her regal dress. The girl still had the same youthful glint in her eyes, despite now having the status of a queen. The ballroom was alive with dancers and music, the air bright and festive. “It’s been so long Anna.”

Swallowing thickly, Anna nodded. “It has Kat.” Letting her eyes drop, Anna noticed the locket around Katherine’s neck. “You still have it?”

Looking down to confirm what Anna was staring at, Kat smiled. “Yes, I never take it off. You would have to chop my head off like Boleyn to get me to part with it.”

The sick feeling in Anna’s stomach grew exponentially, but she hid it behind a polite smile. “Well then, would you like to dance with me, Your Majesty?” Holding out a hand, Anna watched her darling gracefully take it.

“I would love to.” As it had always been, Anna led the dance. There was nothing special about it, just the swaying to the melodies produced by the lute. The way their hands fit together felt so right, but Anna knew it wouldn’t last. She knew Kat would have to leave. That’s why she danced with her for far longer than was traditionally acceptable in the court.

It was the best moment of her life, the soft, silent comfort of Kat in her arms. It was the most relaxed that Anna had ever seen the queen. Kat needed the comfort of a friend, and that was what Anna would give her. Nothing else. There were far too many reasons why Anna was trapped in her position. But from where she currently stood, her position was not so bad.

The dance was stopped when Anna yawned and stumbled on her feet. “You should get some sleep, it’s very late,” Kat spoke softly, pulling herself away from Anna.

“Wait, don’t leave,” Anna pleaded, reaching out.

The queen frowned but then giggled at the desperate face Anna was making. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I might never see you again,” Anna confessed, remembering the news of Katherine’s death. She was frightened that if Kat left the room, she would never return.

Putting a hand on Anna’s arm, Katherine smiled. “You’re insatiable, just like the king. But I’ll always be here with you. As long as you remember me, I’ll never leave you.” Kat balanced on her tip toes and gave Anna a kiss on the cheek before scurrying out of the room.

“Wait!” Anna called, reaching a hand out, but Katherine was already gone.

The ballroom was once again silent and dark, not a single soul but Anna within. Dropping to her knees, Anna stared up at the ceiling and prayed that Kat had been granted mercy. “She was right,” the woman choked out. “Henry will never be satisfied.”

“I will never be satisfied.”

[megsironthrone]

Obsessed

When Petyr Baelish becomes unnaturally obsessed with the reader, he will stop at nothing to have her. 

So, I’ve been a lot of research into the minds of criminals for my novel and from that, this fic was born. I do not own Petyr Baelish. He belongs to George R.R.Martin. 

WARNINGS: OBSESSION! JEALOUSY! KIDNAPPING! ATTEMPTED MURDER! STALKING OF A SORT! MANIPULATION! AND ASSAULT(WHAT COULD BE CONSIDERED ABUSE) PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!! Oh and it’s long. 

Pairings/Characters: Yandere!Petyr Baelish x fem!reader, Ros

Petyr glared from his window of the brothel. You were passing through once again, but that’s not why he was glaring. No, it was the person you were with. Petyr didn’t want to see you with anyone else. He wanted you to be his and his alone. He wasn’t sure when this obsession began but he knew he had to have you. You were going to be his. No matter what.

         Petyr left the window, already plotting his next move in his head. He swept passed the whores he employed and their patrons. He had one goal in mind. Outside the brothel, Petyr let his careful gaze search for his prey. He found you quickly and almost smiled. Until he saw Jory Cassel place a kiss to your cheek. The sudden surge of jealousy that coursed through Petyr was too much. He had to do something and fast. But what?

         The brothel keep knew he couldn’t attack Jory right there without provocation. That would only lead to Ned Stark having him beheaded or thrown in the dungeons. If that happened, you’d be lost to him forever, just like Catelyn. He had to play this one smart. Get Jory away from you without casting suspicions on himself. A smirk grew on his face as a plan formed in his mind. He knew just what to do; he only needed to bide his time.

         He wouldn’t have to wait long. When Ned started asking around about Robert’s bastards and Catelyn had taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner, Petyr got his chance. He would use Jaime Lannister and the gold cloaks to rid himself of Jory Cassel and take you for his own.

*time skip*

         Just as Petyr predicted, Jaime took care of Jory Cassel for him. The Stark’s guard was now dead and Petyr was free to pursue you. Except you wanted nothing to do with him. When news of Jory’s death had reached you, you shut yourself away from the world. You refused to see anyone except Ned and his daughters and Petyr was getting impatient. There was only one course of action left. He was going to take you whether you wanted to come or not.

         "Just bring her to me, Ros,“ he ordered the redhead and continued, "Bring her to me, unharmed, and you will only have the finest patrons from now on.” Ros simply nodded and went on her way. She knew better than to argue with him. He helped her rise from the whore of Winterfell to one of the most sought after companions in King’s Landing. She would always do what he said.

         Ros returned a few moments later, with you in her arms. The glare on Petyr’s face was enough to kill. “What. Happened?” he seethed. He was quickly losing control, seeing you unconscious like that. “We were set upon by a few gold cloaks, milord. They hit her hard before I could stop them.” Petyr wasted no time in taking you from Ros and carrying you to his chambers. You would rest there for now.

         "What’s so important about her?“ Ros asked, having followed Petyr. Petyr whirled on the whore and grabbed her throat. "I told you to bring her to me unharmed, Ros.” Ros tried to explain again, but Petyr let her go and shooed her away. “Out. I wish not to be disturbed for the rest of the night.” Ros didn’t have to be told twice.

         Petyr turned back to you and sat next to you on the bed. He ran his fingers over your face and through your hair. He took his time memorizing your features so that, even when he wasn’t with you, he could still see your face clearly. Not that he’d be away from you often anymore. He had you where he wanted you and that was where he would keep you from now on.

         Surprisingly, it didn’t take you long to wake up. A slight groan made Petyr put some distance between you. He didn’t want to scare you right away. Your (e/c) eyes opened slightly. “Where am I?” you whispered. Petyr cleared his throat. “You are in my establishment, my dear Y/N.” You blinked as you moved to sit up. “How did I get here?” Petyr took a moment to decide what to say. Should he make himself out to be a hero? Or should he tell you at least part of the truth of what happened? He wouldn’t get the chance to make a choice.

         "Wait. That redhead I was with. Ros? She’s one of your girls! Y-You…" you trailed off, giving Petyr a chance to take back the upper hand. “She is. I sent her to you as a friend. I heard what happened to Jory Cassel and wanted to know that you were alright.” Your eyes narrowed.

         "I don’t believe you, Lord Baelish. You never do anything for anyone unless it benefits you. You had her kidnap me!“ you cried, jumping up. It was obvious to Petyr that your head was still swimming when you swayed and plopped back down on the bed. "I assure, Y/N, that I care only for your well being,” Petyr cooed, his voice akin to honey. You glared again.          

         "I. Don’t. Believe. You,“ you said again, putting emphasis on every word, "You’re a snake, Littlefinger. You’ve always been a snake.” You stood again on steadier feet and made for the door. Petyr’s hand shot out as he grabbed your wrist. You looked at him with pure venom in your eyes. “Let me go.” You wrenched your hand out of his and tried the door. Locked.

         Petyr’s smile was predatory as you turned to face him. “You will let me out. NOW!” Petyr stalked toward you. You could only compare him to a lion stalking its prey. “You are safer here than in the Keep, Y/N. I have the means and power to protect you now that Jory cannot. Don’t you think he would want you protected?”

         Realization dawned on you. Petyr could see it in your expression. “It was you. You had him killed.” Petyr was standing right in front of you now. Your back was pressed into the locked door as tears formed in your eyes. “You monster,” you whispered. Petyr chuckled. “There are much worse than I that deserve to be called monster, Y/N. I simply wish to protect you. I couldn’t do that with Jory in the way.”

         "Let me go. Please,“ you whimpered. Petyr shushed you while reaching out to tuck a strand of (h/c) hair behind your ear. He leaned in and whispered, "You cannot leave. I won’t let you.” He could feel you shaking so he was surprised when he felt himself being pushed away. Your hand came up and slapped him across the cheek. “I demand you let me go this instant!”

         When Petyr denied you again, you flew at him. You attacked him with every ounce of strength you possessed. With every hit you demanded that he let you go. Petyr finally caught both your wrists in his hands, stilling your movements. His eyes were flashing with rage; a rage that only you had been able to bring out of him. “This is your last chance, Y/N. You will obey.” Shrieking at the top of your lungs, you brought a knee up into his stomach. He let you go and you turned tail.

         You barely made it back to the door when you felt his hand come around your throat. He pulled you away from the door and practically threw you on the bed. He stood over you, panting and enjoying the fear in your eyes. Fear made people listen. Fear made people obey. “You’re mine, Y/N. I have made it so.” You shook your head in defiance.

         "I will never be yours. This obsession of yours is sick.“ Petyr stared down at you for a moment. Didn’t you understand? Why were you being so uncooperative? But what you said next completely made him lose control. "I cannot wait to see them behead you for this. You’re mad!”

         Once more, Petyr’s hand made it way to your throat. If you wouldn’t be his, you wouldn’t be anyone’s. After a moment, however, he decided he couldn’t look at your face. He grabbed a pillow and placed it over your face. You thrashed and tried to call out for help. Petyr simple held you still. He wasn’t going to let you leave alive.

         When you had stopped fighting Petyr began to lift the pillow just as the door burst open and Petyr felt himself being dragged off of you. To his surprise, it was Ros that approached you. She leaned over you and whispered something that Petyr couldn’t hear. He was too busy fighting off the guards holding him and screaming at Ros about how she betrayed him.

         "The girl?“ one of the guards asked when Petyr quieted down. Ros shook her head. "I-I don’t know. She’s not breathing.” Another guard scooped you up in his arms and carried you out of the room, prompting Petyr to start crying out again. He continued to call out your name as he was escorted to the dungeons of the Red Keep.

         Petyr had no clue how long he was down there. Long enough to start hallucinating. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured your face. He saw you accepting him. He saw kisses and caresses. He heard your voice. He could smell your unique scent. It was intoxicating to him, but he knew it wasn’t real because he couldn’t reach out an hold you.

         "Littlefinger,“ a sharp voice cried, snapping out of his latest fantasy, "You got a visitor.” Petyr arched a brow. No one ever visited him. He looked up and, through the bars, he could see the face he’d been dying to touch. “Y/N,” he whispered as he got up to move closer. He was stopped by the chain attached to his ankle. “They’ve decided to execute you tomorrow,” you told him. There was not one bit of emotion in your voice as you said it.

         "At your behest, I imagine.“ You held your head high. "Oh, Y/N, you look so radiant. So powerful. It’s why I chose you.” You didn’t respond the way he wanted. “I merely came to tell you that I will be standing there watching when the sword comes down on your neck, Littlefinger. I will watch as they take your head and after that? I shall never think of you again. Your memory will fade from my mind and then I will think on this no more.” With that, you turned on your heel and left him alone again.

         Petyr watched you go, a smirk on his face. He would find a away to escape his fate, as he had done many times before. And when he did, he would take you again. He would take you as far from King’s Landing, from Westeros, as he could. You would be his in the end. It was only a matter of time. After, when Petyr Baelish became obsessed, he never rested until he got what he wanted.

[lailaliquorice]

broken glass beneath my feet

as requested by anon, boleyn angst is here!

I think everyone who’s been though Some Shit, be it a terrible childhood or a toxic relationship, has that moment where it suddenly hits you that it wasn’t right. You normalise stuff when you’re in the middle of it, and in my experience it wasn’t until I was away from the situation and someone else pointed it out that I realised how bad it had been. This is that moment for poor anne. I’m glad we’re all talking about the abuse she suffered too, and I’m bringing in Jane while we’re at it because her dialogue before HoS has some heavy implications.

tw for discussion of emotional abuse and mentions of sexual assault

It had been Kat’s idea to watch the documentary. During the course of her therapy sessions she’d done a lot of research into toxic relationships and their red flags, eagerly aided by Parr who was more than happy to have a research buddy whenever Kat asked for her help. The documentary was one that Cathy had found recommended online, narrated by a psychologist who specialised in the more hidden signs of abusive relationships that both the victim and their friends often overlooked. Initially Cathy and Kat were just going to watch it themselves on a day off, but when Kat mentioned their plan over the dinner table one night it quickly turned into a family film night.

Nights around the TV screen weren’t uncommon in the queens’ house, so there was a routine that they all fell into as soon as the dinner table was cleared. Jane and Kat brought the blankets down, Anna rearranged the living room so they could all sit comfortably, Cathy set the film up, and Aragon made the hot chocolate since she was best at it by far. Anne’s duty was snacks; once she’d raided the cupboards she ended up with two bowls filled with popcorn and chocolate buttons, deaf to Aragon’s complaints that the two weren’t meant to be mixed. Sandwiched in between Aragon and Cathy on the smaller that definitely wasn’t designed for three people, Anne hugged one of the snack bowls to her chest as Kat started the documentary.

At first Anne had been keen to learn more about what had captured her cousin and friend’s interests so much. But as the psychologist continued, Anne’s smile faded and her shoulders grew tense. Everything that the psychologist listed felt so terribly familiar. She’d known that his jealousy and accusations of infidelity had been wrong, since it was included in her song so she spoke about it frequently in a negative light. But then there were the other things; his disinterest in her own thoughts and feelings, her necessary attempts to work out what mood he was in and walking on tiptoes to avoid angering him, his threats if she dared disagree with him and the horrific arguments that usually followed.

It was when the documentary turned towards the topic of sexual assault that Anne really felt dread settle in her stomach like a stone. In the corner of her vision she saw Jane drape an arm around Kat’s shoulders on the other shoulder, whispering something in her ear as Kat watched the screen with an unbothered look on her face. Anne, on the other hand, felt like she’d just been flung into space where even Aragon and Cathy on either side of her felt miles away.

She’d never considered it before. She knew what Kat had been put through, knew what that was. But remembering how he’d backed her into a corner, blackmailed her with her stupid promise that she could provide what Aragon had never been able to… it was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her head.

When the documentary finished, Anne found herself unable to drag her eyes away from the now-black screen. She could hear the other queens discussing things in the background, Kat mentioning what points she’d done most research into with Jane and Aragon praising how much progress she’d made. Anna’s dry comment about Henry ticking every box made Anne flinch though, and an unexpected hand on her shoulder startled her enough that she did a second time.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Cathy said as Anne looked over at her, a worried furrow in her brow. “Are you ok? You’ve gone very quiet.”

Anne nodded quickly, painfully aware of all the other queens looking at her. “Yeah, yeah I’m just fine,” she said, before the eyes on her started to feel like daggers in her back and she shoved her snack bowl into Cathy’s lap. Kicking the blanket off her legs, she managed to stammer out “I’m just- I’m just gonna go,” before she sprinted out of the door and up the stairs.

Silence followed her departure, with everyone looking at each other in both confusion and concern. “Was it the film, or was she upset before?” Kat asked, glancing upwards as Anne’s retreating footsteps sounded from the attic stairs.

Aragon shook her head worriedly. “She seemed fine when we were both in the kitchen.”

“I’m going to go up and check on her,” Cathy said; Anne confided in her frequently about her lingering trauma from her death, so knew that she stood the best chance of Anne talking to her about what was going through her head that had caused her to leave.

But she paused when Jane shook her head, giving Cathy a sad smile. “No. I think I should take this one.”

~~~

Anne had barely made it into her room before her knees gave way and she collapsed to the floor with a hard thud. There was no Cathy there to catch her that time around, but with how much her skin was crawling Anne didn’t think she’d be able to handle anyone’s arms around her in that moment. Her thoughts were racing with scenarios from her old life, reassessing them in a new light with everything that she’d just been told.

Back then she’d accepted everything that had happened. The dismissal of her own interests was just the price of marrying a King; his volatile nature was just due to his temper and the way he’d always been; their arguments were her own fault for not knowing her place. And his constant demand for sex after Elizabeth’s birth was just because he was so desperate for a son. That was what she’d always believed, but according to Kat’s TV psychologist that was no excuse. Her hands shook as she dragged them through her hair, hunching over as her scar started to throb.

She didn’t hear the quiet knock at her door, only looking up slightly as she registered the footsteps rushing across her bedroom. “Cathy?” she croaked, unsurprised that she’d followed her up the stairs.

“It’s me, love,” sounded Jane’s voice instead, just before her hands were on Anne’s arms in what was clearly meant to be a comforting gesture.

Immediately Anne jumped away from her touch, backing away frantically until she hit the wall. “Please don’t touch me,” she choked out, tears rolling down her cheeks at the sight of Jane recoiling in shock. “Sorry,” she whispered, “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault,” Jane said soothingly. She shuffled backwards to lean against the bed wither her hands folded in her lap, giving Anne the breathing room she desperately needed. “Will you tell me what’s wrong? Everyone’s worried about you.”

Anne sniffed, roughly wiping a hand beneath her eyes before gripping her shoulders tightly. “I don’t know,” she started, her gaze darting around everywhere except Jane’s eyes. “It was too familiar. Everything she said, I just kept thinking of when Hen- when he’d done something like that. I thought it was just we didn’t work well together, I never thought that he might of… I dunno.”

“Might have abused you?” Jane finished softly, and Anne gave a shallow nod. “Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve to be treated like that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Like obviously I knew that him killing me was… was abuse I guess,” Anne continued, one hand moving to her neck as she glossed over her beheading. “I thought that was it though, didn’t realise that everything had been bad. Which is stupid because we all talk about it in the show and I know he was awful but there were still some memories where he was nice to me. And now I dunno if he was just pretending to manipulate me.”

Jane nodded, and Anne finally forced herself to look into her understanding eyes. “It’s made you question every interaction you had with him,” she guessed.

Anne’s expression crumpled as she hugged herself tighter, mumbling a broken “Yeah.”

There was quiet for a moment as Anne fought to get at least some of her composure back. Jane’s hands were twitching in her lap as if she was desperate to wrap her up into a hug, but Anne was grateful to her for respecting her request for space. The first time anyone had ever done that. As if Jane had read Anne’s mind, she caught her eye before speaking in a serious voice. “Anne, sweetheart, if he ever crossed your boundaries or did anything without your consent then that wasn’t right. It doesn’t matter what he said, nothing excuses that. Ok?”

“Yeah,” Anne repeated. After a moment she looked back up at Jane from where her gaze had fallen and asked “Why’re you here?”

“Because I understand,” Jane said, and Anne blinked in surprise. Jane shifted uncomfortably for a moment as she added “I know I know, I was the ‘only one he truly loved’. But he would still scream and shout at me, I knew what could happen to me if I didn’t have a son. Somehow I loved him despite it all, but I don’t think I would now. Because he still twisted me around his finger. I’ve still had to come to terms with how he emotionally manipulated me, just like he did all of us.”

Anne listened silently as Jane talked, watching her through wide eyes. Even though Jane’s lines in the show made a clear reference to how he’d been no different with her to how he’d been with Anne and Aragon, she’d never really considered how Jane suffered before her death. The only real difference was that Jane had just let him walk all over her in order to avoid Anne’s fate.

When Jane spoke again, her voice sounded perhaps the most hesitant that Anne had ever heard it. “And I’m also here because I’m sorry. For adding to your suffering. I could have done more to avoid him and stop him from wanting me instead, but I didn’t. If I’d known that my interference would have caused your death then please believe I would have done anything to stop it.”

Anne was quiet for several seconds. It was true when she’d first been reincarnated that she had held onto her resentment for Jane, unable to separate the woman she was now with the one who she’d walked in on sitting on the King’s lap while she was pregnant for the fourth time. But then she shook her head. “S’alright,” she said, smiling half-heartedly as she met Jane’s gaze. “If it wasn’t you it would’ve been someone else. And Cathy’s right with what she says in the show, if you’d said no you might’ve suffered worse. I don’t blame you.”

“Thank you,” Jane said quietly. After a lengthy pause, she continued in a stronger voice “Do you want to talk about what was said in the documentary? Whatever you need to get of your chest, I’m here and listening.”

She hesitated for a split second before the words started pouring out of their own accord. “I never wanted to marry him. My sister was his mistress but I didn’t want anything to do with him, I wasn’t a temptress or a witch or anything like that. I didn’t ask for this. And when we were married he was even worse, threatening me for telling him my opinion and accusing me of lying to him all the time. Sometimes I’d be awake wondering if I really was flirting with other people because he seemed so sure of it, I started to doubt myself.” Her voice hitched as a fresh wave of emotion caught her off guard, remembering with such clarity the nights she’d laid awake beside him questioning her every comment.

“That sounds like it was definitely abuse, love,” Jane said, softly yet seriously. “Cathy and Kat will know more than me but it certainly sounds like gaslighting, if he was making you question your own judgement.”

“Yeah, yeah that was what it was like,” Anne nodded, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.

Jane’s expression was one of kindness and sympathy as she looked at Anne. “Perhaps you should think about seeing a counsellor too. Kat’s found it really helpful and it might help you now that you’re realising things weren’t as you thought they are. No-one’s going to force you into it, but I think it’s something you ought to consider.”

“I kinda have thought about it,” Anne mumbled. “I- err- I get night terrors too, and Cathy thought it could help with that. She said she’d go with me if I wanted her too.” She paused for a moment before adding “I’m still thinking about it though. Dunno if I’m ready yet.”

“Even just thinking about it is a really big step,” Jane said, a touch of pride in her voice that made Anne smile a little. “Just do everything at your own pace, and we’re all behind you.”

Anne nodded again, rubbing her eyes before she asked hesitantly “Can I have a hug?”

“Of course you can love,” Jane said, opening her arms just before Anne moved forwards to fall into her embrace. She didn’t cry, feeling empty of tears after how many she’d cried already, just clung onto Jane and let her tight hold ground her from where she still felt so unsettled. The gentle hands stroking her hair made Anne’s eyes fall shut, feeling safe at last from everything she’d just realised in Jane’s motherly embrace.

Footsteps on the staircase made Anne look around towards the door, just in time to see Cathy peering in at them. “Can we come in?” she asked quietly, and Anne was about to ask who ‘we’ meant when she saw Aragon’s worried face over Cathy’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Anne said, sitting down next to Jane as Cathy and Aragon joined them on the carpet. Instinctively Anne shuffled over to lean into Cathy’s side, resting her head on her chest to hear the faint thrum of her heartbeat just as she did whenever she had a night terror or panic attack. Cathy responded by draping an arm around Anne’s shoulders and placing the other hand on her knee, too busy looking at Anne to notice Aragon watching them with an air of maternal pride.

“Kat and Anna are downstairs, they didn’t want to crowd you in here,” Aragon said after a moment, and Anne nodded. She paused again for longer before adding “In the show, when I say that you only suffered in the last five minutes of your marriage, I don’t mean it at all. You’ve got every right to be angry and upset by how he treated you. Please know I’m not trying to minimise your suffering.”

Anne smiled at Aragon’s thoughtful words and the genuine concern on her face. “It’s alright, I know,” she said quietly, feeling Cathy’s arm tighten around her shoulder as she continued. “Sorry for running off. I just, I dunno, didn’t realise it was as bad as it really was.”

“It’s ok,” Cathy murmured from above Anne’s head, the sheer volume of non-judgemental kindness in her voice making Anne sink further into Cathy’s safe embrace. “None of us are angry, we just want to make sure you’re ok. That’s all that matters.”

Jane hummed in agreement. “We’re all here for you sweetheart. Whatever happened then or now, we’re always here with you, ok?”

Anne nodded. With three of her friends surrounding her and two more waiting for her to return downstairs, she knew she’d never have to be alone with her bad memories and was safe from her history at last.

[aswithasunbeam]

Of Camp Fires and Bear Attacks

[Read on AO3]

Rated: G

Summary: Summer 1801. While the Grange is being built, the Hamilton’s take a camping trip to oversee the construction and enjoy the riverside air. There's fishing, stories around the camp fire, and, of course, the odd bear or two. __ Just some fun, sweet Hamilton family fluff

Summer 1801

Eliza leaned back on her hands to watch the bright blue sky turn to a hazy purple. The breeze kept the worst of the summer heat bearable, rustling the light cotton of her dress and the blanket she spread out over the sand. Alexander’s arms wound around her torso from behind, squeezing her tight. She smiled, turning her head to the side as his lips found her neck.

“Papa! Papa, watch!” William shouted. “Watch me!”

Alexander made a contented sound deep in his throat and nuzzled her.

“Papa!” William insisted.

“Are these all right, Papa?” Johnny asked from the other direction, struggling with a bundle of sticks. “Jamie’s bringing more.”

“Put them over here, away from the water,” Alexander said, releasing her from the embrace to gesture towards the pit he’d constructed for their fire.

“Papa!”

“I’m watching, Billy,” he called.

William attempted a somersault on the soft sand near the water, but ended up in the river when he turned sideways. He stood up and held his arms overhead triumphantly, as thought he’d intended to soak himself all along. She heard Alexander squelch a laugh.

“Very good, son.”

Eliza noticed Johnny fumbling with the tinderbox. “Johnny,” she said, rocking forward to stand.

“I’ve got it,” Alexander said, already on his feet and moving to assist with the fire building. He’d been on top of everything all day, she considered, as he rushed over to their ten year old. He seemed to be delighting in the simple joys of parenting.

“Tent’s up,” Pip reported, skidding down the hill behind them with Alex and Angelica in tow.

Camping had been Alexander’s idea. The Grange, though beautiful on paper, was little more than a wooden frame, and the farmhouse nearby was cramped and stuffy. So, to enjoy the land and oversee the construction, he’d suggested pitching a tent for a week. They’d all been thrilled at the notion, the older children included, right up until Alexander had set them to work assembling the tent.

“Took you long enough,” Alexander teased. “At your age, I could get a tent up all on my own in ten minutes flat.”

“I think you were a little more in practice, what with the war and all,” Pip replied as he plonked down onto the blanket beside her. “Hi, Mama.”  

“Hi, honey,” she said. When he leaned against her, his head resting on her shoulder, she kissed the crown of his head and ran a hand down his back. Her sweet, darling boy.

A spark from the tinderbox caught on the kindling. Alexander nudged Johnny back a little as he fed the fire, keeping the blaze contained and tidy. The smoky smell mingled with the salt air on the breeze. “There now. We’ll be able to start cooking soon.”

“What are we cooking?” Johnny asked.

“Fish, of course. We spent all that time catching them. We wouldn’t want to waste them, now, would we?”

After spending the morning measuring out pathways for their would-be gardens, Alexander had piled the whole family into a fishing boat. She hadn’t been fishing since she was a girl, but he’d patiently refreshed her on the finer points of casting off, Johnny and William listening closely at his knee. She’d picked it up without much difficulty. In fact, she’d ended up catching four fish to his two.

“Good thing we have Mama to provide for us,” he’d joked good naturedly after fumbling a striped bass over the side of the boat back into the water.

“Fish?” William paused from shaking his hair out like a dog to fix his father with a skeptical look. “That’s all?”

“That's all?” Alexander repeated, comically scandalized. “What more could you want?”

“I have some crackers, cheese, and fruit,” she assured the boy, having anticipated some fussiness from the little ones over the menu.  

“I bet you were happy to get fish when you were in the army, Papa,” Pip said pointedly, sitting up and sending her a wink. She smiled at how well Pip knew his little brother. William adored Alexander’s war stories, and he’d seize any chance to be like his father.

“Yeah?” William asked, interest piqued.  

Alexander grinned at the ploy. “Oh, yes. We’d be ecstatic to have some fresh fish. Much better than army rations. Meat jerky and mealy biscuits can only satisfy you for so long.”

“Mealy biscuits?” Eliza asked with a laugh. Serving under General Washington, he’d just as often enjoyed fine wines and delicacies as army rations.  “Did you suffer from the scurvy, too, sailor?”

“Maybe,” he parried, pulling a face at her playfully.

Little Eliza toddled by, clutching something in her tiny fist. Eliza reached out to catch her shirt. “Sweetie, what do you have?”

“No.” Her new favorite word.

Prying the little fist open, she saw three twigs. “Are you helping collect sticks for the fire, honey?”

“No.”

She chuckled and freed her daughter to continue on.  “Alexander, incoming.”

He turned and held his arms out, lifting little Eliza high up into the air and producing a delighted squeal. The twigs tumbled back onto the sand, unmissed. The girl settled happily onto Alexander’s hip as he went about preparing supper. He assigned the little ones simple tasks to make them feel useful while he sliced the fish into filets and cooked them in the little traveling pan on the metal rack he’d placed over the fire.

The children did an admirable job on the fish he handed out, more for the novelty than the taste, she suspected. When they’d all finished, they laid back on the sand to watch the stars, the fire crackling merrily nearby. Eliza held their little daughter in her arms, the girl already fast asleep. William snuggled into Alexander’s side, and predictably demanded, “Tell a story, Papa.”

“Hm,” Alexander hummed, pondering over his memories. “How about the time General Washington ordered us across the Delaware?”

“Is that when you blasted off the King’s head with a cannon ball?” Johnny asked eagerly.

“That was just a portrait, Johnny,” he said with a chuckle. “And it was at Princeton, a little bit after Trenton.”

“I want to hear about blasting off the King’s head!” William demanded.

“I’ll get there,” he promised. “Well, it was freezing cold night in December when the order came down that we were to move our artillery down to the gunboats. The river was filled with ice, chunks so thick you could barely row through. We had to move quick and quiet as possible, so as not to warn the enemy of our advance.”

The children all listened with rapt attention as he related stories of marching through snow, surprising Hessians still sleeping off their Christmas cups, and then later, firing artillery into the College of New Jersey, beheading the image of King George in the effort. “And the Demos call me an Anglophile,” he noted wryly. “I’d like to know if Jefferson ever beheaded King George.”

Eliza noticed Jamie give a huge yawn. “I think it’s time for bed,” she said, nudging at Alexander with her foot. “It’s getting late.”

“Bed sounds like a good idea,” he agreed, yawning himself. “Come on, up we get.”

After encouraging all the children to stand, Alexander kicked sand over the dwindling fire and collected the blanket. They herded the sleepy children back up the hill towards the tent. She lit a lantern as they all dressed for bed and fought over space in the mounds of blankets arrayed on the tent floor.

“Uh-uh,” Alexander tutted when William tried to curl up on the stuffed pallet towards the back of the tent. “That’s for me and Mama.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m too old to sleep on the ground. And I like to hug Mama while I sleep.”

William scooted over grudgingly.

“I heard something,” Johnny said, pressing his face against the canvas as though he could see through. “I think something’s outside.”

“Probably a squirrel or a bird,” Alexander dismissed.

“It’s sounds bigger than a squirrel,” Johnny insisted.

Jamie sat up. “Maybe it’s a bear!”

“I want to see the bear,” William said, bouncing up with sudden energy.

“It’s not a bear,” Eliza said, though she shot Alexander a concerned look. The woods were close by. Could there be a bear?

Meeting her eye, he sighed. “I’ll take a look.”

“I’ll come,” Pip offered.

He slipped through the tent folds with Pip close on his heels, and she belatedly wondered what exactly they would do if they did find a bear hunting around their camp site. They both wore only a nightshirt, and they hadn’t brought the hunting rifle or any other kind of weapon for defense. Waiting tensely, she listened right along with the children.

She heard them whispering outside, voices muffled as they moved around the tent.

“What’s that?” she heard Alexander ask in a loud whisper.

Pip let out a shout as something barreled into the back of the tent, swiping at the canvas. Startled, she jumped back, then realized the roar was most definitely coming from her husband. She groaned even as she smiled. He thought he was so funny.

“Bear!” Johnny shouted, all too happy to play along.

Pip yelled from the side of the tent, “I think there’s another one!” He then let out a roar of his own and began swiping and rattling the tent from the side.

William squealed in delight at the game as he raced around, trampling over Jamie and Alex as he went.

Alex gave a great “oomf” as William pressed a knee into his stomach. “Get off.”

“It’s only Papa and Pip,” Angelica said, voice tinged with the disinterest of a teenager, though Eliza could see amusement dancing in her eyes.  

Little Eliza had woken at all the noise and commotion, and she watched with one eye open as William barreled into the tent where Pip was playfully swiping, shouting, “Bears!”

Crawling over to where Alexander was roaring, the little girl pushed herself up and took a run at the tent, pushing out with her hands. Eliza heard Alexander stumble backwards a step, laugh, then lower himself to push at the tent closer to little Eliza’s level. In a low, gravelly voice, he proclaimed, “I’m going to get you!”

Little Eliza giggled and looked back at her, grinning. Pointing at the tent, she said, “Papa!”

“Yep, that’s him. Your Papa’s silly, huh?”

She clapped happily and pushed back on the tent again.

At last, Pip and Alexander moved around to the front and stepped back inside.

“That was scary,” Pip said, grinning. “Those were some massive bears. I think we scared them off though, right Papa?”

“I don’t think they’ll come back any time soon,” Alexander agreed.

“You’re not funny,” Eliza scolded, though she couldn’t seem to wipe away the smile on her face. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alexander said.

Little Eliza let out a tiny little roar and charged at him, still playing.

“Oh no, a bear cub!” Alexander cried, kneeling down to play with her. “How did a bear cub get in here?”

Eliza watched fondly as William jumped on his back to wrestle him, the three falling into a jumbled heap on the blankets. She plunged herself willingly into the mass of blankets and wriggling babies, tickling William until they could hardly breathe from laughing. Johnny dove in as well, followed quickly by Pip and Jamie, and finally Alex and Angelica.

Later, as she laid curled beside her husband on the stuffed pallet, she gently pressed her lips to his, heart close to bursting with affection for him. He responded lazily, not quite awake, and gave a sleepy sigh. She whispered softly in his ear, “I adore you.”