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aerltarg · 2 months

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thinking again about my sad boys, aegon and rhaegar, the dragonbane and the last dragon, being depressed since childhood, finding solace in their happy ladies, daenaera and lyanna. but while aegon's older siblings died, rhaegar lost his younger ones. but hey, at least aegon got to be close to his dear younger bro viserys! meanwhile, rhaegar just couldn't have a chance to build any proper relationship with his younger bro viserys, with everything between them. also to think that daeron the young dragon was aegon and daenaera's son and jon, rhaegar and lyanna's son, admired him and considered him one of his heroes... oh bless them, i love them so much

[...] As she stood before the king that Maiden’s Day, clad in pale white silk, Myrish lace, and pearls, her long hair shining in the torchlight and her cheeks flush with excitement, Daenaera was but six years old, yet so beautiful she took the breath away. The blood of Old Valyria was strong in her, as is oft seen in the sons and daughters of the seahorse; her hair was silver laced with gold, her eyes as blue as a summer sea, her skin as smooth and pale as winter snow. “She sparkled,” Mushroom says, “and when she smiled, the singers in the galley rejoiced, for they knew that here at last was a maid worthy of a song.” Daenaera’s smile transformed her face, men agreed; it was sweet and bold and mischievious, all at once. Those who saw it could not fail to think, “Here is a bright, sweet, happy little girl, the perfect antidote to the young king’s gloom.” (Fire & Blood)

When Aegon III returned her smile and said, “Thank you for coming, my lady, you look very pretty,” even Lord Unwin Peake surely must have known that the game was lost. (Fire & Blood)

[...] Hope and good feeling reigned over the Red Keep as the new year dawned. Though younger than her predecessor, Queen Daenaera was a happier child, and her sunny nature did much to lighten the king’s gloom…for a while, at the least. Aegon III was seen about the court more often than had been his wont, and even left the castle on three occasions to show his bride such sights as the city offered (though he refused to take her to the Dragonpit, where Lady Rhaena’s young dragon, Morning, made her lair). His Grace seemed to take a new interest in his studies, and Mushroom was oft summoned to entertain the king and queen at supper (“The sound of the queen’s laughter was like music to this fool, so sweet that even the king was known to smile”). (Fire & Blood)

[...] “But I am not certain it was in Rhaegar to be happy.” “You make him sound so sour,” Dany protested. “Not sour, no, but… there was a melancholy to Prince Rhaegar, a sense…” The old man hesitated again. “Say it,” she urged. “A sense…?” “…of doom. He was born in grief, my queen, and that shadow hung over him all his days.” Viserys had spoken of Rhaegar's birth only once. Perhaps the tale saddened him too much. “It was the shadow of Summerhall that haunted him, was it not?” “Yes. And yet Summerhall was the place the prince loved best. He would go there from time to time, with only his harp for company. Even the knights of the Kingsguard did not attend him there. He liked to sleep in the ruined hall, beneath the moon and stars, and whenever he came back he would bring a song. When you heard him play his high harp with the silver strings and sing of twilights and tears and the death of kings, you could not but feel that he was singing of himself and those he loved.” (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

“At the welcoming feast, the prince had taken up his silver-stringed harp and played for them. A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp.” (ADWD, The Griffin Reborn)

“The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“By night the prince played his silver harp and made her weep. When she had been presented to him, Cersei had almost drowned in the depths of his sad purple eyes.” (AFFC, Cersei V)

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.” (ASOS, Bran II)

“Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. [...] the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, 'Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.'” (ASOS, Bran II)

“He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.” (AGOT, Eddard I)

“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm’s End. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.” Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature. (AGOT, Eddard IX)

“It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy.” (AGOT, Eddard X)

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starlightrows · 3 years

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2 — The Bounty Hunter

The Queen of Tatooine Masterlist

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Pairing: Boba Fett x reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Brief description of injury

Summary: A change in the weather brings back a familiar face

Warm summer nights fade into crisp autumn days. You spend your days tending the garden behind your inn, working to make sure you have enough dried and canned goods for the coming winter, providing room and board for whoever happens to pass through and can pay for it, the shadow cat that likes to hang around your property has a litter of kittens. And you continue to think about Boba Fett, the supposedly fearsome bounty hunter with a kind smile.

You often find yourself wondering if he will come back. Perhaps he would come in later in the season, when the snows have fallen and clung to the trees, when a good fire in the hearth and a bowl of hot stew is all a person craves in the world. You could provide those things. You would be happy with those eyes again, glinting in the fire light while he speaks of far off places and grand adventures.

You have to snap yourself out of these thoughts, focusing your attention back on wet stone sharpening your kitchen knives. Most who pass through your door do not return. Either bounties who are caught are brought to their justice or travelers choose not to venture out so far again. Occasionally you get bounty hunters who return to catch new bounties trying to disappear into the mountains or large game hunters returning each autumn- just passing through on their way further up into the mountains where the herds of black ram and lone bears roam freely.

You do not actually expect to see Boba Fett again, and when you do it is nothing like you’d imagined in your head. A storm is brewing, not yet cold enough to bring snow, but rain, freezing rain that will flood the streets and drown out your remaining autumn plants before the first frost comes. That’s when there is a pounding on the front door in the middle of the night. No one is staying at the inn tonight… perhaps a traveler has gotten in much later than they intended… you get up and throw on a house coat… making sure to have your old hunting blaster in hand, just in case.

When you unbolt the door the howling winds try to slam it back shut, a dark figure slumps against the frame. Not a comforting sight.

“Who are you? What do you want?” you call out to the figure, trying with all your might to keep the door from whipping open all the way. The figure does not answer or perhaps they can’t hear you against the wind whistling through the trees.

Whoever they are, they’re taking too long and you’re freezing. With one hand you reach out and tug on their cloak, dragging them inside and slamming the door shut behind them. They slump back against the door, and you can hear their ragged breathing.

“There aren’t many I turn away from my inn, even when there isn’t a storm raging” I say “But if you intend to stay you’ll need to remove your hood and show some credits”

“I have credits on my ship” comes the deep rolling voice… you know that voice. Without thinking you reach out and pull back their hood. Revealing the same hard lines in his face, and those kind dark eyes. Boba Fett.

“It’s you!” You gasp “You came back”

“Wanted to see you again… and… I need your help” he grits out, wincing in pain.

“What happened?” You guide him by the arm to sit at one of the dining room tables

“Blaster bolt to the side” he groans “It’s mostly fine, just need somewhere safe to lay low for a day or two”

“Will they be coming after you?” You ask bringing him a pitcher of water

“Can’t, they’re dead” he answers, accepting the water and gulping it down thirstily. Well at least you won’t have to worry about others trying to break down the door coming after him.

“Let me take a look at that” you say indicating his wound

“Suppose someone needs to” he grunts getting up from the table. He winces when he steps, and you fall in to catch him before he lists over to the side.

“Come on, there aren’t too many stairs” you manage to get out, as you help him towards the old wooden staircase.

It’s a struggle to get him up the stairs and into the first guest room. He’s a lot weaker than he’s letting on, a good chance he’s more injured as well. You get him to lay back on the bed, and he groans.

You sit beside him and reach for the hem of his tunic and give it a gentle pull “May I?” He nods. Removing the tunic is less difficult than you imagined it would be, it’s shredded from the blaster bolt.

The wound is ugly… and you shudder just looking at it. But it’s not as bad as you were afraid it might be.

“I’m going to wash it out and wrap it with a bacta salve. A few days rest and a hot meal and you’ll be alright” You go to get up and start getting the items you’ll need together to clear out the wound, but before you can turn away he catches your wrist in a gentle hold

“Thank you” he says softly. You smile, and gently pull away.

It takes some time to actually clean out the wound, it’s painful for him and he strains to not howl with the wind as you work to clean it out. Finally you get him bandaged up, and wipe your hands on a dry cloth.

“That should do it” you say wiping your brow with the back of your hand “Please rest, and call out if you need anything”

In the morning you bring up a tray laden with tea, toast, and warm oatmeal with dried fruit and honey. To your surprise he’s up and out of bed, looking at his injury in the small mirror on the wall.

“Good morning” you say, setting the tray down on the bed… which you’re even more surprised to see is fully made. “I don’t normally do room service, but for the injured I make an exception… though you could fool me right now”

He turns to look at you “Wouldn’t even consider myself injured anymore” he says, showing you the scar left by the blaster bolt. He sits on the bed and invites you to join him. You hesitate for a moment… there’s a lot you need to get done today, and you don’t make a habit of spending time alone with your patrons. But he’s been kind thus far, and to be honest you could use the company. So you sit next to him and pour him a cup of tea.

“So tell me, what happened that you landed up on my doorstep last night?”

“I’ve been tracking down something that once belonged to me. Something that is very dear to me” he explains

“Am I allowed to ask what it is?” You smile accepting the second cup of tea he’s poured you.

“My armor” he states

“Your armor?” You’re a bit confused “How did you lose it?”

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” He sets down his cup. You shake your head.

“No offense… but you’re just another bounty hunter to pass through my door” you admit “Well, that’s not entirely true. You’re the only bounty hunter I’ve ever undressed and stitched up”

He studies your face, and sees that you are genuine… you’re confident and self assured but there is an innocence about you. He can’t help feeling drawn to you.

“About 5 years ago, I was thrown into a sarlacc pit on Tatooine and left to die” he explains carefully “I can’t explain why I am alive today. Fate let me live. But I lost my armor, and my former position”

You nod, and listen carefully… Sarlacc’s are native to Tatooine. His… position… “You worked for the Hutt’s” you say

His heart drops, he’s disappointed you. But he won’t lie. He nods “Does that scare you?”

“That depends” you say scooting back from him. Not to get away but so you can square your shoulders and look him in the eye “Do you still condone the use of slaves?”

“No” he says quickly “I never did. It was always my intention to get close to Jabba and his most trusted advisors and usurp him. End the use of slaves. Clean up his drug trafficking. And rule over the great dune sea”

He takes your hand and squeezes it. “That is still my intention” he says “but I need my armor to do it”

“I hear Bib Fortuna rules the great dune sea now” you say “a weakling and a coward… I have no doubt you will make a better leader”

“I’ll miss your little corner of the galaxy” he says “if I asked you to visit, would you consider it?”

“Maybe. I don’t own a ship. Don’t even have a speeder. Might take me a long time to get the credits to make the trip all the way out to Tatooine” you say “but then again, if you are king of Tatooine, I can hardly refuse an invitation”

He smirks at that, “I will come back for you, Princess. I want you to visit me on Tatooine”

You shake your head, if he does successfully overthrow Fortuna, he will have his hands full ruling and dismantling the institutions he already described. He will likely forget about you, and your inn at the edge of the galaxy.

“Find your armor Boba Fett, and claim your empire” you smile “Then com me someday so I can proudly say I served tea for Boba Fett before he was king”

“You have my word Princess” he chuckles

He leaves that afternoon, with a bag you prepared for him containing home baked bread and cured meat. He promises you again that he will come back for you, and while you appreciate the thought, you won’t hold it against him if you never see him again.

Tag List: @cannedsoupsucks @otterly-fey

#Boba Fett #Boba Fett x reader #boba fett x female reader #boba fett x f!reader #The Queen of Tatooine #QT

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pricemarshfield · 3 years

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first of her name

Written for Day 4 of @acocweek; Tragedy + Favorite (Platonic) Relationship + Amethar. Read on AO3 here.

Saccharina knows, when Ruby's gaze meets hers, that she might die.

It's not the first time she's thought she might. The nuns never cared for her well-being, and she'd not always been so good at finding enough food to feed herself after she'd drowned them all. A Bulbian priest who was better with a sword than she thought, a marauder whose views on magic were less positive than they'd assumed, an arrow that could hit Cinnamon while they were in the air so she'd fall gracelessly and never bring magic back to anything.

She could move first. Gooey meets her eyes with a pleading look, or Cinnamon's fire could reach her. She could run, get out of range of her arrows. But that's her sister, even if she doesn't seem to care.

Saccharina shakes her head at her marauders, then looks back to Ruby. Ruby, whose gaze has hardened, who doesn't answer when Saccharina messages we don't have to do this. Who nocks an arrow and fires it at her faster than Saccharina can even process.

She throws up a shield, knows her dear sister's aim is true enough for it not to matter. Saccharina doesn't have the energy to feel anything other than tired, and closes her eyes against it.

She doesn't die, or feel an arrow pierce her armor, or hear Cinnamon roar in rage. Instead, Ruby screams.

Saccharina opens just one eye just in case Ruby's missed and she has time to run, and sees Amethar lying on the ramparts in front of her, an arrow in his neck. She's sliding down Cinnamon's hide to get to him before she's finished processing what's happening, his scales opening cuts on her skin.

"Amethar?" she asks, rushes forward. "I can heal you, just wait--"

"Saccharina," Amethar says, blood gushing out of the wound. She knows enough to not take the arrow out, but God, she's used most of her spells, and he's so far gone-- "Are you okay?"

Saccharina laughs. It's not funny, but she doesn't know what else to do. "Why did you do this?"

"You're my dau--" Amethar coughs, and Saccharina tries to heal him, but he'll die too fast if she takes out the arrow, and he'll lose too much blood if she does nothing. "And I couldn't let Ruby kill you. She'd have regretted it."

Saccharina thinks of the steel in her eyes, and thinks he has to be wrong. "If you cared, why didn't you just tell me?"

Amethar frowns until some recognition sparks in his eyes. "I don't know. I don't know."

"It's fine," Saccharina says, like Ruby hadn't tried to kill her for it. "Don't talk, it's only making it worse--"

"Dad!" Ruby says from far-too-close, and Saccharina throws up a shield between them without even thinking. "Let me in, I need to see my father!"

"Our father," Saccharina snarls, and it would be so easy to throw a lightning bolt into the other girl, fry her alive, let Cinnamon eat her heart and make sure she's tasted enough of betrayal. It would be so, so easy. "This is your fault."

Ruby's face twists into a grimace, reaching back to her quiver. It's only Amethar coughing again that prompts Saccharina to look away from Ruby. It's just like her life, to find out her father cares enough about her to die for her when he's going to.

"I don't think I can heal you," Saccharina says, and she's choked up, fuck. "I don't--none of my spells can take care of this. I don't know what to do."

"It's okay," he says. "Can you drop the shield? I want to see Ruby."

It's stupid, and it's dangerous, and she drops the shield anyway. She trusts that Cinnamon will fry Ruby if she tries anything, or that her magic will be enough now that she's on guard. Ruby drops to her knees next to Saccharina, taking her dad's hand instinctually.

"I'm sorry," Ruby says, sounding younger than Saccharina's ever heard her. It's been easy to forget she's only barely 18, with the way she always looked down her nose at Saccharina. "I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. Please don't die. You said you wouldn't go anywhere."

"Yeah, well," Amethar says. "I've never been a very good dad, have I?"

"No," Ruby says. "No, this is my fault. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Amethar says. There's blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth now, and Saccharina casts a spell to ease the pain. It's all she has now. "I would do it again."

"Why?" Ruby says, voice venomous. "Why would you die for her?"

Saccharina would throw her off the ramparts now, but she does want to know the answer, and besides, there'll be time enough for it after Amethar stops breathing. He deserves that much, since she can't save him.

"She's my daughter," Amethar says simply, and Saccharina's heart breaks. "So are you. You two shouldn't--you should hold onto each other. Family's all we have. I would give anything to have found one of my sisters alive."

There's a tug in Saccharina's mind at that, the wind whispering to her about some chocolate in the woods, but she waves it away. She'll follow that thread when anyone who might've betrayed her is gone.

"Dad," Ruby says, and then just weeps. Amethar lifts his other hand, moves it vaguely in Saccharina's direction until she takes it.

"Don't hurt her," Amethar says, making eye contact with Saccharina. She nods, and isn't sure if she's lying as she does it. Amethar smiles, though, and it feels, for a second, like all she's ever wanted.

Then his eyes slip close, and he exhales one long, rattling breath, and he shits himself.

Ruby doesn't nock an arrow, and Saccharina doesn't throw a bolt of lightning at her. For just a moment, they sit, mourning their father. Then Ruby stands, says, "I'm going to make sure Cruller is dead," and leaves.

Saccharina stands. The castle around her is throwing up white flags, Cinnamon is shifting, eager to get back to it, and her father's still-warm corpse is on the ground in front of her. There isn't a battle to be won, but there's a throne to be claimed, a land's magic to resurrect, a church to raze to the ground.

A sister to...

Something.

---

Sitting on her throne, Gooey at her right, Theobald at her left, Saccharina waits.

Liam approaches with the Book of Saint Citrina. Its holy light illuminates the room, painful to look at directly, and everything in Saccharina tells her to burn it, feed it to Cinnamon (sticking his head through one of the holes their siege weapons had left, keeping a watchful eye on everyone), throw it into the sea to join the nuns that would have revered it.

Instead, she puts her hand on it, and says, "I am the daughter of Amethar Rocks and Catherine Ghee. After my father's passing in the battle today, I am the rightful Queen of Candia. Are there any who have a better claim than me?"

It's an obvious challenge, but Ruby doesn't rise to the bait, Caramelinda's arm around her shoulders, holding Payment Day and staring down at her feet.

"All kneel before her Majesty the Queen!" Gooey calls, and Theo's armor thuds to the floor first. Everyone kneels, including Caramelinda, including Ruby.

It doesn't feel the way she'd hoped it might. Isn't she entitled at least one simple victory?

"Sister," Saccharina says, and Ruby's flinch is almost hidden. "Would you swear something on the book of our aunt here?"

Caramelinda's gaze is colder than ice, and Ruby looks completely taken aback. Theo is shifting next to her, but he doesn't get up. Good. She'd wanted at least one of them to remain loyal to her.

It'll be a shame to lose Liam, if she's right, but power means sacrifice, and at least she's choosing this one.

"Of course," Ruby says, gets up. The room is quiet enough that the noise of setting down Payment Day echoes throughout. When Ruby puts a hand on the book, her eyes widen, and Saccharina studies her face.

"Do you recognize my claim?" she says.

"Yes," Ruby responds, and there's a sigh from Theo.

"Do you have any intent to take the throne, or to make Caramelinda queen again, or anything else that would threaten my reign?"

Ruby exhales, and Saccharina's certain that neither of them know what's coming out of her mouth.

"Well?"

"No," Ruby says, and Saccharina blinks.

"Good," Saccharina says, and leans in, whispers, "One more question?"

The crowd in the room shifts uncomfortably, and Ruby nods, gaze distant. Liam, still standing next to the throne, makes a face at her.

But she needs them to know. They have to hate Ruby, because trust is nothing.

"Who killed Amethar?"

Ruby shudders. "You know. Don't ask me."

"They don't," Saccharina says, glaring at a Dairy Islander who seems to be trying to listen in, who ducks his gaze. "Ruby, answer the question or I'll tell the room myself. I'll tell them you and your mother conspired." She pauses. "Haven't you lost eno--"

"I did," Ruby says, and Liam's face goes blank. Saccharina wants to turn and look at Theo, but doesn't. It's an obvious sign of weakness to care about the opinions of any but her most trusted generals; she can't do that anymore. "I didn't mean to. I didn't know he would jump in front of you. And I wish he hadn't."

"That will be all," Saccharina says with a polite smile, loud enough for the room to hear, lets her hand accidentally brush the Book of Leaves as she says, "I just wanted to remember my father as he was." The room all seems to nod, understanding grief and loss, after everything. There's a brief rush of magic from Caramelinda's direction, and her gaze is as openly defiant as it could be, given the circumstances. Saccharina makes a note to make sure to keep shield stocked.

As soon as Liam takes the book back, face still blank, hands shaking slightly, says, "Our father would be proud, don't you think?"

Ruby's gaze flashes to hers, and it's not the cruelest thing Saccharina's ever done, but it's possibly the worst thing she's ever said. She doesn't care. She tried politeness, and it got her father dead from an arrow that meant for her.

"Sir Theobald?" she says, and he rises to put a hand on the book. His expression is stormy, but she can't see any resentment of her on his face. When he looks at Ruby, though? There's disbelief, not-quite-hatred, and it works. It's enough for Saccharina's shoulders to relax slightly, to nod at Gooey, who looks more relieved than she does.

"Before Emperor Gustavo Uvano's passing," he says. "I watched him name Amethar Rocks as Emperor of the Concord." The room gasps.

"A shame that excludes you from the running to be Empress, Ruby," Saccharina says with a little put-upon sigh. Ruby doesn't even respond, goes back to her place besides Caramelinda and kneels again. Her hands don't shake.

"The Dairy Islands recognizes the claim of Queen Saccharina Frostwhip, First of Her Name," says Primsy from the front row, and Saccharina manages a genuine smile that she doesn't quite return.

Gooey's hand stays on her sword, and Caramelinda refuses to duck her gaze, and Liam glances between everyone with that same blank expression. She'd hoped the throne would be the end of her fighting to keep her place. But it is hers, for now, and she'll do what she needs to keep it.

This time around, if she's given a chance to strike first, she'll fucking take it.

#saccharina frostwhip #ruby rocks #amethar rocks #acocweek #a crown of candy #my fics

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

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Zutara Week Day 6: Affirm

I am really sorry for how I ended the chapter yesterday. Take this as compensation?

Be sure to check out the previous parts!

Read on AO3

Katara felt awful. She had felt awful before. Awful and heartbroken. When her mum had died or when her dad had left for the war. When she and Sokka had left the South Pole. And when she had broken up with Aang, of course.

But this? This was torture. Because Zuko and her hadn't broken up. He hadn't died or left, unsure when or if he would return. She had left him instead and all because she had caught some feelings and he had no clue. And didn't feel the same anyway.

He was always so worried about the Fire Nation and the laws and the economy, it was the only thing he was ever talking about. She hadn't even been sure if he'd noticed her.

And then he'd invited her to the garden and she'd thought, hoped, that maybe, maybe, he felt something, too. And when she had finally worked up the courage if all of that meant something- he'd said no.

So naturally, she had to leave.

She had made up a flimsy excuse about a pregnant Suki - which she was, and Katara was very glad for her and Sokka - and boarded the first ship to the South Pole to get the hell out of there. She was almost glad that Zuko hadn't noticed how feeble her pretext had been. Almost.

When she had arrived in the South Pole, she had been greeted by a very concerned Sokka and a very happy Hakoda. Yet, it had been Gran-Gran she'd ran to.

Gran-Gran with her open arms and her knowing glare who had just opened her door and told everyone to leave them alone. She had broken down on the polarbear-dog rug and cried. She had cried for hours, clinging to her grandmother for dear life.

"It hurts," she had sobbed, "it hurts so much. Gran-Gran, how do I make it stop?"

And the wise woman had just gently stroked her hair, rocking back and forth. "I know," she had whispered, "it is allowed to hurt. That way you can heal."

After two days of tears and self-pity Katara had pulled herself up. "I'm done with weeping," she had said.

And so, she was.

She went outside, relishing in the welcome feeling of being home. Oh, how she had missed it. The last time she had felt that way was when she had walked into a stuffy council room on some backwater island and found Zuko sitting there. She didn't allow herself to venture on that thought.

Instead she ventured out into the snow and ice with nothing but the clothes on her back. On day she stayed in the frozen wasteland, bending up a storm under the crushing pull of the full moon. After all that time in the Fire Nation where her powers were weak and withered, she had never felt this powerful in her life.

She returned with a fierce and wild look in her eyes and not even dared to talk back to her.

Then she calmed down.

Katara started teaching again, filling her days with the laughter of children and adults alike. She enjoyed the combat lessons as well as the healing sessions but what she loved most was that for the first time in her life she got to explore her element for fun. She raised statues and adorned houses with carvings, went penguin sledding and ice dodging and laughed until her sides ached.

And when they gathered around a fire in the night and Katara pulled children into her lap to teach them the stories of their ancestors that were written in the stars, maybe her heart ached, too. Because maybe she would have liked telling black-haired, blue-eyed children of the spirits dancing in the sky. Maybe she had even dreamed of it. But that would never come true, so Katara didn't think of it.

Instead she filled her days with laughter so she wouldn't drown in her tears.

~*~

The war had ended over ten years ago and still the sight of black snow was enough to strike fear into her hear.

The small children stared in wonder but she saw the same panic that boiled in her stomach in the eyes of the men and women who still remembered. Instinct made them grab their children and run and Katara wanted to flee, too.

But instead she grabbed Sokka by the arm and ran towards the sea. "What is happening?" he asked breathlessly. "You don't think-"

"No," she answered and stood. There was no fleet of warships heading towards their shore. There was no fleet at all. Instead it was one single ship, painted in red and gold. "It's Zuko."

"Ah." Her brother straightened. "He sure took his time."

Katara whipped around and narrowed her eyes. "What did you do?" she hissed.

He raised his arms in defence. "Nothing!" he insisted and Katara didn't need Toph's abilities to know that he was lying.

She prodded her finger into his chest and growled: "We'll have words about this." before walking away to greet the Fire Lord.

The ship docked less than an hour later and lowered the bridge. Katara straightened herself, prepared for the host of nobles that usually surrounded the Fire Lord.

Instead only one figure stepped out, dressed in silk that was in no way appropriate for a South Pole autumn. "Hello, Zuko here," Zuko said. It was easy to imagine the sixteen-year-old boy who had showed up in the Western Air Temple, he looked almost the same. Even his hair fell into his face just like back then.

And it was also distressingly easy to conjure up the rage that had burned her from inside out back then. "What are you doing here?" she asked. She sounded furious and she knew that he didn't deserve that but she didn't know what else to say.

She could see how he glanced at Sokka, Hakoda and Suki beside her who stared at him with crossed arms - though Suki's threatening vibes were probably negated by the growing bump under her parka. "I, um- I missed you. So, I came to see you."

"We weren't made aware of a state visit," she countered coldly.

A hurt expression flitted over his face and Katara's stomach twisted painfully. "That's because it isn't," he said quietly. "I came here as myself. As Zuko, just Zuko, not the Fire Lord. I- I came because I missed you." He hunched his shoulders. "But if you don't want me here, I'll be on my way as soon as I can."

"Don't be silly," an old voice croaked. "Of course, she wants you here, boy."

"Gran-Gran!" Katara exclaimed concerned, "What are you doing out here? You should be resting!"

The old woman waved her aside. "I'll be fine, my child. I might not be a spring komodo-chicken anymore, but I can still decide when I can leave my house." She walked over to Zuko slowly and patted his hand. "You're always welcome here, boy. There's a room in Katara's house I'm sure she's happy to share. Right, Katara?"

"Right..." She couldn't very well say no to that, could she? She jerked her chin. "Come on then, bring your stuff."

They walked in silence over to her house. It was one of the first ones she'd ever built and therefore smaller than most. Still, there were two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom and that was more than she'd ever had while growing up. And it was her own, so that was all it needed to be.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the silence broke. "Why are you mad at me, Katara?"

That phrase was all it took to make the tension leave her body. "I don't know," she admitted. "I guess I am not."

"Then why do you act like you're mad at me?"

She winced pondering on how to answer that without giving away that she was hurting. She was hurting and maybe if she pushed him away it wouldn't hurt as much. But even as she contemplated her options, she knew that it all was bullshit. "Why are you here?" she asked instead.

"Because I missed you." She winced. "Why did you leave?"

'Because I love you,' the realisation hit her like a gut punch.

"Katara," he pleaded, his fingers wrapping around her shoulders. "Look at me, please." Slowly she let him turn her around and raise her head. He studied her face for a long time, agony spreading on his features. "Why did you leave?" he asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Tears burned in her eyes. How should she answer that? How could she answer that without ruining all that they had? Members of Team Avatar shouldn't date each other, she had tried it with Aang and it hadn't worked.

"Is it because of the dinner?" he asked and she had to close her eyes because that was just a bit too close to the truth. She heard him inhale sharply. "Then I'm sorry for that, Katara. I overstepped and clearly make you uncomfortable with trying something more-"

"No, Zuko, you don't understand," she whispered, "I wanted more. I wanted it to be more. And then you said-"

"Fuck."

"No, that wasn't it," she couldn't resist the joke and cracked one eye open. If the situation weren't so tragic, she would have laughed at the face Zuko pulled as if he was processing approximately twenty-five distinct emotions at the same time.

He held up one day. "Wait, wait, wait. Say that again?"

"Say what again?"

"You wanted it to be more?"

It took all her self-restraint not to wince. "Yes, Zuko. I would have liked it to be a date."

"Fuck," he said again and stumbled backwards. "Oh, shit, I fucked up."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I panicked!" he blurted. "I had meant it as a date! And then you asked and I- shit!"

Realisation dawned on her face. "Oh," she said. "Shit." He had meant it as a date? "Why didn't you say so?"

"I panicked!" he repeated and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, Katara, I'm-" He looked up helplessly.

She held up one hand to shut him up. "I'm making this right," she declared.

Then, Katara bolted out of the door.

It took almost all day to do the preparations. Spirits, if only she'd known! She wasn't able to cook, though she doubted that Zuko had cooked himself that day either.

She did have time to do the decorations, however. She had spent so many hours in that garden that she had memorised every single flower in it. So that would have to do.

The sun had already set when she went back to her house, a joyful spring in her step. Zuko was still sitting pretty much where she'd left him with the only addition of Sokka and Suki to keep him company. 'And to calm his nerves,' Katara guessed.

When his eyes fell on her he smiled brightly. "You're back!"

"I am," she answered and smiled wider than she would have thought it possible. She held out one hand. "Come with me, Zuko?"

He scrambled to his feet. "Always."

Sokka gagged. "Spirits, that's disgusting."

"Nah, it's better than Katara pining," Suki added.

Katara exchanged an incredulous look with Zuko. "I ran into both Suki and you before you had sex for the first time," he reminded them.

"And I held your hand the whole voyage home when you got separated from Suki after the war. Even at night when you cried." She gave him her 'don't-mess-with-me'-glance and they thankfully shut up.

Katara took Zuko's hand and laced his fingers with hers before tugging him outside.

"Were you really pining?" he whispered against her ear.

She granted him a sweet smile. "Shut up or I'll change my mind."

He chuckled. "As you command- oh." He stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the sight of the garden she had bent up, complete with turtleducks swimming on a frozen pond and icy lampions. "Really, Katara?" he asked quietly.

She chewed on her lip and nodded. "Watch this." She closed her eyes concentrating on the lampions and a little trick she had learned some time ago. When she opened them again, they were glowing softly.

"You are amazing," he breathed and meant to lean down but she stopped him.

"Wait! You have to ask first."

He took a deep breath. Not annoyed at all. More smitten. "Katara...," hesitantly Zuko stepped closer and looked down at her with a smirk. "Is this a date?"

This time she didn't ignore the fluttering feeling in her heart. This time, she embraced it. Slowly, she reached out, gently cupping his cheek and running her thumb over the jarred edges of his scar. "It is," she said quietly, "if you want it to be."

He hummed, a warm smile spreading on his face as he leaned into her touch. "I would love it to be."

A bubbling feeling spread through her chest and belly, warm and giggly and suddenly she felt like fourteen again. "Can I?" she asked and he just nodded. Katara raised her second hand and put it on his other cheek. She rose up on her tiptoes and pulled him into a tender kiss.

Zuko didn't kiss how she'd expected him to. She thought it would be scorching and burning, consuming as a firestorm in a dry forest. Electrifying, lightning crackling in a hot humid summer night, ripping through the quiet and racing towards her, unbridled, untamed, inescapable. Inevitable. But it wasn't.

Inevitable, yes, because the moon and the sea were drawn towards each other, always pushing, always pulling. She laid herself bare before him, naked and unguarded. He could take her heart if he wanted to. And he did. But not with force, instead with gentle caresses and tentative touches and hidden smiles. She gave and gave and gave and took as well. She took hurt and desperation, loneliness and fear and it all evaporated between them. They were perfect opposites in perfect harmony.

And it ended way too soon.

"Katara-" Zuko croaked and she barely let him catch his breath before kissing him again. They had waited far too long for this. Zuko was stumbling and Katara was drowning, tumbling down an ice tunnel, lunging into the abyss. It was intoxicating, addicting and Katara didn't care. She wanted it all. She had it all.

They broke apart breathlessly and Katara rested her forehead against his. "You were wrong," she whispered.

"What?" he slurred.

"The moon is in love with the sun and round and round and round they went, always chasing each other. But not anymore. I caught you."

He tightened his embrace. "I found you," he answered.

They stood in the pale moonlight kissing and holding each other, making up for lost time, until Katara was shivering and he carried her back to her house. She led him into the bedroom and he layed her down gently, caressing her cheek and whispering sweet words into her ears.

"Wait," he said suddenly and sat up.

"What is it?" she asked, fearing for a moment that he'd changed his mind.

"I just- If we're doing this, I want to do it right," she said solemnly. "Right for you. I said that I wanted a date but- that's not all. Really, that is overly simplified."

"Then make it as complicated as it needs to be."

He took a deep breath. "When you were in the palace, I was the happiest I have been in a long time. The best part of my day was the precious hours I spent with you. I love the way you smile and the way you fight and the way you heal. I love the way you let the world be a part of your life, how you forgive and help and show mercy and kindness to everyone. I love- I just love you, Katara."

She closed her eyes and sighed in contentment. "Say it again," she whispered.

"I love you."

She smiled and pulled him close to kiss him again. "I love you, too, Zuko. With all my heart."

"Will you come home with me?" he blurted.

'Home...' It was a strange word. Home had meant so many different things over the years. A backwater village at the South Pole, an air bison's saddle, a never-ending search of belonging. And then she had seen him again and suddenly her search had ended. "You are my home."

"So... is that a yes?"

Tears were streaming down her face but this time they were happy tears. "Yes," she sobbed, kissing him again. "Or course it is."

#zutara #zutara week #zutara week 2020 #day 6: affirm #zuko #katara #hakoda #sokka #suki #kanna #i fixed it #i hope #i hope it's not too sappy in the end #enjoy!

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fellkrieger123 · 4 years

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Prompt #5: Matter of Fact

OR: How my Papa is the best and yours sucks. _____________

“Well, my father is the captain of the ‘Lil Coeurl,” Yvette bragged, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. It was lunchtime for the children at Stillglade Fane, and they all bunched together, whispering among themselves as they munched on their snacks provided to them by the teachers. Adele sat next to Etoile quietly, Esther on his other side as she quietly at her sandwich. It was a very yummy sandwich today, packed by her father, who was finally home from long weeks of adventuring. “He’s out right now with his crew, catching lots of fish in the La Noscean sea! Oh, but he’ll be home in time before class ends so he can pick me up~”

“Well, my daddy works with the Leatherworkers’ Guild. He’s like, the best one they have,” another girl bragged. Adele didn’t really know the name of this little girl. She knew she was one of Yvette’s cronies, following her around like a little duck on most days when the small group of children had time to play by themselves.

Other children began chiming in, bragging about the jobs their mothers and fathers did, but Etoile, Adele, and Esther sat quietly, eating their lunches in peace. No one noticed the quiet trio until Yvette spoke up. Her expression was innocent, a hand pressed demurely to her cheek, but her eyes spoke of malice that Adele was quite familiar with, even at her young age.

“Oh, Adele,” she said, a tone of feigned concern in her voice. Adele knew she was going to be made fun of. Yvette always liked to pull her hair and call her dirty names like ‘half-breed’ and ‘bastard,’ but Adele always took it in stride. After all, Papa always said that she should never be ashamed of who she was because she was proof that her mama and he loved each other very much. She was proud of her slightly pointed ears. Let Yvette be mean, she could never understand. “What does your mother do?” There was a moment of silence as Adele lowered her sandwich and looked up at Yvette. Another look of feigned shock came across the Elezen child’s face. “Oh! I forgot! You don’t have a mother, do you?” Yvette’s cronies giggled maliciously as their leader continued.

“It really is such a shame. I’m sure your mother left after you were born. After all, normal people don’t want a half-breed attached to their name. Oh, not that there’s anything wrong with you! I’m sure your father doesn’t see you as too much of a burden!” She sneered, covering her mouth to hide her smirk. “I’m sure he’s just busy, after all. He never picks you up from class, and I never see him around town! I’m sure he’s just working so hard to make sure he gives you SUCH a good life!” Etoile’s face curled in disgust and he put down his food, opening his mouth to say something, but quieted when Adele put a hand on his arm. He looked at the little girl, face twisted in annoyance, but said nothing.

“Yeah, Papa is always busy,” she said cheerfully. “He works really hard in other City-States. He was in Limsa before he came home. He’s always traveling.” Yvette’s sneer deepened. Adele wouldn’t let the older girl know that her words bothered her a lot. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“Yes, well,” she simpered, finishing her food. “I’m sure he’ll be far too busy to pick you up again today. You’ll have to walk home ALL alone, again. It’s so sad, really, to have no one there to take you home!” Adele bit her tongue. She’d show this girl. Her papa was coming today to pick her up, and she’d show her just how nice and wonderful her papa was.

Before Yvette could say anything more, the Conjurer in charge of their studies called for them. It seemed lunchtime was over. Adele shoved the rest of her yummy sandwich in her mouth, wiping her lips with the back of her hand before standing, wiping any crumbs off of her nice new shirt. She wanted to look her best for PApa when he picked her and her friends up today, after all.

“Adele,” Esther whispered next to her as they all started to fill the circle around the Conjurer. “Why don’t you say anything? Mr. Fell is the nicest person ever, and you have so many cool stories to tell!” Adele shook her head.

“I don’t need to brag about my Papa,” Adele whispered back. “Because I already know how great he is. I don’t care if other people don’t think so, because I know so.”

“Adele, Esther,” the teacher chided gently, and the two quieted for their lesson. It was about two bells later that class ended, and soon the kids were filing out to the Lotus Stand to wait for their parents. Adele stuck close to Etoile and Esther, holding Etoile’s hand tightly. She really didn’t want Yvette messing with her or her hair today. She wanted to look pretty for Papa when he came to pick her up.

“Yvette, my love!” A voice cried, and Adele looked up to see a well-built Elezen man saunter up to her bully. Yvette seemed pleased, walking up and throwing her arms around the man. “Have you been a good girl today?” “Of course, father,” Yvette said. “Oh, father, I’m so glad you’re here! Will you tell my friends some stories of the sea today?” Yvette’s father’s face darkened slightly, but he smiled all the same, nodding.

“I don’t see why not. In fact, I have quite the story today!” The children still left eagerly surrounded the sailor as he began to weave his tale. “Just a week ago, while I was sailing the ocean blue, our ship was attacked by the Drowned!” The kids gasped, and Adele stood a bit closer to Etoile. Her papa told stories about the tempered, and she didn’t like to hear them. They often ended sadly, and Adele hated unhappy endings. “We fought valiantly against them, but their numbers were great.”

“You scared them off, didn’t you, father?” Yvette asked eagerly, and the sailor shook his head. She looked surprised at that, and then uncomfortable. She had apparently wanted to brag about how wonderful her father was, but if he didn’t have a heroic or cool story to tell...

“I’m afraid it wasn’t me, my dear. But... I was saved by a brave adventurer!” The kids’ faces lit up once more. The group did love stories about adventurers. Even Adele was interested. “He came in, staff glowing and fire spewing from it. I had never seen such a sight! And lo, did I get told that this man was no other than a Warrior of Light! The very one who slew Leviathan himself!”

“Father, that’s wonderful! I doubt anyone else can say they’ve met a Warrior of Light!” Yvette said haughtily. The man chuckled.

“Well, I doubt that, yes, but-”

“Adele.” Her ears perked and Adele turned, smiling brightly. Her Papa walked into the Stand, a bag of groceries tucked under an arm. “Sorry I’m late, little heart, I ran into a bit of trouble on the way here.” He adjusted the bag and Adele let go of Etoile’s hand, rushing up and throwing her arms around her papa’s knees.

“IT’s okay, papa! I’m glad you came!” Adele said cheerfully. The man turned and his eyes widened and he bowed.

“Ah! Ser Krieger! We meet again!” He said eagerly, and her papa looked up at the man, eyes narrowed as he tried to remember who he was. The man cleared his throat. “I am Captain Bouroux Phetonond. We met last week when you valiantly saved my crew and me from the Drowned.” A look of realization came across Papa’s face and he nodded.

“Oh, right. It’s good to see you doing well, Captain,” he said, smiling as he reached down to pat Adele’s head. “So your child comes here for classes, as well?” Yvette looked shocked and looked at her papa, and then Adele, and then her papa again.

“Yes! My dear Yvette is a wonderful student here. I see your own child comes here as well, Warrior of Light!” The kids were in a titter, whispering excitedly at each other as they gazed up at her Papa, Adele couldn’t help but puff with pride as she gripped her papa’s pants, sticking her tongue out at Yvette and she bumbled over her words, trying to say something but not getting the words out.

“Yes. Sadly, I don’t get to come to pick her up as often as I’d like.” He looked down at her and Adele smiled at him.

“It’s okay, Papa. I know you’re always out helping the other Warriors of Light to save the world!” She put an emphasis on ‘save the world,’ looking smugly over at Yvette, who paled. Etoile and Esther walked up to her Papa, and he smiled at them all.

“Well, how about we head home then, you three?” he asked. “I bought a special snack for tonight.”

“Alright, Mr. Fell,” Esther said, reaching up to grip her Papa’s other pants leg. Adele reached up to take his gloved hand, throwing another smug look over her shoulder as they walked away. She did love seeing Yvette’s shocked face.

Her Papa was the best! It was simply a matter of fact that he was the bravest, coolest, most handsome Papa out there! And now, she and the entire class knew! She couldn’t help but feel proud and gripped her Papa’s hand tighter. Maybe things would be a little easier at school now!

#ff14 #ff14 rp #Wol!verse #Fell Krieger #Adele Krieger #Little orphans Etoile and Esther #ff14 writing challenge #ff14 writing challenge:2020 #ff14 writing prompt

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ashleyswrittenwords · 5 years

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How To Be A Queen [Part 4]

Summary: Princess Zelda is at a loss. Her handed royal responsibilities have begun to weigh heavily on her and she is eventually backed into a corner. Live a life she loathes or run away from everything she’s ever known? Navigating life is hard, and Link forces her to learn that she doesn’t have to do it alone.

Warning: None.

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Part 1

How To Be A Queen

I pulled my arms into my chest as I stood in the cold halls. My legs felt weird. The dark trousers I wore weren't mine, I actually haven't worn proper trousers since I was small. Honestly, I couldn't stop staring at my legs. A thick leather belt hung tight around my hips and the pants ballooned slightly from there. The excess length was tucked into black military boots that I wore only a handful of times for parades. I hummed to myself and grinned, they weren't a bad sight. I lifted up my right leg as far as I could. Oh Hylia, I was enraptured by the versatility.

It was late. Closer to dawn than dusk and my eyelids fought against me. Despite the anguish of the night, adrenaline coursed through me. I was leaving! Din, give me courage, I was leaving! A smile played on my lips and my foot tapped in no particular rhythm. I could hear chattering behind the door to my uncle's office. Link has been in there for a half hour. Against my better judgement, Link insisted we talked with him before going anywhere. I wasn't sure exactly what his plan was but he seemed to know what he was going to say.

My hands ached from the chill and I curled into myself. Despite all my best efforts of wiggling and jumping the frost entering the castle didn't seem to be hindered. I heard the door clank open and a blond head of hair poke out, "He wants to speak with you." His voice was hushed and husky from talking. It took a lot to match Uncle's energy. My mind forgot about the cold for a moment and a rush of blood went to my cheeks, "Oh, okay."

The room was welcoming. A fire roared within, illuminating the many medals and military memorabilia my uncle collected both from the recent past and all the way to the First Queen. To think of it, it was an impressive sight. Many historical swords and plaques hung from the wall, reflecting the hearth's gaze. Precious artifacts that the castle historians revere. It was a different side of my uncle to say the least. He had a stone cold exterior that breaks for not anyone. Afterall, he was General Nathaniel Nohansen. However, being his only niece, I certainly wasn't just anyone.

But now, he was sitting back in his chair was his brow low and the fire's light just barely reaching his features. I saved a glance at Link and stood tall as I walked to his desk, I wasn't accustomed to this. I wonder if it was because of Link's presence or the circumstances of the situation. My lips pursed into a straight line and I looked at him expectantly, I wasn't going to fold.

"So!" Uncle boomed and folded his hand over his chest, "The lad assumes that you'd like to go on a venture."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, "He assumes correctly."

"You're running away from your problems, now aren't 'cha?"

My brows drew together, "No! I'm not." I cursed myself for letting my face turn pink with embarrassment.

"Oh, well I heard you made quite the blunder tonight, little lady," he tsked and I hoped he'd bite his tongue. My eyes fell and anger bubbled inside my chest. This was a stupid idea. Goddesses, I wanted to cry all over again. Damn it, you can't cry twice in one night. "I'm only an old veteran," he grunted as he stood up, pausing to look about the study, "And in my profession when one loses a battle, there is cause to retreat. I'm sure you know all about the history of this land by now. How many years has it been since Hyrule lost a war?"

My mind blanked.

"Hundreds of years. Yet, we've lost hundreds of battles." He watched my surprised reaction, "We are strong, yes, but a battle does not determine a war, now does it? We only remember the outcomes of wars, yet not the trials and errors that brought us there. There are so many elements that make up what it is to have a 'great army'. You could have the strongest mercenaries, the best training, the sharpest steel, and the steadiest walls. It is all for naught without a cause.

"Of course," he looked at me with a whimsical smile, "Those factors matter, but the most important of them is for our men, our country, to rally for a cause. A passion, if you will, makes fighting worth something. Each and every man in these castle walls have their own cause. Something or someone to go to war for. A spouse at home, children, parents, or siblings. For me, it's my brother, you, and all these men who pledged their lives. And it is my pledge to lead with purpose."

I fidgeted with my hands, "I understand, but you were able to choose."

Uncle hummed, "You are right. I was fortunate. I was fortunate that your grandparents had two children instead of one." He sighed, "Zelda, believe it or not I was your age once and I could not learn one waltz nor how to hold my spoon right at the dinner table. I felt alone. Despite it all, your grandfather wanted me to take the throne. He married old and wasn't getting any younger." He grew quiet for a moment, looking up at the painting above the mantel in thought. It was of my grandfather. I noticed both my father and uncle were slowly growing into his aged features. "Well," he cleared his throat, "He passed not long after and I couldn't handle it. I left. Took whatever I could and fled from the castle. I swore to Hylia I would never look back.

"I was bitter towards my father and angry at my mother for drowning in her grief. There was no one to rule with a sound mind other than I, and then I thought I was doing the right thing for both the country and myself. I wasn't. Your father was 15 years old during his coronation. Did you know that?" Uncle turned to me, I shook my head. I didn't know any of this. I was told of Father's coronation, but I suppose it was strange to hear nothing of Uncle Vernon. "Ah, well," he shrugged, "I suppose it doesn't shed the best light on the crown. I digress, it was possibly the worst best decision I ever made. I was gone for about two years."

"What were you doing?" I faintly said.

"Traveling," a broad grin crossed his features, "I was exploring and trying to understand life outside of the castle. I met people across lands. I laughed, I ate strange food, I shared rooms with the most fascinating of people, and I loved," Uncle wiggled his eyebrows and I rolled my eyes. Nevertheless, I was enraptured by his story. "All the while the Crown pronounced me dead! So, no worrying about recognition, at most I was called a lookalike in areas around the castle. Farther in Hyrule, most wouldn't recognize royalty unless they were crowned."

I gasped, "Father said you were died?"

"Oh, no," he shook his head and paused, "Kind of. The advisors did. They thought it best to protect our reputation and your father had no one in his corner. I did abandon him, keep in mind." He was so nonchalant about the fact.

"But… you wanted something more than being king. How is that abandonment?"

"Because Rhoam is my brother and I left my kid brother to fend for himself in a sea of sharks," Uncle said before adding, "And even though he now denies it, I understand why he could feel bitter still. I would feel the same. I had a choice, he did not."

I looked towards the ground, feeling guilty for nothing in particular. Perhaps for not understanding Father's point of view. My premonitions of leaving are nothing but a child's dream. An emptiness filled me. Who am I to leave here and cause chaos in my stead?

"However, that being said, I do believe you should have a choice to live your life the way you want," Uncle continued talking as I looked up in bewilderment, "You're young. And unlike my tale your father is not on death's door. And with recent events, I believe a royal retreat is in order."

"Royal retreat?" My voice sounded shaky.

"You lost a battle tonight," he simply said, "And as general, it is custom to retreat to regroup. So, take as much time as you need. It's a great opportunity to learn more about the kingdom you will rule one day. Not everything is within the books your Nanny gives you."

"But what will Father say?" Oh Hylia, what is going on?

Uncle shrugged, "You'll be going with a convoy."

"I don't need a convoy."

"Oh, yes you do. You're bringing him whether you like it or not," Uncle motioned to Link behind me.

I twisted to look behind me at Link, who stared back with a subtle smile. "One man is not a convoy, Uncle."

Uncle placed his reading glasses on, "To your father he is." He thumbed through some papers and scribbled on one, "Besides, he's a fantastic soldier, Zelda. There's a reason you're his charge."

"Link," Uncle held up a piece of paper. It looked like a bank statement. "Take this to the treasury and withdraw that amount. Do not let anyone know the reason. This is your allowances."

Link curtly nodded and I looked incredulously at them both, "Isn't that technically my money? Why can't I take it?"

Uncle looked at me through his glasses, "Zelda, you don't even understand the concept of currency yet."

I huffed and crossed my arms.

"You will leave tonight," he sounded exasperated, "Do not let anyone notice you and most importantly…"

I waited for his last request before he placed his hand on my head. "Do not forget your dear old uncle," he smiled jovially.

Our leave was bittersweet. I followed Link like a little kid and noticed how much more he knew of servant passages than I. We stopped by the barracks as he picked up some clothes and a conservative cloak for me. He also slipped away into the armory, coming back out with a claymore to his side and a bow and quiver in his arms. Whatever else he brought, I wouldn't know. I had raised my eyebrows in question, and he offered a shrug in response. "Don't look anyone in the eye when walking out," he had said, "Just keep your head down until we get out of Castle Town." I had pitched a small fit, complaining how I was just a just an ordinary person like the next woman and all he did was look at me and shake his head with a smile. "You are much more than an ordinary woman. Anyone with eyes could pin that down."

We stopped at the treasury momentarily and Link used a string bag that he attached to his belt to house the rupees. Our escape through the merchant entrance was unnoticed by the guards and I wondered why they were so relaxed watching a decorated soldier and an anonymous woman leave unquestioned. I voiced as much once we were out of earshot. Link only shrugged, "At most they're probably wondering why I'm not with you." He didn't elaborate further, but it did make me understand what it meant to be to be Uncle's right hand. I looked up at Link who stared forward as we crossed the moat. He was stoic, only focusing loosely on where I was and what was ahead. A shiver went down my spine and I pulled the cloak taunt, not sure if it was due to the frigid cold. My boot hit the stone road and I gaped.

I did it.

I got out.

I noticed Link peering expectantly, but I couldn't help stopping. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," my voice was wavering, "Yes, I just. I've always seen this place from out my window. I never thought I'd see Castle Town as myself and not as…" I stopped myself.

"It's okay," he said suddenly, "I get it." Link held out his arm and I took it. Immediately he launched into a narration of all he knew about Castle Town. The people he has grown to meet, the various types of characters that tend to wrangle for prices way too high in the Marketplace, the tourists that fall prey to them. I smiled whimsically. There was not much of anyone else walking the streets other than us, the occasional street sweeper, and the stray cats. Despite that, I could imagine in my mind's eye the bustling crowds and the shouting tradesmen through Link's accounts. So many people, no one inherently special, and sounds I could faintly hear. A magnificent scent enraptured me, pulling me out of the fantasy and into reality. "What is that?" I said, stopping Link's description of the meat market.

"What is what?"

"That smell," I sniffed again and my stomach rolled.

"Oh, it's Mr. Lind's Bakery," he said nonchalantly, "Him and his family start baking before that sun rises to meet demand."

"You know them?"

"No, not really, but I stop by every Monday morning."

I wondered aloud, "How do you know about someone and not actually know them?"

He shrugged, "Sort of like how you know of every parliament minister without formally meeting them I suppose. Gossip and whatnot. You should wait until you meet one person in my hometown." A smile slipped into his speech, "Once you meet one, everyone knows all about you."

I watched him reminisce and my stomach churned out of sudden nervousness. "I'll be meeting your sister?"

He glanced at me, "Well, I mean we don't have to go." Link cleared his throat, "I just thought later down the line you'd like to see a traditional village."

He thought about bring me to meet where he grew up? "I'd love to," I was beaming.

We were talking further towards the exit of Castle Town. The walls loomed over the city and I pushed the butterflies aside and focused on my guide instead. He's done so much for me in such a small amount of time.

A displeased noise came from him.

"What?"

"The sentries are sleeping."

I looked up at the towers and sure enough they were.

"Oh, Hylia above what in Hyrule are you doing?" I gasped as I watched Link pull the string of his bow. All he did was grin and aim at the tower. "Link!"

The string released in a crisp SWIP and the arrow hit the wall inside the tower.

"McCathery!" Link shouted in a tone I had never heard from him.

I heard a chair fall back, scrambling, and a head popped out of the tower.

"Ah, Captain, is that you?" the sentry sounded half asleep. Suddenly he straightened, "Oh, Captain."

He paused and turned towards the man across the wide gate and whispered aggressively, "DARIAN."

I felt Link pull the hood to shadow my face. Oh, I almost forgot.

Finally 'Darian' woke up with a start. "Damn it, Trog, what do you want?" Trog pointed down at us. The sentry fumbled with words. "Captain! So nice to see you on this nice night! You just caught us doing drills," he paused, "Right, McCathery?"

"Yeah, um, drills. Such as sleep yoga."

The man named Darian aggressively whispered something and stood attention afterward.

"Is that right?" Link spoke.

They nodded quickly. "Yes, Captain."

"If I catch you men sleeping on the job I'm making you do boot all over again. Maybe then you'll have enough discipline that a girl will give you a second glance."

Trog grinned wryly, "Looks like you caught yourself a gal, eh? Going to take her home to auntie, eh Captain?"

I felt my face light up.

Link went to grab another arrow from his quill.

"No, no! Link I was kidding! Kidding, mate!" McCathery ducked.

Link chuckled, "You boys have a good midwinter." He motioned for me to follow down the path, and I did. The sentries chattered behind us and I looked at Link. "I went through training with them," he said without my question, "They can be a riot when they aren't slacking off."

We walked in a comfortable silence for a while and a strong breeze hit my face. The hood slipped off my head and for the first time the sky opened up before me. Stars glittered the sky and I gaped at the landscape around me.

"It's beautiful, right?"

I sniffled, "People have often told me how beautiful the Great Plains were, but I didn't expected this."

Link shuffled with his pack, but I didn't want to look away from the stars in childish fear that they would disappear. "Never have I felt more small yet so large before," my lips formed my thoughts. A tear formed in the corner of my eye and a wiped it away. So overcame with emotions, my throat closed. I shook my head with the absent thought that my mother would love this. I tried distracting myself with watching Link make a fire.

"Are we stopping here for the night?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. There isn't an inn for another several miles. I would have had us stop in Castle Town, but you wouldn't be inconspicuous in daylight," he sounded remorseful.

"No, this is perfect," I knelt before his work as he sparked a flame over a patch of dried glass. "Thank you." My words were thick with sentiment. He must have noticed because he looked up from the kindling fire.

"You don't need to thank me, Zelda."

"I do though," I argued, "You walked away from your job for this."

He shook his head, "Think of this as a vacation for me. It's not a big deal."

"It was a big deal when I asked you."

He didn't reply for a moment, "We should sleep." He had rolled out two mats on opposite ends of the fire and I didn't complain. My bones ached from the corset still and my legs needed a rest. So, we laid before the fire without another word.

"Hey, Link."

He hummed in response.

"Do you think she'll like me?"

"Who?"

"Your sister."

He sat up and looked down at my incredulously. A wry grin crossed his lips.

"Zelda. She will love you."

#im so happy this is posted before my power goes off #thank you for the awesome support #ily #how to be a queen #loz #zelink #zelink fanfiction #zelda x link #yeehaw #legend of zelda #legend of zelda: breath of the wild #zelda #link #ashleysfanfiction #ashleyswrittenwords

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wyrmeleon · 4 years

Text

Another Place, Another Time

A semi-surrealist story about a little boy, his search for the light, and the friends he makes along the way.

This story is based on the above image from The Chronicles of Harris Burdick, a mysterious collection of illustrations that are missing their stories. Thousands of authors, songwriters, and creators have tried their hand at applying their own imagination to these strange pictures. You can find out more here!

@psychadelic-fool @mythgirlimagines @captainschmoe

You, the reader, may not think that light makes a sound, but it does. It rings as brilliantly as a bell made out of heavenly silver. It is as breathtakingly beautiful as a child’s first sunrise and as gentle as an angel’s kiss. It is barely discernible, but invokes a deep sense of yearning that tugs at the heartstrings and causes tears to well up in the eyes. You may not know this, but James Fitzwilliam Persimmon does. He is listening to it now, his rosy lips pursed and his head tilted to the side...

James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a charming young lad, clad in a navy blue sailor suit that shows the wear of many uses at the knees and elbows. He is perhaps eight years old, with plump cheeks, hair that sticks up ever so slightly at the nape of his neck, and a single furrow in his brow. As James Fitzwilliam Persimmon closes his eyes in thought, the furrow deepens. Right now, he is thinking about how beautiful the light sounds. It reminds him of his mother’s shiny smile, or how the glass of the face of his father’s precious pocket watch glows when you hold it up to the firelight just so. It reminds him of sunbathed family picnics on July afternoons and the first glittery, enticing snowfall of winter. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a child with his heart in the right place, his shoulders squared and his head held high. His nails are clean and his nose is wiped. His shoes were polished, once, before he began this journey.

He opens his eyes and looks eagerly into the distance, choosing his steps carefully. Right now, James Fitzwilliam Persimmon is a long way from home. He recalls that morning before he left, when his mother hugged him tightly and he sat on his father’s knee to gaze at the golden pocket watch one more time. He remembers peering into his baby sister’s bassinet and wiggling a finger as she cooed. But now he is on a very important journey.

Miles and miles into the distance before the little boy stretch an infinite line of railroad tracks. The silver rails are as shiny as if they were laid down yesterday, shimmering as the sun slips out from behind a cloud. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon stretches out his hands, feeling the warmth on his skin. He knows that he has been walking nearly all day, but his skin shows no sign of sunburn. He adjusts his jacket.

Pebbles bounce and skitter as James Fitzwilliam Persimmon plods along, clattering down the steep, rocky slope on either side of the tracks and falling with a plop into the water lapping leisurely below. Kicking a stone, the boy decides to follow it to the water’s edge.

The great black ocean stretches as far as he can see. He turns, seeing it is just the same on the other side of the tracks. It ripples gently, as if something is sleeping just under the surface. He navigates the jagged rocks, clambering down the slope and stooping at the water’s edge. The surface is a void, so dark it gives him shivers. The roiling clouds overhead cast no reflection on its inky surface. More disconcerting, however, is the sound that tickles at James Fitzwilliam Persimmon’s young ears. The abyss is humming, so low it feels like it is pulling something from his chest. The darkness doesn’t sound anything like the light. It is menacing and unknowable. The boy’s small fists clench, his face turning white.

Suddenly, a sound can be heard behind him. The boy stands up quickly, brushing tears from his cheeks. It’s the clatter of wood on metal, and it’s getting closer. James Fitzwilliam Persimmon scrambles up the rocky slope to see something quite odd. A contraption, something like a handcar crossed with a sailboat, is puttering towards him. Manning the mainsheet is a dapper, jovial man with a finely groomed moustache. At his elbow sits a bouncing woman with hay-colored hair. Together they make a red-cheeked, round couple. The cheerful man sets the rope down, hailing the small boy, and the strange vehicle rolls to a creaking halt.

“Hallo, boy! Fine day for traveling, isn’t it? How are you?”

James Fitzwilliam Persimmon stands tall and squares his shoulders, the way his father taught him to. “I am doing quite splendidly, thank you very much. I am on an expedition to the light that makes that beautiful sound. I’ve been walking all day and just stopped to take a rest. I’m not tired, of course.” He juts his chin defiantly.

“Ohohoho, of course not, you fine boy!” The man and his wife titter. “Say, we’re following the sound of the light as well. Why don’t you join my wife and me on our fine contraption here? With you joining us we’ll be able to travel three times as fast! We’d be more than happy to take you along!”

James Fitzwilliam Persimmon studies the lazily billowing sail, sturdy wooden frame, and the unusual vessel’s cheery captains.

“I would be quite grateful, sir!”

“Then welcome aboard!” The man pats the wide railing behind his and his wife’s seats, offering the boy a hand as he settles on his perch.

“Say, what is your name, young captain?”

“My name is James Fitzwilliam Persimmon. I’m from St James’s, London. I live in a big red brick house and I have a mother and a father and a baby sister.”

“Do you hear that, Marjorie? His name starts with a J! We’ll get along splendidly, then. A fine letter, a fine letter indeed! My name, dear James, is Jacob! I am the engineer of this marvelous vehicle, and this-” The woman at his side gave a gap-toothed smile and waves. “-Is my lovely wife Marjorie, the wicked genius behind each of my projects!” Marjorie blushes and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, he does flatter me. Although it would be blatantly false to claim that there isn’t a dash of genius in my signature pepper cucumber sandwiches.” She gives a cackle and dimples appear in her ruddy cheeks. “I do wish I had some right now for you to try. But it simply wouldn’t do to get crumbs all over your nice blue sailor suit, now, would it? Tell me, James Fitzwilliam Persimmon, do you want to go out to sea?”

They continue to putter along as James Fitzwilliam Persimmon excitedly launches into a lecture on the finest ships in the British navy and tales of grand sea battles. Marjorie responds to every word with glowing appreciation, liberally doling out cries of ‘Oh that is simply fascinating!’ and ‘I can hardly believe it! Can you, Jacob?’ Jacob lets the boy man the ropes for a time, him bouncing up and down in his seat as the wind tries to tease the line from his eager grip. Eventually, the sky grows dark and the silhouettes of the clouds turn into an indigo blur.

Once again, Jacob allows the ship to putter to a halt. He busies himself in the center of the deck, constructing a small fire from a device in his pocket. He grunts, getting to his feet.

“Another one of my nifty gadgets!”

There is a clunk and Marjorie’s head emerges from under her seat, arms filled with a bundle of blankets. The three of them lay out under the midnight sky, the sail rustling overhead. The warmth of the fire, the plushness of the blankets, and the friendliness of his newfound friends make James Fitzwilliam Persimmon forget his manners. Not tired in the slightest, he tells James and Marjorie all about everything that comes to his mind: when his father took him to the harbor to see the ships come in, when his mother made him a tiny figure to captain his toy boat, and how his little sister’s fingernails are so small they remind him of tiny seashells. He tells them all about how beautiful the light sounds, and how he ever so dearly wants to find out how beautiful it looks. Before he knows it he is fast asleep.

When he awakes he is at first confused, not knowing what woke him up. It is then that he realizes. He can’t hear it. The brilliant ringing of the light is silent. Terror seizes his chest, as the dark sky begins to drop ever closer. The lapping of the water at the banks gets louder and louder. Choking on his tears, he looks around, seeing the fire and Marjorie and Jacob. All at once the angelic ringing returns, filling his ears. James Persimmon sighs, letting the beautiful sound warm his heart and dry his tears. Settling back under his blankets, he asks his friends:

“When do you think we’ll reach the light? What will it look like?”

The familiar, brilliant notes are all that respond. Jacob snuffles in his sleep, moustache twitching. James Persimmon closes his eyes, imagining a vast sun twinkling under an ocean of stars. He smiles.

The next morning is pleasant and unbothersome, as James Persimmon helps Marjorie fold and put away the blankets and settles upon his perch. The clouds are now marshmallow towers, receding quickly overhead as they gain speed. All at once their peaceful travels are interrupted by a clamor.

In the water up ahead there is a thrashing and bubbling, and a great deal of yelling. Seized with terror, for a moment James Persimmon expects to see some kind of creature of the deep. As they approach, however, he comes to realize that the disturbance is a small boy.

“Oi! Help, help! Oh help, won’t you? I’m drowning ‘ere!”

Recognizing the commotion, Jacob sends the ship rattling at top speed with a yank of the line. In near-unison, he and Marjorie leap from their seats and clamber down the bank, reaching in the water and pulling out a sopping mess of a boy. James Persimmon stands on the railing, straining to get a look. Marjorie bundles the boy in blankets and Jacob lights another one of his pocket fires to get him warm, but the ordeal hasn’t seemed to shake the child much. He hasn’t stopped to take a breath since he was pulled from the abyss.

“-an’ I find meself tumbling bottoms up in teh bleedin’ river, wit water up me bloody nose! Tickled something awful, too. So I open me mouf an’ give a shout, an’ then next thing I know I feel all these bloody hands grabbin’ at me an’ think, ‘ell, it must be some of those minging mermaids yeh ‘ear abou’, an’-” The boy finally takes a shuddering gasp. He stills for a moment, looking out at the tracks.

“Blimey. That’s no Thames.” He blinks once more and raises his head, giving a bright, mostly toothless smile and offering a dirty hand. “I’m called Ratsy. An’ yourselves?”

Ratsy quickly proves himself to be a charming companion and lively addition to their little group of voyagers. His stories of running from coppers and raking the muck of the Thames for treasure leave James Persimmon wide-eyed and bursting with questions. As he flourishes his grubby cap to reveal a veritable nest of matted hair, Marjorie can’t help but busy herself at fussing over him. His impressions and quick-witted cracks at the people of London leave Jacob guffawing until he can hardly stand. Ratsy relishes the attention, swinging his bare feet in the air and winking charmingly. Then, all at once, there is silence, as a brilliant spectacle catches the voyagers’ eyes.

To starboard, far in the distance, is a castle. It is as pale as the purest marble, practically glowing on the horizon. Its minarets glimmer like freshly fallen snow in the sunlight. The clouds around it are golden and rosy. Jacob and Marjorie give hushed gasps of awe. Even Ratsy is silenced by the citadel of light. James Persimmon feels in his heart of hearts that this must be it, the source of the sound. It has to be. If there was an answer, he’d find it there. But the tracks continue on and on, eternally on their even path. When the shining fortress disappears into the mist it is with a horrifying finality, a draining of hope. The voyagers do not speak of the castle again.

A tentative mist is creeping over the tracks as they settle down for the night. Ratsy watches the lighting of the fire eagerly, giving a little cheer. Perched in his spot on the railing, James Persimmon traces the golden towers and battlements of the castle in his mind. A question is gnawing at him.

“Mister Jacob, Missus Marjorie? What is it that you want, truly really awfully want in life? What do you dream about?”

Jacob hums noncommittally, but Majorie pauses and gives a response in a strange voice.

“Jacob and I have lived very long lives, and we have worked very hard. I suppose we both just want a bit of rest. A vacation.”

“And is that what you’ll find in the light?”

Marjorie smiles and adjusts a fold in Jacob’s blanket. “Yes, little one. That is why we are looking for the light.”

“What about you, then, James Persimmon? Why are you on this great journey?”

James Persimmon pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath in through his nose. His lips purse and the furrow in his brow deepens.

“I want to make the world a better place, I suppose. I want to find a way to make everyone happy and always thinking about beautiful things. I want to see the light and go home and describe how beautiful and warm it is to my mother and father and baby sister so they’ll know how brave I was. Then they can imagine it and they’ll never be sad again. Then I want to go on more adventures and find more beautiful things and tell more people about them.” He ends his speech with a self-satisfied nod.The only answers are the faint snuffling of Jacob and Marjorie’s snores. James Persimmon looks down, fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. Ratsy shuffles uncomfortably next to him. The mist creeps over the deck and around their ankles.

“I-I don’t have a mum or da’.” Ratsy breaks the silence. “All I knew when I heard that beautiful sound is that it was the first time I heard summat like angels singin’, and I needed it. I want teh hold it in my hands and jump in it and swim ‘round. I wanta listen teh it until I learn teh sing just as pretty and then I can go down teh the docks and all the gents and dames will be chucking coins in my hat ‘till I have a whole mountain o’ gold.” Ratsy coughs, wiping mud from his chin.

“Hey, you an’ Jacob an’ Marjorie are fine folk. Some o’ the finest folk I’ve met. You’re probably the closest thing to family I’ve ever got, an’ I’ve only known you blokes for ‘round one day. Innit the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? I’m glad you pulled my sorry ass from the muck, I suppose. I thought I was going teh get dragged straight down teh the gates of ‘ell!” He stops suddenly, evidently thinking of something.

“Do you wanta know how I got my name? I used to have a little pet rat. Caught ‘er mesself. ‘Er name was Duchess. She was me best girl, the cleverest lil bugger you ever did see. She would do near anythin’ for a morsel. She went with me everywhere, rode ‘round in my coat pocket. She’s gone now. Lived to be a ripe old age. Maybe we’ll see each other again someday. I sure hope so. I don’t know if rats go to heaven. Or ‘ell, I suppose.”

James Persimmon turns his head to find Ratsy’s dark, glittering eyes inches from his own. Ratsy’s voice is a raspy, conspiratorial whisper. “Would you like to hear my name? My real name? I’ve never told anyone before, not ever.”

“It’s Jeromy- Jeromy Borden.”

James Persimmon opens his mouth to respond, but he is quickly distracted by a realization. The sound is gone again. His mind buzzes with panic, as Rat-Jeromy-Ratsy vanishes behind a veil of darkness. The taunting mist turns choking as it creeps up his throat. The whole ship quakes as waves crash around it, the wheels rattling on their axles. James Persimmon flails, reaching out for something, anything. As tears well up in his eyes he thinks of his mother and calls for her. Then, as quickly as it left, the light sings in James’s mind once more. Ratsy is before him, swaying and picking absentmindedly at his teeth. As James turns away, the thought nags that he was just told something very important, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what. James smiles softly, slipping off the railing to go to bed.

When James awakes he is alone, the cold of the rails pressing into his back. There is no blanket under his head. There is no sign of the contraption. Likewise, there is no sign of Jacob, Marjorie, or Ratsy anywhere. He scrambles to his feet. The air is terribly foggy, everything more than a foot from him obscured by a thick, white haze. He raises his hand to his face, wiggling his invisible fingers. The fog is like cold, muffling cotton in his empty ears. Empty. He cannot hear the light. The temperature plunges as gooseflesh prickles his neck. Hugging his arms tightly around himself, James waits for the ringing of the heavenly bells to return. It does not. He closes his eyes, straining. The fog looms silently, almost tauntingly. James curls in on himself, fists clenching at the pants of his blue sailor suit, tinged gray by the murk. His breath comes out in quick puffs as tears stream down his face. Where is the light? He wants to hear the light! The sound of the waves grows louder and louder. The boy has to be brave.

He pulls himself to his feet, taking one tentative step after the other. Before long he is plodding down the tracks, alone once more. The rushing of the waves dims to a murmur behind him. His nose runs and he wipes furiously at it with his sleeve. He marches on for what feels like a day, left foot in front of the right. He drags himself through bank after bank of thick fog, ignoring as it closes around him with a deathlike hush and settles on his shoulders like a shroud. He refuses to think about where Jacob and Marjorie and Ratsy had gone. He finds himself pausing, thinking about his family eating Christmas dinner. His mother laughs, spooning potatoes into his sister’s mouth. His father winks at him, wiping turkey from his moustache. The candles flicker in the window panes. The boy opens his eyes. There it is. There it always would be. The faint sound of the light, that gentle, heavenly song. But something is wrong.

The light sings from a point up ahead in the mist. A point slowly approaching him. Chills bolt down the boy’s spine. The sound, once pure and brilliant, slices like a sharpened knife. Once inspiring, it is now accusing, screaming, asking questions the boy can’t bear to answer. The light is no longer a shining destination. It is something dangerous and threatening, something coming for him. The boy’s heart pounds. He tries to puff out his chest and stand tall, but the ringing grows louder until he is forced to clap his hands over his ears. A strange silhouette glimmers in the fog. The boy’s eyes begin to water and his knees wobble beneath him. The child in him wins out as he cries for a mother whose face he can only just remember. For the first time, the boy turns and runs back down the tracks, away from the light.

He doesn’t get far, crashing up to his waist in the black water that has submerged the iron rails. He scrambles desperately one way then the other, slipping on the sharp rocks. The water is painfully cold and the stones are covered in a thick muck that sucks at his shoes. He loses his purchase in his panic, flailing as he falls in up to his shoulders. He finds himself hyperventilating, his arms thrashing about him. The light is nearly behind him now, the ringing becoming a piercing wail that makes him cradle his head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably. The skin on the back of his neck grows warm, then hot, and begins to blister. His vision swims and his head throbs. Then the boy’s ears are filled with a sound that makes him lift his head. The dark water is humming again. The murmur grows louder and louder, surrounding him until the dreadful peal of the light is drowned out. The sound is cool and relieving to his burning ears. It is low, like his father’s warm chuckle. It is comforting, like a lullaby his mother taught him years ago. The boy feels his tears dry and his body relax as he looks into the deep, inky ocean beneath him. The darkness is pleasant and soothes his stinging eyes. The water laps around him almost welcomingly, tousling his sailor suit and drawing the pain from his blistered skin. The boy realizes how tired he is. He thinks he understands, now. It is time to leave the light behind. It is not meant for him. He was never meant to know the answers it held, or maybe it never held any answers at all. It would only burn him up until there was nothing left. Maybe he just wasn’t ready yet. He thinks one last time of Jacob, Marjorie, and Ratsy. They were lovely, clever people. He is sure they’d find their own way just fine. Closing his eyes, he lets himself fall into the abyss.

You, the reader, may not think that darkness makes a sound, but it does. It is as comforting as a mother’s touch and as refreshing as a cool glass of ice water. It is as gentle and healing as a welcome night’s sleep after a long day and as pleasant as a pet’s velvety fur. It can’t always be heard, but when it is needed most it can soothe an aching heart and dry the tears from your eyes. You may not know this, but James Fitzwilliam Persimmon does. He is listening to it now, his bright eyes closed and a peaceful look on his face.

#nora's writing #creative writing #original writing #harris burdick #journey #allegory #light #railroad #dream #surrealism #tw: death #nora's doodles #nora’s doodles

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romaniassexdungeon · 5 years

Text

First date

Pairing: NedPort

Rating: Mature

Warnings: bad, explicit poetry

Summary: It turns out both Adriaan and João had decided to document their first date in the same format, but their styles were rather... different.

Read on AO3

“You wrote a poem? Of our date?” Adriaan had to say he was flattered. And a little weirded out, had he not done the exact same. That was what poets did, he supposed. Document their lives in the most pretentious way possible and hope people liked it in death, or they could sell enough copies of their anthology to get a job at a university. “That is… sweet of you.”

João just smiled back lovingly, enveloping him in a hug. “It’s nothing, my dear. Just… a little something, based on all those emotions you made me feel.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Not at all, darling,” he pulled out a small wad of papers, “now, this is just a first draft. I haven’t had time to properly go over and edit.”

There were several pages, in João’s neat, loopy, and frankly perfect handwriting. Adriaan couldn’t believe his fucking eyes.

“Oh, wow. That is… did you get any sleep since last week?”

“Of course! I just… I had a lot to say.” He looked sheepish at that, and Adriaan wondered if it was a good idea to-

Well, he’d have to read and find out. He took the sheets of paper.

Adriaan

You are ocean water, cupped in my hand,

The graveyard of the tempest, pools of pearls,

The stone on the beach that shines with kissed curves.

You are the sun in the shallow seas, green

Cashmere falling, falling into my heart.

You are the ocean, and I, a wandering sailor,

Am falling further and further into your warmth.

You blink and the gems that light my life

Disappear, even for a moment, the knife

In my heart twists and pulls and I yearn

For those eyes. Pull me in and make me

Your island, your satelite, my lorelei.

Scoop me into your heart, jaded jade-eyed man,

Let me lie in your eyes and dip my fingers in your soul.

Adriaan couldn’t believe his fucking eyes. And he was only two stanzas in.

You are the sunken ship the world forgot,

Your teal treasure lost to all who care not to look,

You are the morning sky, battles etched into your heart,

And cliff face, of chiselled rock and rugged carving

Out a story I long to explore in every detail,

And you, in your grace, bequeathed me with such

A chance to present the love you deserve, courtship.

The brightest flower in his garden, a gem in Eden,

We recline in fine view as poetry drips from our lips,

And kiss at my heart and scorch it like wine, love

Fermenting as you pour fragments onto the grass

For me to pluck and savour like ripe oranges,

The honey and tang dribbling down our cheeks

And you laugh a real laugh, a prisoner of the

Cage in your heart. A prisoner you offer to me,

Freely, a hostage released on no terms for me,

Gifts you spread before me on a platter like the

Picnic you made from scratch. Books for me to read,

The anthology you never published. I long to read your

Library. Caress your pages and savour your poetry,

Live in the room of your life.

I longed to savour the rose that smiles reluctantly,

Wilted, cracked, but red with life I can trace

With my fingers and tongue. Let me lick every nucleus

In your body and peel back the layers of your shell,

To dissect and study, like a butterfly under pins,

Like the future written in the dregs of tea leaves,

Like the future I carve into my mind, with you.

Kissing you is like kissing the salt of the ocean,

Like tasting oranges in the streets of Faro,

Like fresh fish, like cheese or honey,

Kissing you is letting a wave crash over my face

And brush it’s moist fingertips against my shoulder.

You are the ocean I would drown in, should I

Choose to become a painting of death,

I think dying in you would be a beautiful death,

Drowned mortal tasting love in a bed or

The grass under my back that tickles the shells of my ears,

Like I would find shells for you as we walk

Along the beach, earth-made gifts for you.

Like this gift, burning me with your love and loins,

And perky nipples through your shirt.

Adriaan blushed at that. He felt a weird urge to ask João if he’d ever written erotica, and if it was as… interesting as this. Also he was never putting out on the first date again.

I felt every inch of your manhood as fire

Burned through every muscle,

I taste your flesh like a parched man craving a

Drop of water from a pipe.

You pull my hair to let me know you own

My heart and soul and fire and salt.

Your lips on my mouth like a breathing mask.

In the jeweled beauty of your garden,

Among the watering cans and herbs,

And an audience of flowers and locks of vines,

I screamed and bit into your shoulder

Like a demon you were trying to subdue,

With your phallus, your meat rod.

Until I was a puddle in a puddle,

With a puddle on my chest.

And your sculpted chest heaved,

And your nipples battled mine

For dominance and sensation,

And my lungs pleaded for breath,

And my heart pleaded for you

To never let me go.

And, tasting sweat on your neck,

As your twitching manhood lay across my abdomen,

And I fed you the last of the cake,

Aiming for your mouth and landing on your nose,

Followed by my lips and laugh,

And your ghost of a chuckle,

I long to hear time and time again,

And find more rooms

In your heart, explore the locked affection,

And open you up like the pages of your

Hidden anthology, my dear

Please let me see you again,

So I can show you my heart, and let me

Love you.

By João Guilherme Pinto do Nascimento Pessoa, with love

Adriaan read it, then read it again. On the third reading, his brain started working and João looked ready to faint in anticipation. Adriaan wouldn’t put it past him.

“This is…” normally, when presented something this… incredibly, hideously bad (but also not terrible in parts, mostly at the start) he’d rip it to shreds, but João seemed so genuine, so earnest and loving, he couldn’t bring himself to shit on it.

“I love this,” he tried, “thank you. No one’s ever done this for me.” He’d written poems for lovers before, usually a few months into the relationship and never as long. And never using the word “manhood”. “It’s a little… intense, for a guy you met a week ago. But I guess you don’t mean any harm?”

“I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

“So do I, but behind bulletproof glass.” Adriaan thought about it for a moment, then tentatively reached into his bag for his notebook. “I… wasn’t going to show you this, but you showed me yours, and that was brave of you, so…”

He found the relevant page and handed it over.

Tulip view

I doubt

My neighbours appreciated,

Pounding you next to the picnic blanket,

In plain view,

In the garden,

But your eyes

Would twinkle as you read

Poetry,

From the anthology I never

Showed anyone

Before.

Something

About your beautiful soul,

made me

Want to hold mine

Out to you.

João read it with tears in his eyes, saying nothing. Adriaan wondered if he’d cry, or want to sleep with him again. What he didn’t expect, though, was for João to get down on one knee.

“Will you marry-”

“Absolutely not.”

#nedport #aph netherlands #aph portugal #hetalia #HETALIA FANFIC #hetalia fic #portned #hetalia netherlands #hetalia portugal #probably better to read on ao3 #rating: mature #oneshot

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thepetulantpen · 5 years

Text

“Mr. Widogast.”

“Ah, Mr. Clay, I’m fine, really.”

Caleb is decidedly not fine as he’s slumped against the stone wall, bleeding profusely from several wounds and coughing like his lungs are trying to jump ship.

Caduceus raises a single eyebrow but maintains that pleasant, almost smile he always wears, moving to stand with Caleb. Or, stand next to Caleb as Caleb struggles to remain upright.

“May I?”

Caduceus’s hands reach out and Caleb has to smother all his irrational resistances to this stranger with a grunt of the affirmative. The hands are warm, even in their very fleeting touch to cast a healing spell. This healing is not like Jester’s, not at all.

Jester’s healing is a storm of energy, a shot of adrenaline to his heart, forcing him back into life. Caduceus’s healing is a much gentler, slower thing, spreading through him like a blooming plant, replacing his wounds with new life.

“Thank you, friend.”

Caduceus’s warm, steady, soft hand gives him one last pat on the shoulder and a smile as he leaves Caleb to his thoughts, off to help wherever he’s needed.

Caleb smiles too, breathing easily, no more sharp jabs of pain with every movement.

...

Caleb can’t breathe. There’s smoke in his lungs, choking him, the smell of burning flesh, dying screams, betrayed-

“Mr. Widogast? Hey,” Caduceus, somewhere far away, turns Caleb gently away from the burning wreckage of the fight, “it’s alright. Just breathe, you’re safe.”

And Caleb does breathe, not because of some spell or some energy, but because Caduceus’ warm, fuzzy hand on his back is so much different than Trent’s spindly one clutching his shoulder and because Caduceus always smells pleasantly of tea and gentle plants that could never grow in his nightmares of thick ash.

“Mr. Widogast?”

“Please, it’s just Caleb.”

“Caleb, then. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Caleb opens his eyes, previously shut tight against his visions, and narrows them at Caduceus. Caduceus and his smiling face, so friendly, so easy to talk to.

Caleb sighs, in either exasperation or relief. “What do you mean?”

“The fire. It clearly hurts you, why do you keep using it?”

“It’s powerful. And... it’s a habit, I guess. Always been good with it.”

“Too good, I reckon.” Caduceus’ face is blank, somehow relaxed and stoic at once.

Caleb’s thoughts race again, trying to recount what Caduceus could know, if somebody told him, maybe Beau-

No. Perhaps he is just guessing, trying to appear like he knows more than he does. A charlatan fortune teller, like Mollymauk.

“Maybe.”

“If you want to keep building yourself up to get this power you seek, you must stop tearing yourself down.”

“What do you know about seeking power, Mr. Clay?”

“Please, you can call me Caduceus. Power, hmm. Well,” he turns to Caleb, eyes crinkling in a smile that doesn’t fit the situation, “I’d do anything to save my family and my home. It’s why I’m here, adventuring with all of you. I think you’re the same, no?”

Caleb looks away. He’s not sure what’s going on, how much Caduceus actually knows. Maybe Fjord was right and he does read minds- no, that’s ridiculous.

Is it? He’s done so many impossible things with magic, anything could happen, theoretically.

He turns back to squint at Caduceus and his kind, complacent expression. He certainly doesn’t look like a brilliant arcane mind reader.

“All I’m saying, Caleb, is that it’s important to protect what we hold dear. But we should be careful not to lose what we have, in the process. I expect you and your friends to help me not lose my life on my journey, and in return, I believe I can help you keep yourself together. If you’ll let me.”

It’s strange to hear Caduceus use such language, so businesslike, talking like Caleb does in those give-takes, risk-reward ratios. Caduceus pauses, watching Caleb for a reaction and doesn’t get any.

“What do you think?”

Caleb takes another breath. And another. Sweet tea. Soft words. Warm hands.

“I think that you are very kind, Caduceus.”

“Is that a yes?”

Caleb hums just once, letting his mind run through the calculations and cutting it short just before it spits out the risk percentage.

“Ja, I think it is.” …

Caduceus and Caleb always seem to be standing together, watching, waiting, whispering.

They stand in times of peace and strife, always having each other’s back, when nobody else is paying attention.

They are together in the back of the fight, dealing out advantages to friends and disadvantages to foes.

They are together when Caduceus is half-drowned or when Caleb is half-bled out, encouraging and picking each other up.

They are together in at the tavern table, sipping tea and being talking quietly.

They are together in their rooms, helping Caleb study with his limited resources and helping Caduceus brew new teas out of sub-par materials.

They are together at the front of the ship, surveying the mess they’ve landed themselves in and resolving to do what they can to keep this party from sinking.

...

“Mr. Fjord, I think that is extremely ill-advised.”

“Yes, there’s a very high chance that’ll explode in your face.”

Caduceus grins back at Caleb, happy to see him participating in the conversation and backing him up, taking their role as the common sense of the group. He’s always glad when Caleb agrees with him, it means he likely got something right, for once.

Fjord pouts over the artifact in his hands, like petulant toddler with a toy rather than a grown man with a suspicious magic object pulled from a ship wreck. Then his eyes shift between them, sizing up this little partnership of Caleb and Caduceus standing side by side, almost seeing but not quite wise enough to guess what’s going on.

Jester poking Beau and pointing from behind Fjord is the only sign that there is still hope for the party’s overall wisdom.

“Well, I guess y’all know best.”

Caleb and Caduceus look at each other, wits and wisdom fitting together like puzzle pieces in the spaces between their minds. The response “yeah I suppose we do” goes unspoken between them, just like their silent agreements on the party’s terrible decisions and which ones are self-destructive enough to require intervention. With their powers combined, they could probably make this a legitimate, productive adventuring group.

But where’s the fun in that?

...

Caduceus misses his family more than anything. His family, his home, his flowers. All the familiar sights and sounds that had been his sole comfort zone for so long.

Traded for a dismal ship rocking back and forth on the terribly smelly sea, full of uncertain people following uncertain paths.

At least he has a home to return to, but for how long? What if he’s wrong-

“Caduceus? Can I come in?”

Caduceus hurriedly unfolds himself from the ball he’d curled up in and rushes to get the door. It swings open with a creak and a rough scrape against the ground, made poorly and beat to hell after years of housing pirates.

“Caleb, how are you?”

Caleb eyes him suspiciously, not skilled enough to see through the facade, but noticing something off. They must spend too much time together, if Caleb is getting so good at reading him.

“Fine. You?”

Caduceus steps aside to let Caleb in, sitting down next to him on the shitty, lopsided bed before contemplating his answer.

Caleb doesn’t mind the silence, used to Caduceus taking his time to respond. It’s nice to know they have the space to think through their words carefully, not because they need to, but because they want to.

“I miss my family. I’m worried about them.” Caduceus takes a breath, unsure how Caleb will feel about that. Perhaps a touch too insensitive, considering what he’s guessing is Caleb’s own situation, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else right now.

Caleb doesn’t react at first, face snapping into a closed mask for a few seconds. Then, instead of moving back like he would normally, he moves closer to Caduceus, pressing himself lightly against his side. He grabs Caduceus’s hand, awkward but trying his best. It’s comfortable; warm, fuzzy hand in warm, calloused hand.

Caduceus spares a glance back down into Caleb’s eyes, seeing the hurt reflected there, hurt he can’t heal with words or a touch.

“I’m sorry.”

“What about?” Caleb’s response is automatic, his denial a reflex.

“Just sorry. I don’t know all the details, but I think you deserved better.”

Caleb chuckles, self-deprecating, and shakes his head.

“This isn’t about me,” he looks up to Caduceus, clearing his eyes and focusing, “you’re upset.”

“Not upset. Just worried.”

“You believe in this journey, ja?”

Caduceus thinks, thinks to the signs, the dreams, the vague notions he’s allowed to propel him forward. He remembers his sister saying goodbye, the death creeping at the edge of his garden, picking the last flower out of the rotted mush of a bush. He considers, again, the rush of tangible faith at every healing, the words Jester gave to him, the feel of Caleb’s hand in his.

“Yes.”

“If you believe in the journey, and I believe in you, then surely, between the two of us, there is enough faith for your mission to be a guaranteed success?”

It almost makes Caduceus laugh to hear Caleb talk of faith, such a departure from the firm numbers and facts he normally depends on.

“I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

Caleb grins, rare, especially with the somber mood still hanging over their shoulders, stories left untold but still surmised.

“Leave the calculations to me. I think your home is definitely safe, in your hands. And,” he hesitates, regret spreading in tremors through his hand, but finishes, “mine, too.”

Caduceus smiles, genuine for the first time since Caleb entered the room.

“Thank you, Caleb.”

Caleb nods, quick and a little sheepish, still sitting closer than is familiar. “I would say I am a shoulder to cry on but that would require some serious acrobatics.”

Caduceus laughs but before he gets a chance to say anything, Caleb makes eye contact again and he sees that spark in his eyes he gets when he’s onto something.

“If you wanted to actually do something, I could help you study that book about pollution, there’s sure to be something enlightening-“

And in those few moments, those few words, Caleb becomes a healer to Caduceus as much as Caduceus is a healer to him. They are each other’s pick me up and each other’s army, determined to help, anyway they can.

It’s even more than that because there in that tiny room on that big ship they’re holding hands and breathing in each other’s air. They’re so much more than a weapon, suited to the arcane needs of the party, or a healer, an extra only needed in dark times.

They’re two people with complicated, but strangely similar, desires that want to drive the other away from their paths of destruction, blind self-hatred and blind faith.

They’re Caleb and Caduceus. Always together now.

...

Nott is glaring at Caduceus and it’s making him just a little uncomfortable.

“Soooo,” she starts, overly casual, laying the elongated vowel sound on way too thick, “you and Caleb, huh?”

“Me and Caleb.”

“Listen, if you-“ Nott rubs a hand over her face, exasperated at Caduceus’ confused expression, “Just. Be good to him, ok?”

“Of course.” Caduceus isn’t sure what she’s getting at, but he’s more than happy to confirm his intentions.

“Good. Glad we had this talk.”

#clayleb #caduceus clay #caleb widogast #critical role #nott the brave #listen its kind of a mess but ive had it in my drafts for a while #and i really wanted to get it out this week #this ship is the hill ill die on ok #maybe ill clean this up some other time to post on ao3

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missrandomdreamer · 5 years

Text

DAO Drabbles

A Sonya and Zevran drabble, . What was supposed to be funny and cute kind of ended up being sad. Whoops!

Starts under thread: might add more to it later.

Untitled

Backs on the grass, eyes to the sky the two lay watching the stars. It was quiet, aside from the crackling of the fire and the crickets hidden among the foliage around them. Everyone was asleep except for the warden and her crow. Zevran’s soft caramel eyes flickered over to the young woman beside him. Her face was lit up by the glow of the fire. The assassin saw it highlight her cheeks, her nose and her lips. He couldn’t help but smile and watch her, gaze at the stars such a far off look to them that night. Those deep blue eyes looking like the sky itself. The young woman felt his gaze and turned to him. Sonya had a slight look of surprise but it melted into a shy smile, she spoke with a laugh on her lips.

“What?”

“Oh nothing, just admiring the beauty beside me nothing more.” Sonya’s face scrunched up slightly although there was a light color to her cheeks. She turned her eyes back to the stars attempting to cover her face with her hair before nudging him with her foot. She made a dismissive sound,

“We should be keeping watch, my apologies for being distracted.” Sonya said now sitting up and gazing around. He couldn’t tell if it was the fire now that cause her cheeks to burn or the embarrassment, but her face was a warm red color. He laughed again and turned over on his side, his chin resting on his hand, now giving her his full attention.

“Well I am keeping watch….I’m keeping watch on you, we can’t have some secret assassin steal you away while we are both keeping watch, no?” Sonya turned to him and gave him another face but laughed pushing her hair chocolate brown hair back behind her ear, something Zevran had figured a while ago was a nervous habit she had. The city elf had been with her long enough to know now to pick up a lot of things about her but some things were still hard to decipher from her. Since he had failed to assassinate her and had joined her party of misfits, she had always been the toughest to read in certain situations. She never really spoke how she felt about anything. He never really knew if he was looking at the true Sonya or a mask sometimes.

“You are silly, Zevran.” She said softly shaking her head at him. He cocked his own, there it was again, that word she often called him silly.

“Am I so very silly to think it’s important to take a careful eye to our courageous leader? What would we do without you?” He watched her face drop for a fraction of a moment before a look of amusement replaced it. Zevran frowned, but she spoke before he could.

“Well no….its ...” She sighed softly looking to him with that poor excuse of the smile. “Thank you Zevran.” He kept staring his frown still lightly there, his eyes wells of concern,

“My dear warden, is there something on our mind? It appears that something is troubling you.” Sonya shook her head slowly.

“It’s nothing, I’m just tired.”

“My dear warden, you are always say that.” Sonya laughed at that, while the assassin frowned still. Zevran could see her body rise and fall shortly with a shuttering breath, shaking her head at him and looking into the forest around them. He sat up and scooted next to her a bit more, he could tell her body tensed at that, something they were still working with too. “May I?” he asked softly. She was quiet for a bit before she slowly nodded. Zevran took her into his arms to hold her, letting his chin rest on her head. He put a hand to her hair until she lightly touched his hand, a signal that it was okay to continue to do so. He smiled softly and started at comb her hair, starting at the scalp then slowly drew his hand downward. Sonya made a small noise in which Zevran had to chuckle. She leaned to him and let out a small sigh. Sonya remained quiet while Zevran continued to comb her hair. The woman’s eyes closed and her hands kept stroking his hand, her cheek falling to his arm. She was nearly asleep until Zevran spoke with his warm voice.

“So my darling warden, after all this is through, you know the blight and what not and you are free to do as you like, what will you do hm?” Sonya eyes fluttered open slightly and then she turned up to look at him with those dark blue eyes, they looked like that of the deepest depths of the sea. Lord, how he wanted to drown in them. She blinked,

“Well….” She leaned back more into his arms. “I think I might travel a bit for a while, see new lands. I would love to collect and study more plants so I can make new kinds of remedies. There is still so many I haven’t seen and I want to collect as much information as possible.” Zevran chuckled.

“Ah I see, now what will happen after all the traveling will you settle down or will you travel forever collecting plants.” He could see that little pout at the jab at her obsession but it eased into a tired smile.

“I am not sure…perhaps I might open up a shop where I could sell potions but also teas too.” Zevran watched the little smile on her lips, that excited little smile. He had not seen it in so long. ,

“Mm, go on.” He felt Sonya shiver and she held on to his arm to bring him closer for the warmth something she never would have done when they had first met. Sonya had come a long way, he smiled. He was so proud of her. He heard her make a hum of thought, her calloused fingers still rubbing circles into his skin.

“Let’s see, I think I would like my shop in a smaller town, not to busy but just a nice flow of people and away from the big cities. Bruce would be there with me of course…” she drawled off and that flash of pink came to her face. Zevran raised an eyebrow,

“Hm, do you see anyone else working with you in the future? I don’t think the mabari would be much help.” Zevran stole a glance at her for a moment that blush spread at his comment.

“Bruce, would help draw crowds, he is quite cute as you already know. But hm let me see.” She paused now her eyes looking up to the stars, her finger tapping her chin lightly. Her next words came out slowly, “I might need someone who is good at poisons.” Zevran nearly snorted,

“Are you going to poison your clientele if they don’t like your tea or are you going to sell it under the counter? “ he laughed earning another pout from the warden, “Either way my warden, that is such a naughty naughty thing to do.” Sonya huffed and gently slapped his arm,

“No- no I wasn’t goin’ to do that just thought it would be nice to know someone who knew poisons really well. So they can you know….” Her voiced trailed and she turned her head so now Zevran couldn’t see her face. “...teach me and stuff.” Zevran chuckled,

“Hmm mh sure, now who do you have someone in mind that might be good at poisons?”

“I think I might know someone.” She started tentatively.

“Really? Tell me about this mysterious poison maker.” His hand still stroked her hair lovingly, a little smile was on his lips, a dreamy look in his eyes as she started to speak again.

“Oh well he is very charming, always the gentleman and that is good to have you know because he would be great with customers.”

“Oh naturally.”

“What else, let’s see, he is of course is great at poisons. Knows everything about them, uses them frequently I hear.” Zevran snorted again,

“Well that is why you want him to help you, yes?” Sonya laughed softly and nodded,

“Yes certainly.” Sonya pauses for a moment and squints as if she is looking for something in the darkness, her next words make her blush a bit, “He’s graceful too so if I drop stuff he can catch it. I’m quite clumsy sometimes, so it’s good to have someone who can move fast but also look good doing it.”

Zevran couldn’t help but laugh loudly at that. Sonya shushed him but he couldn’t stop his grin, “But of course that is the main perk for being graceful: helping young beautiful clumsy women from dropping things. Definitely not for assassinating people.” Now it was her tern to laugh, her lips turning up into a happy smile, eyes sparkling. How he wanted to kiss those lips while they smiled, but instead he ruffled her hair causing her to giggle more and swat his hand way. “Okay so he’s graceful and charming what else is he?” Zevran ceased to ruffle her hair and combed it back neatly, smirking at her.

Sonya leaned into his touch, her eyes closed once more. “He has this lovely voice, this accent that is just like honey. He had a silver tongue. I could see if something bad were to happen he could sweet talk his way out of it no problem. I think he has a knack for that. ”

Zevran chuckled and now hid his face in her hair but she could hear him mumble. “What does this man look like, do I know him? He sounds vaguely familiar.”

Sonya’s cleared her throat as her voice seemed to get softer and her touch lighter on his hand till it was like a butterfly kissing his skin. “Oh well he’s very …nice looking, I suppose, one could say that.”

Zevran laughed, “Ah that is a nice way of putting it, my dear warden, but that does not help me. Mine and your version of nice-looking are a tad bit different. Now, dear, tell me what he looks like. Describe him to me. If my warden is hanging around this charming gentleman, I would like to know what he looks like so in case he hurts her, I could rough him up a bit no?” she could practically hear that smile on his lips and she huffed. He was always teasing her, always.

Sonya blushed and huffed again, pulling at her hair before Zevran covered that hand with his own. She froze but gave out a heavy sigh, turning her head from him then laying it down on his arm, dropping her hand from pulling out her hair. The mage closed her eyes once more as she spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper, “He has skin of earth after it rains. Obsidian markings dance along his form telling his story to the world. His hair is short and braided like fields of wheat you see while you walk through the countryside, shining bright as the sun lights them up making them golden. And his eyes…”

He could hear her sigh, that dreamy sigh the one she only used for when she was happily reading it seemed. He held her tighter, his eyes closed previously before they opened slightly, apprehensively. “His eyes are sunlight, making everything alive and warm around him: always radiating positivity. No matter what type of day you are having you just look at him and he makes you smile. There is just a warm glow about him, it’s hard not to be drawn to him….At least that is how I see him.”

Zevran didn’t need to look to know she was embarrassed. He could feel her face was hot just by her hiding it in his arm. The elf was surprised nonetheless, he had never heard her speak that way. He moved back slightly to get a good look at her fully. The crow lightly moved her face towards his gaze, guided by his delicate fingers. He cocked his head to her, starring into her eyes, eyebrows knitted together confused. Sonya in return looked up into his golden ones though she shyly looked away, her face was indeed red with embarrassment. “I didn’t know you were a poet. I had no idea you could get all that from reading plant books.” There was a light laugh lingering there on his lips. He could feel her body heave in a heavy sigh and she shook her head. He moved closer to her and let his forehead rest against hers stilling her movements. The elf waited to see if she pulled away but she didn’t. When he spoke again his words were soft, yet there was something in his voice that made Sonya’s heart ache, “Tell me, my dear grey warden, what you see in this man that he is so worthy of that description? I think you might be over doing it just a bit. ”

“No, I’m not. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think he was worthy enough.” There was a bite to her words, frustration. Her calloused hands went to his bare chest and balled into fists. Zevran body tensed suddenly but eased back just as fast. She could probably see that slight look of surprise in his face. He held his breath as she continued, “It’s painful that he doesn’t see that in himself. That he is so strong after what hell he has gone through and beautiful for still being so optimistic continuously seeing the true loveliness of living while you can. That is why I see him the way I do and that I-.” There was a shake of her head, dark brown hair flying and hitting Zevran in the face. Her body crumbled against him and she now hid her face in chest. He felt the hot tears on his bare skin, her arm snake around him to hold him tightly. A startled noise escaped his lips he moved to touch her to, to wipe her tears, just to look her in the eyes but she moved from his touch, wounding him.

“My Warden- I-

“Maker, can’t you two get a tent, it’s not like everyone wants to see your sickening displays of affection.” Sonya pulled away immediately and distanced herself at the voice of Morrigan. Zevran watched his warden stand up, he heard her softly apologize before she walked past the Witch of the Wilds. The other woman had her arms crossed and looked at the two irritated but confused. Zevran again heard Sonya mumble a goodnight to the two before she had gone back into her tent.

The elf just stared at his hands that were holding her moments before slowly close into fists. He turned to look at Morrigan with a frown but sighed standing up. “What? Did I interrupt something important?” she asked in her usual cool way however there might have been a bit of guilt somewhere in her phrasing. Her yellow eyes looked to the tent of their leader then back to Zevran.

“I think the fire needs more wood, you should probably have Sten go get some while you watch.” The elf said without looking at her, “Have a good night, Morrigan, try not to kill anything without us.” Zevran spoke with false enthusiasm before heading to his own tent before she could respond, leaving Morrigan confused as to what just happened as she waited in the dying light for Sten to join her at the watch.

#zevran #warden amell #mage warden #sonya #oc #agf #writing #sonyaxzevran #wardenxzevran #amellxzevran #dragon age origins #dao

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bittykimmy13 · 6 years

Text

Queen of the Sea (GT): Chapter 3

((All posted chapters))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ANDREA

“So,” the prisoner said, “how long ago were you hired to relocate the Cutlass to the bottom of the sea?”

Andrea kept a firm hand on his shoulder, leading him along one of the cannon decks. His head was turned toward the portholes that lined the walls, and she could sense his dismay at the sight of open water on the other side. Nowhere for him to run, even if he got away.

“Does it matter?” she asked boredly, nudging him up the staircase that led to the floor just below the main deck. “I’m only making conversation.” His voice was nervous, clipped. She narrowed her eyes at the back of his head. He acted like a person who was hiding something, but he had already been searched. Large windows with silvery frames replaced the portholes. Glimpses through the sliding doors revealed lavish furniture bolted to the floorboards, though the rooms were empty of any crew. “Less than a month ago, we were at the port of Minvel,” Andrea disclosed. “It was still recovering from the ravaging your men had--” “I was not with those--” “The destruction was positively barbaric. The town pooled what resources and riches they had and sent us after you. We’ll be returning with the Cutlass flag to collect the second half of our payment.” “And I suppose you’ll be returning what was stolen from them?” She snorted at the absurd notion. “If that’s what they wanted, they should have stated so in the terms.”

“Quite the heroes you are,” he muttered. She gave him a shove from behind. He stumbled and whirled, clutching the front of his vest as though to protect it. There was a panicked look on his face. Eyes filled with contempt, he opened his mouth to snap at her, but she put her hand on the grip of her pistol. “You’re as bad as the pirates,” he said, jerking his chin at her weapon. “Always waving those things around at the slightest insult.” Dropping her hand, she waved him forward. “That’s hardly true. You’ll find that few of the crew aboard the Clemency are armed. Those are the ones you really need to watch out for. What good is a gun or sword when you can summon fire at a whim? Drown someone with a snap of your fingers? Suffocate the very air from the lungs?” His face paled, and he kept moving forward. “If you’re so worried about Minvel,” she added, “perhaps we’ll hand you over to them along with the pirate flag. I’m sure they’ll be most appreciative receiving a member of the crew that ruined their lives.” He breathed out sharply, but did not argue this time. So perhaps he wasn’t the complete idiot she assumed him to be. At last, they climbed aboard the main deck, and Andrea led the prisoner to the forecastle near the bow of the ship. She stopped him in front of the sliding doors and turned him toward her. His dark eyes were squinted, adjusting to the light as his shaggy brown hair was tossed about on the sea wind. “Before we go in there,” she said. “This is your last chance. Is there anything you are hiding from us?” He clenched his jaw. “What makes you ask that?” She stared hard at him, filled with that feeling again that something was off. Her instincts were nettling at her mind, but it was like searching for an unknown object in a dark room. “I suggest you don’t say anything stupid in there,” she advised. “I’m not stupid.” “It’s natural to feel that way when you have your nose stuck in a book your whole life.” His brown skin became a few shades warmer. “One more piece of advice: when it comes to the queen, lying is worse than stupidity. Best of luck.” With that, Andrea slid the door open. The rowdy chatter in the forecastle faded as she walked the prisoner inside. The silence lasted for only a moment. Jeers and shouts burst all around them. The forecastle was roomy enough to hold the two dozen crew members comfortably, but the chamber seemed to become smaller as many of them tried to take a look at the captive. Despite their eagerness, they left a clear path to the head of the room. The prisoner’s shoulders were tensed, eyes darting around. “So strange,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize pyromancers and nereids could live together peacefully. Is… is that a vampire? Or perhaps a cambion?” “She prefers to go by Shirin,” Andrea said, winking at Shirin, who flashed a wickedly sharp grin her way. “I don’t understand,” the prisoner breathed. “I’ve never seen a crew of so many races.” “And they’ve seen few prisoners, so don’t be surprised that they’re staring back.” She gave his shoulder a rough squeeze. “But don’t stare too much, unless you want to witness just how defensive we are of each other.” At the head of the room, Ailith sat sideways in an ornate chair, booted legs hanging over one side. She wore a pristine white shirt, black trousers, and a dark green coat the reached her knees. Her white-blond hair hung loose and wavy down to her elbows. Her chin was propped delicately upon her knuckles as she eyed Andrea’s approach with the prisoner. “My queen,” Andrea said with a bow of her head. “I present to you, your prisoner.” She shoved the prisoner to bow. Again, he clutched the front of his vest. Andrea narrowed her eyes at him as he dropped his head in respect. “You stand before Ailith Sweet,” she declared to him. “Queen of the Clemency, and Queen of the Sea.” “Thank you, my Huntress.” Ailith observed the prisoner, lips curling in amusement. “Our magical navigator has arrived! So kind of you to join us.” The crew broke out in laughter as Andrea took a step back from the prisoner, but the jeers fell silent as the queen raised her hand. The prisoner, for his part, had the sense to not speak yet. With the way his knees seemed to be locked in place, perhaps his jaw was locked the same way. “What’s your name, boy?” Ailith inquired. He fidgeted and smooth his hands down in front of his vest. “Devian Hayward.” “Devian.” The queen swung her legs off the arm of her throne and stood. “You claim to possess the map to a--how did you put it?--most remarkable treasure? Such a convenient possession to have when your life hangs in the balance, wouldn’t you say?” “He’s lying!” someone scoffed. “The coward,” added another. “Wasting our time.” Devian jolted. “Your Majesty, I--” “Silence!” Ailith said. “That map of yours is quite eye-catching, I must say, and that is the reason you were not left to die.” “I was not part of that crew. The bounty was not placed on my head--please believe me!” “Your connection to those pirates is no longer what concerns me, dear Devian. What concerns me is that you are now aboard this ship with a fantastical claim, on the verge of using our supplies, our resources while we chase a treasure that you can very well be making up. I don’t like waste. I despite it, in fact. Our brig is so seldom occupied.” Ailith gestured grandly at the inside of the forecastle as she strolled closer to Devian, whose hand flinched to his heart. “Everyone aboard the Clemency has earned their place, you see. If you are the take the role of navigator for this venture, we must know a bit more about you. What sort of blood do you have?” Andrea eyed Devian with a smirk as he stared at Ailith in utter confusion. Others in the room snickered and whispered to each other behind their hands, placing bets in a matter of seconds. If Andrea were not standing near the prisoner, she would have been joining her companions in the wagering. “M-my blood?” Devian questioned. “Yes, dear.” Ailith tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Your lineage. What are you?” “H-human,” he answered. “Almost full-blooded.” A mixture of groans and cheers ran through the room. Devian looked about nervously. “My father claimed we have druid blood somewhere down the line. He had close relations with druids, you see. So much so that I was able to study at some of the most prestigious druid libraries.” The queen folded her hands behind her back, circling Devian and Andrea like a predator admiring its prey. “Is that so? Did you learn anything useful?” He nodded fervently. “I am much more than a navigator. I can speak and understand the languages of common and rare races--even languages that scarcely anyone left alive can speak!” “A valuable skill,” Ailith admitted. Then she spoke a phrase in her own language, one that Andrea did not understand. The queen looked at Devian expectedly. “You asked if I could understand you,” Devian said, breath catching. “You… you spoke in sylph. Are you…?” “Half-human, half-sylph,” Ailith said proudly. “Have you an issue with mixed-bloods, by any chance, dear?” “N-not at all!” “Good. There are a rare few on this ship who are full-blooded in any way.” She turned to the rest of the room. “One of you! Say something in your native tongue.” Thorne, a pyromancer with fiery red hair, called out more words that Andrea couldn’t understand. The other pyromancers in the room laughed outright, and all eyes turned back to Devian. Clearing his throat, he glanced uncertainly between Ailith and Thorne. “H-he said that I’m more likely to have nereid than druid’s, with how scrawny I am.” More laughter rippled through the room, accompanied by hisses of outrage from the nereids. “The boy speaks our tongue!” Thorne crowed, looking impressed. “Very well,” Ailith said, beginning to eye Devian less like prey and more like a tool. “And what brought you to life on the sea? A boy of your skill would have no trouble finding work on land, no?” Devian, who had begun to look relieved, glanced away. “My father was a seafaring man. Always away from home. I never took to sailing as much as I took to books, so I sought other way to join him. A translator is useful upon the sea.” “Understandable. And what of your father now?” “Dead. Pirate raid. I continued my work aboard the Jeweled Seeker, until it was sunk and I was taken prisoner aboard the Cutlass.” “A translator who fights for his life with a treasure map.” Ailith held her hand out expectantly, and Devian put up no protest to fishing the parchment out of his pocket and giving it to her. “How did you come across this?” “The sea nymphs protecting it were an isolated community. They had been waiting generations for a demigod hero to claim the map and seek out the treasure of their long-lost god. I was able to convince them that I was this prophetic hero by speaking the ancient demigod tongue.” Ailith laughed. “Oh, there is a bit of thievery within that bookish human blood. And what exactly does is the treasure?” Devian hesitated, stammering. A nereid named Ondine stepped forward haughtily and stalked in front of Devian. Andrea straightened and watched her warily. “Is there something you need?” Andrea asked. “The queen did not say you could approach.” “No disrespect to you or the queen, Huntress,” Ondine said, narrowing her eyes at Devian. “If I may, I’ve heard of this treasure. My mother would tell me the story of the lost sea king who waits to reward his champion. How does a human know such things? Only someone of the sea could possibly understand how to unlock such a treasure! You are not of the sea, human.” “I’m not lying!” he insisted, turning to Ailith. “Allow me to navigate this ship to the shrine, and the treasure is yours, in exchange for my freedom upon your next destination.” Ailith hummed thoughtfully, pacing once again in front of Devian. “Ondine would know more about sea treasures than I. If this treasure truly is only accessed by someone of the sea, how can I be sure that you will be able to?” “I can!” He was fidgeting now, brushing his hand over the front of his vest. Andrea frowned hard at him. Again, her instincts were acting up. There was something there, something that she wasn’t fully aware of. He had been searched upon getting aboard the ship… but she had not searched him when they left the brig. “I swear to you,” Devian went on desperately, “I will be able to access this treasure.” “He’s hiding something,” Andrea said, sharp eyes catching how the fabric of his vest shifted slightly long after he’d removed his hand. Ailith raised her eyebrows, menacingly intrigued. “What would he be hiding, my Huntress?” Instead of answering, Andrea lunged at Devian. She ignored his protests, grabbing the front of his collar and plunging her other hand into his vest pocket. She cringed, feeling something squirm away from her fingers. A scream came from within the fabric. Swallowing her surprise, Andrea closed her hand around the writhing little thing and pulled it out in a fist. All the breath seemed to leave Andrea’s lungs as she stared at the tiny woman in her grasp. Opalescent hair, thin limbs, and a petrified little face. Minuscule hands scrabbled against Andrea’s fingers, trying to pry herself free, but Andrea didn’t budge one bit. “Leave her alone,” Devian gasped, trying to snatch the tiny woman back. He was swiftly restrained and yanked out of arm’s reach by two mercenaries. The rest of the crew, silent, pressed in closer to see, but Ailith shooed them back and came to stand beside Andrea, leaning over the little stowaway. “Well, well,” the queen purred. “What have we here?”

#mywriting #gt #gt writing #queen of the sea #andrea #devian #kaia #ailith #thorne #ondine #shirin

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austinpanda · 2 years

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Dad Letter 121121

12 December, 2021

Dear Dad--

Happy Sunday to you! And I hope your December is going well, and your build-up to Christmas is enjoyable. I’m doing a lot better than last week. I’ve mostly recovered from the cold, but for a couple of symptoms that seem to be lingering. Same thing is happening with Zach; we’re over it, but we’re still coughing and nose-blowing much more than we’d like. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than the shortness-of-breath period that we each went through.

I’ve learned of a new disaster! You know how I seem to like those, especially when they arrive in the form of an airplane mishap, but I try not to dwell on them too much, for fear that people will think I’m strange. But what happens is, I hear about a tragic event, and in the process of hearing about the tragic event, I learn a few fascinating things about what happened, and it compels me to look into it a bit more. And I learn more, and interesting facts and ideas emerge from learning about it, and I find myself completely absorbed. The United crash into Sioux City, Iowa in 1989 is the one I’ve studied most, but all disasters fascinate me. Apollo 13, the space shuttles we lost, planes going down because of weird, unforeseen circumstances…I just eat that shit up.

This new one was a disaster that happened to the Russian navy in 2000. It was the submarine Kursk. The Kursk was a huge submarine, big enough that it had a sauna and tiny swimming pool aboard it. And they were having a big naval exercise in the Barents Sea, which was supposed to start when the Kursk fired two dummy torpedoes. What happened instead was this: one of the dummy torpedoes, which was just a regular torpedo without the warhead, exploded in the first (foremost) compartment, all by itself. Now the submarine was very, very strong, and the torpedo exploding didn’t penetrate the hull, and it didn’t cause them to start flooding. But it started a fire in the room where they kept all their torpedoes! So not long after the initial explosion, there was a much, much, much larger explosion as all the other torpedoes exploded simultaneously and it blew the front third of the submarine off. The Kursk hit bottom, about 350 feet down, with a small portion of the surviving crew trapped in the rearmost three watertight compartments, which were no longer 100% watertight.

Meanwhile, the whole Russian Navy goes, “Okay, let’s start the wargames! Wheee!” and proceeds to ignore the Kursk, which is probably just having some sort of problem with their radio equipment anyway, right guys? Right?

So by now you’ve isolated the part of the story that was my main takeaway: There are lots of shitty ways to die, and this has got to be one of the shittiest. You’re in the ass end of a Russian submarine, when the front end gets vaporized. Now you’re stuck in a leaky phone booth at the bottom of the Barents Sea, and all you have to count on for your rescue is…the Russian Navy, because, once they realize we done blowed up, they’re not going to want to share that fact with the world. That would just make Russia look bad, so no international help.

Anyway, the small handful of survivors at the rear of the submarine died too. (Merry Christmas!) And it seems they couldn’t even have had a nice quiet drowning, because, according to the autopsies, not long before the remaining submariners would have drowned, someone managed to start a fire, and a bunch of them then died in the fire. (And Happy New Year!) They think it was one of the canisters that scrubbed CO2 from the air to make it breathable. The canisters used a chemical that, when exposed to water, turned into a fiery explosion. You just can’t make this shit up.

Why am I sharing this with you? Well, you just learned several interesting things about a relatively recent Russian naval disaster, so there’s that. Like I said, I find stuff like this fascinating, especially, in this case, the thought of how much better it might have turned out, if the Russians had acted more quickly and decisively. And it places itself squarely in the top ten ways in which I don’t want to die, right next to being eaten by a shark. Perhaps I should just avoid the water altogether.

Not much else is going on here in Maine, but we have been fortunate enough to have several recent mouse visits. Yesterday we had two. Two mice doesn’t seem like substantially more of a problem than one mouse, but what it really means, is: We both either drop what we’re doing until we can find a way to get the mouse out of the house, which is insanely difficult, or else we make peace with the fact that we’ll probably be receiving a portion of the mouse as a gift from the kitties later on. Fortunately, Zach and I both have come to realize a few things. Firstly, it’s unlikely that the presence of a mouse in our metal life tube (trailer) is going to cause anything terrible to happen. Indeed, they are entertainment for the cats. The cats will visually acquire the mouse and then stay locked onto it until the situation resolves itself. They’re very excited by it. Secondly, if a mouse can get in, and be terrorized by my cats, it can let itself back out again, too. We must allow for the possibility that the wee fuckers are leaving the same way they came in, once they realize how hostile the environment is here.

So hopefully we won’t have any mice today, although at this point it seems wise to assume we’ll be seeing them at least weekly. I can only assume this is doubly true when the weather gets really cold, the way it is now, and the mice look for a warm place to hang out. But while we have mice, we have absolutely NO ants or roaches. I haven’t seen a fire ant or a cockroach since we moved here. Now at least my pests are cute furry mammals.

So, the week ahead. Gotta say, I’m not aglow with enthusiasm about the week ahead, mostly because it’s going to culminate with doctors spelunking up my butt. That’s right, sports fans, it’s colonoscopy time! Among the parts I’m looking forward to the least: The day before the colonoscopy, I can’t eat anything. I can’t even have coffee the way I like it, because you can only have clear liquids. They suggest Gatorade, but only in certain colors. Certain colors of Gatorade are fine, but certain OTHER colors of Gatorade will cause the colonoscopy to trigger a nuclear explosion (or something) and therefore are to be avoided at all costs. I don’t want to avoid food for 24 hours just to make a doctor’s trip up my butt more visually appealing, but apparently I must do so. Then I have to get to the hospital by 7:00 next Friday morning for them to get started. They say it’ll be about 3 hours, then I have to have someone drive me home, because I’ll be under general anesthesia for a period. Whee!!!

I’m not unaware of the importance of the colonoscopy, however. If there is anything nefarious going on up there, best for doctors to find it and fix it as early as possible. So I shall remain sanguine. As usual, my plan is to see if I can make my doctors laugh by making a butt-related joke that they haven’t already heard. (That’s the challenging part.) And I’m not exactly nervous about any of this, because it won’t hurt, and I don’t seem to be paying anything for this privilege, and it’s important that I do it, so what the hell. Next one won’t be so damn close to Christmas, though, I can tell you that much.

Take care of yourselves, and know that you’re in my thoughts every day. More next week, and all my love to you both!

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secretcswriter · 6 years

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Going Home for Christmas

Summary: When Killian Jones’ best friend Emma Nolan asked him to come home with her for Christmas acting as her fiancé, he never could have guessed what it would mean.

Find all Chapters Here

Also Read it Here: ff.net

Chapter Five | Making (Pretend) Plans

The photographer Mary Margaret eagerly introduces to them is a family friend named Ruby.

She and Emma spend a good five minutes catching up and laughing, effectively leaving Killian on his own to a discussion with Mary Margaret about the weather and how she hopes they have a spring wedding.

He’s begun to realize that he’s far too out of his depth here, and not in a good way where he can save himself. No, he’s drowning.

“Let’s go outside to the garden. I know it’s cold, but I found this great tree you could stand under and the snow is super pretty.” Ruby says with a crinkle in her nose.

“Oh, I know exactly which one you’re talking about.” Mary Margaret says. “It’ll be perfect.”

Emma goes to him and takes his hand easily as they follow Ruby and Mary Margaret outside to the garden, where he finds himself caught up in the wonder of winter. He hadn’t realized the castle sits with its back to a lovely lake with mountains in the picturesque distance.

Snow makes it all the lovelier, most of it untouched as the flakes trickle toward them and melt almost instantly against his exposed skin.

It’s truly stunning as he looks at their surroundings from the spot beneath the tree that Ruby wants them under. Emma’s still holding his hand as he looks out, entirely enamored with the quiet and calm of it all.

“Quite the view,” he says.

Emma hums. “It’s pretty.”

Killian can’t help but smirk at Emma. She’s staring up at him, snowflakes caught in her eyelashes and dusting the top of her head. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are rosy from the cold.

“You’re pretty.”

He sees her blush deepen as her mouth falls open ever so slightly as if to admonish him. He chuckles and leans in to leave a kiss to the side of her head. When he moves away, he finds Ruby and Mary Margaret staring on giddily.

“That’s perfect!” Ruby gasps. “Again! This time, Emma,” Ruby moves in close to them and physically adjusts them so Emma’s hands are pressed to his chest and she’s turned toward her mother. “Okay. That’s good.”

They take a few like this, and a few of him holding Emma close with her hand on his arm. It feels like a proper portrait, with how she keeps adjusting their heads and chins and shifting their hips to get the right angle.

She’s warm in his arms, and she still smells amazing. It’s almost enough for him to forget they’re standing out in the cold of winter, posing for engagement photographs he’s fairly certain will somehow be his downfall.

“Okay, let’s do… oh, I know. Forehead kiss.”

It continues like this for a while. They take a few forehead kiss pictures, and then Mary Margaret suggests they go back inside where they can sit by the fire.

They move eagerly back inside, hand-in-hand, and Ruby takes a few pictures of them from behind before insisting they take a few in the garden with him standing behind Emma, his arms around her middle and his nose in her hair.

None of this does him any good emotionally. His stomach won’t stop being flooded with butterflies and his heart feels achingly full at each press of her against him.

She turns to him at one point and grins so happily at him that he imagines that maybe, if he just got a minute to speak with her, they wouldn’t have to keep pretending.

Oh, he is in love with her and none of this is helping matters.

Why did he agree to come along again? Right, because he’s a good person and a good friend. But for some reason he feels less than good right now.

“Thank you for this, Ruby,” Mary Margaret says after the last photo is taken on the floor of the den with the soothingly warm fireplace.

“Yeah, no problem! These are going to be killer. I’ll get them downloaded and pick out a few for review by three this afternoon.”

Mary Margaret cheers. “Oh, yay! Thank you. We’ll keep an eye out.”

Both he and Emma thank Ruby and the photographer goes on her way, clearly excited to see the fruits of their labor. Emma’s mother turns to them and lifts her shoulders.

“Well, that was fun.”

Emma’s a little bit breathless. “Yeah.”

“When do you want to start planning the wedding?” Mary Margaret asks. “I have some ideas, but I don’t want to impose. I just… I am so excited, Emma.”

Emma sighs. “Mom… we just got here.”

Her mother nods in understanding, a frown riding her lips. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. It’s… I’ve been planning for this day since you were a little girl and now that it’s here, I can’t wait to share with you.”

His best friend softens. She tucks her hair behind her ears and nods. “I know.” She glances up at him and back again. “I guess a peek wouldn’t hurt. But we’re not making any decisions.”

The queen gasps excitedly. Her face brightens up so much that it’s almost as if she hadn’t been smiling before.

Killian watches Emma get whisked away by her mother and he laughs slightly at the frantic look on her face as he waves at her. “I’d come with you, but I’ve got plans with Leo.”

Emma rolls her eyes a little, but has no room to respond because Mary Margaret’s talking her ear off.

He watches them go for a few moments before he hears his name. Turning, he discovers Leo approaching from a cluster of people gathered nearby talking and gawking at the royal mother and daughter.

“Killian, you ready for our hike?”

He grins at Leo. “Of course. I’ll need a minute to change into something more comfortable.”

Leo bobs his head. “How about I meet you back down here in fifteen?”

+ + +

Prince Leopold is adventurous at heart and quite fun to be around. They’re climbing a nearby mountain while they talk about the world and the nonsense within it, and it’s more fun than he’s had in a while.

He genuinely enjoys being with Leo, and he gets the feeling Leo feels the same toward him.

They reach their objective and stand atop a cliff looking out at the castle that lies beyond.

“The world is so much bigger up here,” Leo says, slightly out of breath with deep pink cheeks hiding behind his scarf.

Killian chuckles. “Aye. It is.”

He takes in the enormity of the sky and how peaceful he feels. It’s good at giving him a straight head where it comes to his feelings. They seem less significant as he looks around from way up here.

“So, I promised myself a long time ago that when Emma got engaged and it was serious, I’d bring my future brother-in-law on a hike and we’d talk about his intentions.” Leo says honestly.

Killian meets his gaze and nods. “Alright.”

Leo crosses his arms to make himself more intimidating. “My sister is incredibly important to me and I’ve seen her go through way too much heartbreak. I don’t want it to happen again.”

Killian knows this feeling all too well. He nods. “Aye. I know. I promise, I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt her intentionally. I… I love her and I’m not keen on letting her go.”

Leo smiles at that. He looks over at the castle. “I can tell she feels the same about you.”

From an outsider’s perspective, the words bear more weight than they really should. Killian’s heart races.

“Do you think you’ll come back?” Leo asks. “For the wedding or… I don’t know, living here?”

Killian shakes his head. “I don’t know, mate. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time here so far, but… I think that’s up to Emma.”

Leo sighs and nods. “I guess.” He presses a hand to the back of his head and breathes the day in deeply. “I always thought when she got married she’d come home.”

It’s really not his place to make promises, but he figures one more won’t hurt amidst a sea of lies they’ve already spread far and wide.

“I’ll talk to her.”

Leo’s eyes widen brightly and he laughs. “Really?”

“Sure,” Killian grins. “Family ought to stick together. That’s what my brother’s always told me.”

Leo claps him on the back. “You know, you and I are going to get along, Killian. I can feel it.”

+ + +

“I’ve been planning for a long time for the chance to give you the wedding of your dreams,” her mother admits as they walk into her study.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day, complete with far too much Killian gazing at her with far too much affection in his eyes. But it isn’t as if she’s been any better. And that kiss. Even if it was shortly lived, she's having a hard time making ends of what any of this means.

This trip wasn’t ever supposed to get out of control. It was always supposed to be simple and they’d show up and he’d be charming and her parents would be happy that she’s happy. And then they’d go back to their lives as they were.

But instead, she’s come face-to-face with a realization that her family really, really wants her to be married. To Killian Jones.

They love him more than she could’ve anticipated. Even her father, the man who once shot at one of her previous boyfriends, seems to have no problem whatsoever with his little girl marrying Killian.

What could they possibly see in him- in their relationship- that they haven’t seen before?

Emma’s eyes widen as her mother shows her the three gigantic scrapbooks of ideas sitting out on her desk.

“I have ideas for just about any theme you might want to pick from,” her mother says. “But I was thinking… that you could have the wedding here and we could have it out by the water at sunset.”

Emma stares at the pictures in the book closest to her as her mother flips frantically through another to find the page she’s looking for. She stops finally and points out some details they might use.

“Look, your father and Leo could build this beautiful archway,” Mary Margaret caresses the picture as if it’s dear to her. “And we could decorate the garden with lantern lights and you could dance under the stars.”

Truth be told, the idea is beautiful. Emma can’t imagine anything better than a wedding like that. She imagines they’d have to do it in the summer, so they’d have plenty of time to plan, but at the same time no time at all.

Emma smiles fondly at her mother’s description. “That sounds so beautiful.”

Mary Margaret looks up at her and shakes her head on a soft sigh. “Emma, I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

Emma smiles back at her mother. This is all she’s dreamed about for a long time, giving Emma a wedding.

“I know,” she admits on a laugh. “It’s hard to believe.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “No, I can see it between you. You and Killian were meant to be together. The way he looks at you, and the way you look at him...” Her mother sighs happily. “He’s not like anyone else you’ve brought home. He’s different. A really, really, good different.”

Emma’s heart flutters. “How can you tell?”

Her mother shrugs and lifts an eyebrow. “He makes you smile. With your whole face. And you look at him like he could change the world and you really think he could.” Mary Margaret smiles. She reaches out to brush a strand of Emma’s hair behind her ear. “And when he speaks, you hang onto every word. It was never like that with anyone else.”

Her mother has tears in her eyes and Emma’s chest tightens because of her words.

“And I imagine he’s the first person you think about in the morning when you wake up and the last person you think about when you fall asleep. That’s how it is with your father and I at least. He’s your best friend and you’re his.”

The weight of her mother’s words ring all too real with Emma.

Her mother clears her throat and straightens out. “Do you want to take a look at what I have? I know it’s a lot to take in, but… it’s a good start.”

Forcing herself to stop thinking too much about the situation she’s put herself in, Emma forces herself to smile and nod. “Sure.”

+ + +

Her phone buzzes in her hand as she stands outside of the door leading to the rooftop where Elsa had said they were waiting for her.

It’s an email from her mother, sent with high importance. She taps into it and finds the email reads: I love them all! What do you think? I prefer number one for the announcement. Dad thinks so too. :) - Mom

There are a few photos attached. Emma’s heart skips a beat when she realizes just what they are- they’re from the engagement photo session they’d shared just a few hours ago.

It had been quite something coming off of their first kiss and moving straight into half an hour of close touching and easy laughter. She’d been surprised by how natural it all felt, and how calm she’d been with him holding her close.

Although, she isn’t surprised at all when she thinks about it, because everything with him is simple and safe.

The first picture, her parents’ favorite, is of them standing beneath the tree, both of them happy as they hold onto each other in a less than natural pose. She can’t help but to think she fits kind of perfectly there, with her head pressed against his collarbone, and his arm wrapped around her.

The second is a picture of them laughing about something as they sit in front of the fire, wrapped in a quilt. It’s a close shot, capturing just how widespread their grins are. Her mom was right about one thing- she smiles with her whole face around Killian.

The third is of Killian kissing her forehead. Their eyes are both closed and he’s holding onto her so lovingly and tenderly she wonders if it had been as real to them in the moment as it appears.

She doesn’t have time to check the rest of the pictures because she gets a text from Elsa begging her to come outside already.

So, she types off a quick, Love these! Number one is great. -Em and sends it back to her mother before opening the door to the rooftop party.

It’s pretty out here, as it always is, with flowers her mom had planted for her secret garden all hidden away for the winter. The warm lantern lights hanging overhead give the space a familiar and safe glow. There’s Christmas music playing near the outdoor bar her dad had installed and all of her friends from brunch are assembled, wrapped in blankets and baggy sweaters.

“Emma!” Elsa calls out happily. She hurries to her side and slings her arm through hers. “You have come just in time. Belle has brought with her the finest cheap wine and Aurora and Ashley brought snacks.”

Emma laughs happily. Spending evenings out on the rooftop with her friends was always a highlight growing up at the castle, and this is no different.

They gather together on a blanket with pillows and cushions. Emma accepts a glass of wine when it’s offered to her by Belle.

“So… how’s being engaged?” Elsa asks in a sing-song tone.

Emma laughs and shakes her head. She mimics her friend’s voice, “It’s nice.”

The girls chuckle.

“Do you guys have a date yet?” Anna asks.

“No, not yet.” Emma says. “We just want to be engaged for a little while before we start drowning in wedding plans.”

Anna’s eyes widen. “Good for you! Kristoff and I dove right in. Not that I regret it. Because I don’t.” Emma smiles slightly when Anna rubs her baby bump. “But it’s a lot of hard work.”

Elsa shifts in her spot and grabs a cookie from the pile of snacks in the center of their circle. “So, how’d you guys meet?”

Emma takes a breath. “Um… well, we met-” She can’t help but laugh a little. “We met at his brother’s birthday party. I was dating this guy at the time that knew him and I mistook Killian for his brother when I introduced myself. I kept trying to talk to him about what little my boyfriend had told me about Liam and he was just so confused until I called him the wrong name and then he cleared it up.”

Her friends giggle.

Aurora has a bite of cake and tilts her head. “And now he’s your best friend! Imagine it.”

Emma smiles happily. “Yeah. He is.”

“Oh my gosh, tell us about your engagement story. I love engagement stories!” Belle insists.

She laughs and shrugs. The story she and Killian came up with for this is good, she has to admit. It’s full of just enough facts that are true for it to come across as plausible.

“Okay. So one of our favorite places to go is this little diner called the Starlight Diner. He asked me if I’d like to go for dinner and I agreed, not really thinking much of it. When I showed up, he had our table decorated in flowers and he was wearing a fancy suit. So I asked him, ‘what’s going on?’ and he said, ‘can’t a guy take his beautiful girlfriend out for a special dinner?’”

The girls laugh. She does too, mostly because this is something that actually happened. Minus the relationship stuff.

“And so we had dinner and I’m thinking the whole time that he’s either crazy romantic or he’s proposing, or both. But it didn’t happen, and instead we went for a walk by the harbor, and I had decided it wouldn’t… but then he pretended he noticed something on the ground.” Emma shrugs, smiling happily at her own story. “And then he asked me and I said yes.”

Her friends swoon over the entirely made-up story, and Emma can’t help but feel the slightest bit of pride over the tale because of how sweet it is.

“I am so glad you’re getting married to him.” Elsa says. “He loves you so much, Emma.”

Suddenly, as she had with her mother, she feels nothing but guilt. Killian can’t love her. Can he?

“And he’s not a jerk like what’s his name,” Belle adds. “He’s a proper gentleman.”

“He is.” Aurora agrees.

Elsa hums. “Well, when you get to wedding planning, just remember, I’m your best girl friend and I have performed as maid of honor before.”

The rest of the group tries to get her to nominate them for the position. Emma can’t help but laugh as she looks to Elsa.

Of all the people she’d dream about having in her wedding, she thinks Elsa takes the cake. Elsa was there, through thick and thin, when she still lived at the castle. Come to think of it, Elsa was sort of her Killian before she met Killian.

She isn’t sure what to make of that.

And she isn’t sure what to make of the tightness in her chest as she thinks about Killian either.

#cs ff #cs au #my writing #ghfc #mc

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hekate1308 · 6 years

Text

That Vanished Abode There Far Away, A Season 13 Drowley AU - Chapter Six

Masterpost

Oh dear. Michael does his best to smile and nod at the mermen politely, but it’s rather difficult because the males are incredibly ugly, with big teeth, horns and bright red noses.

Merrows, something tells him. From Irish-English lore. They probably exist all over the United Kingdom. He looks at one of the mermaids who’ve come up with their male counterparts. She smiles and winks at him, but he knows better than to flirt. Merrows are said to be strong and keep the souls of those they drown under water in a glass jar.

“We greet you and accept your presents. How can we be of assistance?” one of the ugly ones, apparently the leader of the group, asks.

He lets Roderick do the talking. He has no idea if they’re used to American accents or not.

“We ask for your protection and for further exchanges of goods. We are on our way to Hirta; we are two hunters who need a safe place to stay for a while.”

“Scotland isn’t safe for hunters. The UK as a whole isn’t.”

“We’re aware, which is why we are moving to an abandoned island.”

“And what are you going to do once you are there?”

“We are under a spell, as I am sure you can tell, Lord of the Sea” Michael has no idea if that’s a formal title or not, but the merrow looks pleased, “a spell that we need to investigate and perhaps lift, if possible.”

“And if we hear something go bump in the dark, we’re probably going to take care of it” Michael adds because he is a hunter and what they’re doing is important. He only realizes he’s broken his resolve when one of the younger mermaids giggles.

“The pretty one is so honourable.”

Against his will, he feels himself blush.

“Yes, well” Roderick snaps, “As my companion just explained, we will only go after those who harm humans. We promise.”

The merrow hums and tilts his head in a gesture that seems oddly familiar, but that Michael cannot place. A throbbing in his head reminds him that he’s not to think of such things, especially not when he’s sitting on a boat in the Scottish sea. “Their souls are good. Human. I think we can risk it.”

To his surprise, Roderick flinches at being told his soul his good – it appears he’s too confused to answer; and so it is Michael who says, “thank you very much, Lord of the High Sea.”

“Quick learner too, I see. Well. It has been foretold that the Men of Letters shall not hunt us forever.”

Roderick has recovered at this point and chimes in. They’ll have tools, and wood, more than enough to repair some of the more intact houses; and furthermore, the merrows even seem to promise that they’ll bring them nourishment and clean clothes if they be in need of them.

“But how...” Michael trails off because looking at the mermaids and mermen in front of him, asking how they can possibly transport food and clothes through the water without anything getting wet feels foolish.

The leader smiles. “We will have an agent contacting you, don’t worry. Or rather... a friend.”

The uneasy smiles on the merrows’ faces let Michael believe that it’s all a bit more complicated than the terms “agent” and “friend” warrant, but it’s more than enough for now. Hell, it’s way more than what he assumed they’d have once they were actually camping on an abandoned island.

The merrows disappear as quickly as they came. “Nice trick” he says.

Roderick shrugs. “It seemed rather pointless to let the chance pass by.”

Michael nods, even as he starts getting suspicious. “Say, how did you know how to summon them? Don’t get me wrong, I know a few bits and pieces, but every time I go into too much detail, the spell reminds me that there were certain circumstances under which I acquired that particular knowledge and therefore –“

Roderick at least has the decency to look guilty.

“Damn it, man – what if one day you seize up and it doesn’t stop? And when do you do this anyway?”

“At night, mostly.”

Michael huffs. “Small wonder you have dark circles under your eyes.”

“I don’t need much sleep! I’m not used to it!”

“How would you know if you’re used to anything!?”Michael sighs. There’s no point in them arguing, as he well knows. “Will you at least promise me to be careful?”

“You say that as if you’re actually worried” Roderick answers and he’d probably make a joke out of it if he didn’t sound so confused about it. Seriously, what must his life been like before the spell?

They decide to move on and soon arrive at Hirta. Everything seems to be as abandoned and neglected as it’s been described, but when Michael pulls the EMF meter he built last night out of a busted-up walkman (Roderick called it “borderline clever” which did not make him blush at all) out of his pockets, it soon becomes clear that they’re indeed alone. No ghostly activity here.

“Of course” Roderick mutters, “never where they think it is, but show them one real hunting and they will happily have dinner parties there. Humans.”

“You’re one too” Michael reminds him.

“That may be... that may be” he says slowly, his gaze growing distant as if he’s trying to remember something, and Michael’s about to slap his shoulder when he comes out of it. “Well then, let’s see... there has to be a place we can set up somewhere.”

They actually do find a few houses that are not in that bad a shape, and one has a functioning roof plus a fire place. Check pot.

“I gather the wood and you unpack?” Michael jokes as they put their meagre belongings unto the one stull sturdy table.

“Anything you say, darling” he drawls.

One of these days, he’ll have to stop him calling him that, Michael knows, but it’s probably not this day because they really are in desperate need of some firewood. Of course they’d be dropped in the middle of Scotland instead of somewhere nice and warm, like California.

He could also do without the fog –

He blinks, realizing that a minute ago there was no fog, that he can’t see a thing, and that he has no idea where he is. He’s also feeling rather dizzy.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to think.

Can’t be a ghost. The EMF meter would have given them something, anything –

Fog – confusion – he’s near water –

He’s near water.

A water wraith.

“I know what you are!” he calls out. “And just so you know, you should be scared of me, not the other way around.”

A happy laugh surprises him. “They told me you were hunters.”

“They?”

“The merrows.”

The fog clears, and his head along with it. In front of him appears a young woman with sparkling green eyes and shoulder-long brunette hair, wearing a white flowing dress.

“Just had to see if you lived up to the hype” she says, smiling.

He knows he has to be careful. Water spirits are mercurial, and fro a good reason; their element can after all bring life and death.

“Are you the agent the merrows talked about?”

She nods. “Wrong word, of course; I am no one’s agent. I’m Mel.”

“Michael” he introduces himself.

She studies him. “And your real name?”

“Don’t know. As we told the merrows, we’ve been hit by some king of spell – made us forget who we are.”

She nods, as if he passed a test. “Yes, they did tell me. And there is certainly something on your soul...”

“The merrows didn’t say anything about that.”

She smiles again, but it looks a bit more unnerving than before. “I know, but what do they know? Merrows are good creatures, but no match for wraiths.”

He nods; it seems to be the safest answer.

“Say, while you were stumbling about, I glanced through the windows of your new home. Have you ever noticed anything strange about your companion?”

“No, should I?”

“It’s just that his souls has this... shine to it. Almost as if it were new.”

That’s... weird. “Are you sure?”

She laughs again. “Sure? I am never sure of anything. Comes with the territory.”

“I see. But you can help us, like the merrows said?”

“Of course. So what do you need?”

“I assume laptops with functioning wi-fi are not available?”

“Alright, two laptops.” She looks completely serious. “I assume food too... oh, and the local newspapers?”

“Why not.”

“It’s been a long while since we had hunters in Scotland... I think it’s a good thing you showed up.” Her expression turned slightly threatening. “Also, I made an exception for you today, but you should probably read up on the correct rituals. You know, they have their reasons.”

“I will.”

He probably only has to ask Roderick. Guy’s a freaking dictionary.

Certainly not a newly-born soul, as Mel suggested. But then, why would his soul appear that way? Michael’s doesn’t.

“That’s probably a good idea” she says cheerfully and he gets the impression he’ll never know if she can read his thoughts or is just bluffing. “There’s something about him, isn’t there?”

She vanishes into mist, laughing as she does so.

Michael will say this.

He’s lost his memory, he’s going to live on an abandoned island with a guy he can’t even say for certain he knows –

But at least he won’t be bored in the foreseeable future.

“He’s not dead” she says firmly – for about the thirtieth time in as many minutes.

“Rowena” Sam tries gently, “I saw him die. I watched him kill himself so we could get away.”

“He’d never give up like that.”

“He didn’t give up” Cas says. “He knew it was the only way to close the portal and save us. He did it for us. He died a hero.”

She stares at him – stares at an angel telling the truth – and Sam sees the moment she accepts that her son is gone, sees her shoulders slump in defeat for a moment and something like grief pass across her face before her expression grows hard and her eyes narrow. “I warned him about you, you know. I told him no good would come from hanging around you lot!”

Sam didn’t expect her anger to burn cold. He only understands when she says, “I suppose I’ll have to bring him back. Just show me where you burned his body, so I can use that as an anchor point –“

“His body disappeared when Dean did.”

“What?” She starts stalking up and down the war room, and he wants to intervene, but Cas lays a hand on his arm and shakes his head.

Sam wonders if angels can feel the longing of witches too, and if Cas knows just how badly she is hurting.

Because he wasn’t wrong about that touch of grief. This isn’t about power, this isn’t about consolidating Hell. This is about a mother trying to rescue the son she loved despite everything.

With shocking clarity, he suddenly realizes that part of him would be glad if she managed to save Crowley. Yes, he was an evil bastard, but they’d known him for years when he decided to kill himself – to sacrifice himself for them – and Dean would probably like to see him. They were friends, after all. Sort of.

“Rowena” he says, “How about this. You help us find Dean, and we’ll do everything we can to help you bring Crowley back.”

She turns to look at him. “I am supposed to believe you would go out of your way to help me resurrect the former King of Hell?”

“Yes” he says simply as Cas nods.

She sighs. “I guess a depressed hunter and an angel with torn wings is better than nothing.”

“That’s the spirit” Sam answers with more enthusiasm than he’s felt in quite a while.

True, they have no guarantee that Rowena will be of any help, but just like she said – it’s better than nothing.

#my writings #drowley #dean winchester #crowley

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makingoutinyour30s · 6 years

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thoughts on time

Dear A;

I woke up in manic brain today so you’re getting a letter. I am excitable but also a little gloomy. It almost feels like I’m in a mirror maze and I’m trying to run in every direction but I’m banging into walls and I’m not quite sure where I’m going. Didn’t our girl Chani say things are supposed to be weird this weekend? I have definitely woken in a weird (but good, I think?) place.

Last night K and I went to see Lady Bird. And we reacted hard. Throughout the movie we whisper shouted our reactions. We covered our faces with our hands when things were just too much to feel. I think we both got choked up at various parts. We laughed a lot.

There is this PhD student at a university on the east coast that I sometimes talk to. We study the same thing so I tap into her when I need or want fieldwork advice. The last time we talked was a few weeks after I entered the field and she said, “High schools are just the best place, right?” And I told her my year of fieldwork was so perfectly timed because I had found myself in the middle of a divorce. And she told me the same had happened for her and we talked about that. She said that being around teenagers was going to be so helpful and she talked about their perceptions of time. That time moves a little slower for teenagers (two weeks can feel like two years), but that they can also feel the great expanses of their lives. She said this perspective was going to be helpful when reframing a life.

A, I know I’m not a teenager. I know I am a 33 year old woman. I but I have never lost that perspective on time. I often think it’s because I have never intended to have children. So I have never had to think about really planting roots, be they in time or space. If I didn’t have to take care of anyone but myself and another grown-up/partner, we could move and do whatever we wanted. We could keep looking under every rock. We could stay out late and follow mysteries wherever we want. Though it might also have to do with being a student. There is something exciting about what comes after graduating something. There is still at least one giant shift to be made in my life. And it’s expansive and incredibly unknown.

I also have a constant fear of wasting time. I am worried time will get away from me. And my role as Joy Team Captain means I worry about letting things slip away that feel great or effervescent. I worry about spending too much time in gloom or work and then realizing I have missed good things or let them go by the wayside. I think this sensation is part of what causes me to rush things that feel good. Or to throw myself in front of emotional speeding trains. We must solve this thing! Or, we must lock this good thing down! I am a very patient worker. But I am not a patient emotions-feeler. I often do not understand when people need to take time to think about things, because my emotions and feelings are almost always very clear to me. I like this thing. I do not like this thing. Turn left, not right. This is the thing I want. When I woke up one day and realized I was ready to marry OH, I asked him to marry me in three weeks because I was ready and there was no reason to wait once I was ready and whipped up a good plan.

Yesterday I received some divorce paperwork. It was nothing too emotional and something I knew was coming. But I hate receiving divorce paperwork. It often comes at moments when I feel pretty stable in my life, and then it reminds me there is a gloomy undercurrent and there are things that will change and things I will have to react to from my old life. It led me to looking at emails that were sent and received in the Really Hard Time. Oh, A. I felt so very sad for myself reading them. I know I have been feeling a lot of emotions in the months since I started feeling better and dating. I know there have been very tiny mini heartbreaks, which are mostly magnified because they feel like whiplash from OH. But my goodness, I need to reflect more on how much better everything is right now. Maybe I’m still working on figuring out what single life looks like and mourning being without a live-in teammate right now. Maybe I’m letting goofy dumb boys like DD4 yank me around a little. But things are so very much better. I remember writing all the emails that I wrote to friends responding to check ins or when I reached out to people for help. I remember almost everything I wrote in those emails. But spending an hour or so reading them, from this new place, was Very Hard. I imagined what it might have been like to be the friends on the receiving end of those emails. It must have been so difficult to receive them, to know how to respond. And because I know they were all sent to people I love, and who love me, I can only imagine how painful and difficult it must have been to be my friend then. So many emails, from so many people, include paragraphs of reminders of how much they love me and the things they love about me. They were very real gifts to receive then and to still have. So much of the emails I sent read like someone completely lost at sea. They were written by someone who was struggling to save herself from drowning. Somedays might be hard still. Somedays I feel something in regards to a different person and it makes me scared to tap into those old feelings again. But A, I don’t think it can ever actually be that bad again. There were multiple nights I went out to dinner with someone and disclosed vulnerable and painful experiences I had with OH that led to them crying in reaction. And my god, I just can’t imagine what I must have been like. I know how I felt in my brain and in my heart, but I think it must have been such a tough experience to watch it, and react to it, from the outside.

In your first letter to me you mentioned how the sun was shining on me since then. And I know it has been. But I don’t think I quite felt how much until reading those emails yesterday. A few days ago I was also clearing out voicemails and listened to one you left me just a few days after OH left. In it your voice is gentle and angry and sad. And you tell me that you’re so sorry and that this thing is just so out of control and unbelievable. Hearing those emotions in your voice made me wonder what it might have been like to hear my voice during that time. At dinner over the summer at my friend M’s house, she looked at me across the table at one point and said, “Your eyes look less dead than they did before”.

Things will take some time before they are entirely comfortable. Before I am able to make decisions without feeling like all my emotions are all the line or that everything has to mean something so significant. But I have to work harder to remember how good things are. How absolutely better things are than they were four months ago. Or even a year ago. It has to be O.K. to feel uncomfortable sometimes.

I don’t know what I’m writing about today. I’m feeling restless. I am feeling like there is too much to react to right now, today, and that there is a little too much out of my emotional control and like my emotions are spilling out of my chest like an open fire hydrant. I am trying to get myself excited for a new date with a new cute boy this afternoon and to remember that I have no idea what exciting thing might (or might not!) be in store with him or anyone. And to stop thinking about people whose emotions and wants are outside my control. And to enjoy things that are good without asking more from them or trying to force them into something else. Goddam, emotional patience is so difficult.

xo, S.

#time

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