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parvulous-writings · 3 years

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Soot // Liu Kang X Reader

Request: Tumblr seems to know I'm on a Mortal Kombat kick and showed me some of your work for it. They're wonderful!I was hoping you could indulge a bit? How about Liu Kang with the prompt, "Shh, stop fussing. I like how your hair feels when you wash it."Poor boy in the movie looks like his hair is constantly being singed and washed with soot.

Requested by: @rhyske

Summary: Some fluffy Liu Kang, using the prompt "Shh, stop fussing. I like how your hair feels when you wash it."

Warnings: none

Words: 1.4K

Notes: Am I on a Mortal Kombat rampage? Yes. My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!

Not my gif

A day’s training was always a grind. It wasn’t that you truly lacked motivation, or the energy to train alongside him, it was just so repetitive. Day in, day out, the same motions, occasionally with a different training partner. Even with Liu Kang, your favourite sparring partner, sessions seemed to drag on for much longer than they actually did. You didn’t know what it was, but Liu let you leave the fight pit around mid morning, much earlier than usual. “I can see your restlessness.” He told you, “Perhaps you need a change of routine?” He suggested, and who were you to argue? He was most likely right, and you knew it. “I have a few things to do myself, today,” He told you, “So spend your free time as you wish.” He gave a brief, respectful bow, before striding off down a hallway and out of sight. What he could possibly need to do besides his rarely uncompleted chores was beyond you; he had always completed his chores long before everyone else had gotten up, he worked like clockwork. He was up at least two hours before dawn, just to make sure that he had enough time to finish off his allotted chores. It never changed. You tried not to think too much on what he could be doing, and instead tried to focus on clearing your mind, on something other than daily life in the temple.

You went to sit on one of the high balconies of the temple, your eyes scanning over the horizon, it’s greenery and it’s barrenness. It was almost amusing, how diametrically opposed the horizon seemed to be, how conflicting it was. It showed how fickle the world could be- in it’s natural state, as well as it’s man-made counterpart. But the man-made portion could be brushed off, easily explained away; whilst the natural confliction... That was harder to explain, and there was beauty in that. It comforted and relaxed you, lulling you into a state of peace. Your eyes drift closed as your muscles find more relaxation than they had in a long time, even during late, peaceful nights. You don’t know how many hours it had been when you finally come to again. All you could tell is that it has been a fair while- the sun only just peaked through the clouds and the mountains in the distance, painting what you could see of the sky marvelous shades of rose, and merigold. Though you were momentarily transfixed by the beautiful sight, you forced yourself to push away from where you had ended up nesting, taking a moment to regain your footing; you made sure that you didn’t fall over when your head spun slightly by placing a palm against the wall, perhaps it was not such a good idea to rise from your resting place so suddenly.

You start to wind your way through the endless corridors of Raiden’s temple, trekking your way through the structure until you arrived at the communal dining area. Not a cafeteria or canteen in the Western sense, but a large room where all the inhabitants of the temple could eat with their cohorts and companions during mealtimes. It was often used as a meeting place for more trivial matters amongst the monks, as well, as it was a landmark in some sense of the word. Only one other person occupied the space at the current time, and you sure didn’t mind his company. It was, of course, none other than Liu Kang. You slide into the seat next to him after grabbing yourself a few, dry snacks, leaving ample space between you both so that you didn’t intrude on his personal boundaries, you were aware of how highly he valued them outside of the fight pit and other training areas. He glanced to you, giving a subtle nod, and a tiny smile. You didn’t need words to greet each other, and you hadn’t done for a long time. There was something different about him, though. You couldn’t quite place it at first, but then it struck you. The side of his face and just under his his nose, frequent contact points of his face, were clean, not clad with specks of soot as they normally were. You looked a bit closer, and saw that his hair- usually clumped together, bound by soot and other fire-based grime- was back in it’s natural, clean state, a few individual strands flowing free in the gentle breeze from a few open-arch windows just behind the pair of you. You start to smile lightly, you always felt your heart beat just that little bit faster when you saw he was taking even a few minutes to look after himself rather than anyone else. He was such a selfless soul, to the point where he often neglected himself. You shuffle a little bit closer to him, which he didn’t mind- he thought you were trying to get warm, as you often did when you sat next to him, whether you were aware of it or not. Your hand starts to snake up over his shoulder to the raven hued strands, and Liu doesn’t notice at first. It isn’t until you carefully tugged at his hair that it got his attention.

His eyes move to you, and he isn’t sure whether to move away from you or not. “What... What are you doing?” He questioned, his voice not much more than a whisper. His furrowed brows conveys his confusion, and it was a rather adorable look on him. He started to move his hand to take your wrist, his prayer beads clacking quietly, “(Y/N)?” He asked when he got no response from you, and you carefully bat his hand away. "Shh, stop fussing. I like how your hair feels when you wash it." You tell him, and he seems genuinely surprised by the news. “You do?” Liu pauses briefly, lowering his hand, placing it back down on the table, by his bowl of soup. “You noticed?” He asked, tilting his head ever so slightly as he spoke. “Of course I noticed!” You laugh gently, shaking your head at him a little bit. Your hand moved higher into his hair after his silent nod of consent, and you smile slightly as the pads of your fingers massaged his scalp. “You’re usually covered head to toe in soot...” You tease, causing him to smile along with you. “The drawbacks of a fire arcana...” He mused, sighing contentedly as you run your fingers through his hair. It’s a heavenly feeling for him, your touch is perhaps the only one he is accustomed to in this intimate way.

“Perhaps you should wash it more often.” You suggested playfully to him, and he chuckles in amusement. He turns his head ever so slightly, so that he could look at you and still have your hand in his hair. “I hardly think that there’s time for that.” He said to you, half serious about the statement. “Of course there is.” You tell him, still smiling warmly. “If not... You can get up just a little bit earlier to do it every other day.” You teased him, pulling your hand away from his scalp as you spoke, so you could nudge his shoulder gently. He nudged you back, though it was considerably weaker than your initial bump. “Perhaps...” He mused, mentally entertaining the idea for a brief moment. “If not... I can always do it for you in the evening.” You offered, shrugging lightly as he gave you a look as if to say ‘are you sure?’

You sat quietly together for a moment, both of your hands moving into his hair as he shuffled round to lay across your lap, wanting to make the most of the moment and the feeling of you being so sweet to him. His eyes start to close as his muscles lose most of their tension, his breathing becoming even and the epitome of calm. For a moment, you could have sworn he had fallen asleep there- not that you would have minded all that much. “Liu?” Your whisper broke the comfortable sheen of silence that had fallen over the pair of you. He hummed quietly in response, his eyes not opening, and he felt too relaxed to reply verbally just yet. “Should we get back to training, soon?” You asked him, and he sighs quietly. “Alright... But let us just have a little while longer like this.” He tells you, patting your thigh gently. You smile down at his peaceful expression, and though you didn’t want to disturb him, you knew you would get in trouble with Lord Raiden if you slacked off for too long. “Okay... Five more minutes?” You suggested to him, and he nods slightly in reply. “Five more minutes.” He confirms.

#liu kang #liu kang x reader #liu kang fluff #mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mk 2021 #mortal kombat movie

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ecoamerica · 21 days

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heartsofbeskar · 3 years

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the red wolf

chapter two: a stolen gift

oberyn martell x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of death, a smooch™

words: 3.6K

excerpt: A few tears slipped down your cheeks, despite your best efforts. Oberyn gently swiped them away, bringing his forehead to rest against yours. You could feel his warm breath against your face, and it was pleasant, and smelled of the fruit filled Dornish wine he loved. His lips were tinted from it as well.

“Is there anything I can do, little wolf? I hate to see you this way,” he whispered to you, even though you were alone and shielded by so much greenery.

“Let me give you something,” your voice shook as you matched his whispered tone. “Before he can take it from me.”

a/n: the second chapter is here!! im having such a good time writing this tbh; this chapter is based on the first half of the season 4 episode the lion and the rose; im tackling it in two chapters since its a doozy

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The fresh air gently blew across your face as it cascaded over the top of the walls of Winterfell. You leaned on the wooden railing, smiling as you watched your brothers play below. They held wooden swords, clashing them against each other clumsily. Ser Rodrik would surely chastise them for the sloppy footwork, but you enjoyed their dramatics.

Creaking of the boards alerted you to a new presence approaching. Robb smiled gently as he came to stand beside you. He wore a fur robe draped across his shoulders, and you marvelled at just how broad it made him appear. You turned to face him, smoothing the stray furs into line.

“When did you turn into a man?” You teased. He brought a hand up and lightly pinched the skin of your cheek.

“Around the same time my twin sister became a woman.”

You swatted his hand away, but laughed. His eyes held a softness as he turned them away to watch Bran and Rickon, who now wrestled amongst the haybed. You reached for his hand, squeezing it.

“Something’s troubling you.” He didn’t bother to deny it; you had studied your twin’s face from the day you had both been born, after all. “Are you not excited to see the King?”

“I am, but …” He shook his head. “I cannot say I am thrilled with the prospect of my sisters departing at once for King’s Landing. Or my twin sister marrying a man there.”

“Robb,” you sighed. “We can’t stay children forever. Someday, this—” you gestured at large to the courtyard, “—will be yours to lead, along with the entire North. I will be your ears wherever I land — King’s Landing, or otherwise.”

He nodded, but still didn’t meet your eyes again, You pulled him forward by his hand, wrapping your arms around the soft fur on his shoulders. You rested your head on the plush surface, as he wrapped his arms around you in response, both of you leaning into the familiar embrace.

“I will come to see you often, this I promise. My heart will always be with you, in the North.”

—

Your hand was sweating as you laid it on the ornate handle of the large door of Lord Tywin’s office. It was silent inside and you prayed to the Old Gods he was out, having forgotten your appointment entirely. But he had requested it of you specifically via a handwritten parchment, so you knew that you would not be so lucky.

With a large breath in, you pushed the handle down. The door seemed to scream at you as it swung open; stay out, don’t come in here, run for your life from this wretched place all together.

As you suspected, Tywin was inside, head hung low over a parchment he was rapidly writing on, spread over his desk. He didn’t look up as you entered, though he must have heard you.

You slowly closed the door behind you, fighting the urge to flinch as it slammed back into place.

“Come here, girl.” Still, Tywin didn’t look up as he called out to you. Your hand clenched at your side at the name, but you quickly forced it to relax, taking short steps towards his desk. When you reached it, you stood in front of it awkwardly, waiting.

With a large flourish of the quill, he finally set down the writing implement, casting his eyes up towards you. He leaned back in his chair, assessing you. For what, you weren’t sure.

“Lady Stark,” he mused. “With the untimely death of all three of your brothers…you are now the true heir to Winterfell and the North.”

You swallowed thickly, pushing the unbidden images of Bran and Rickon from your mind, their young, innocent faces threatening to fester there. “My lord, I was of the understanding that the Boltons had been granted control of Winterfell and the North.” In exchange for the betrayal and murder of my twin brother, his unborn child, and my mother. You let the ending hang in the air between you.

Tywin tapped the side of his face, his eyes calculating. “Yes, it is true as Hand of the King, I have named Roose Bolton as Warden of the North. But we both know who the people of the North will rally to, if they are called. And that will always be a Stark, as long as one lives.”

You clasped your hands in front you, pushing them into the fabric of your dress, trying to dampen the sweat that collected on them. “My lord … I apologize, but I’m afraid I do not understand.”

He rose now, smoothing down the front of his tunic. Stepping around the desk, he approached you. Slowly, he took your chin in his hand, turning your head to varying angles.

“You are a virgin, yes?”

A chill ran its way up your spine. You nodded.

“Good.” He released your face, turning his back to you as he faced the windows overlooking the city, hands clasped behind his back. “Were you my daughter, I would’ve had you married long ago, but I suppose Ned Stark’s inadequacies are my opportunities. You will be wed to my eldest son, Jaime, once I convince him to quit this Kingsguard business. You will bear him sons, and they will be the heirs to both Winterfell and Casterly Rock.”

Your hands shook in front of you and you clasped them tighter together. When you didn’t say anything in response, Tywin turned his head to look back at you.

“You would do well to interact with him during these upcoming festivities for the King’s wedding. Now go.”

As if you’d be sprung free from a trap, you hurried to the door, eager to be free of this room, which felt like it had hardly enough air in it to breathe. You grasped the handle again when Tywin spoke one last time.

“And girl—” You froze, gripping the handle, breath caught in your throat, and the sudden anxiety gripped you that he would tell you to stay away from Oberyn Martell. But all he said was, “—shut the door behind you.”

—

You didn’t think you could stay away from Oberyn, even if Tywin had asked. It had quickly become a routine, him waiting across the path from the building which held your chambers. You clung ferociously onto the small shred of something predictable in the sea of chaos that this city had washed upon you.

As you tied your bodice behind you hastily, you craned your neck to look over at Sansa, where she was still nestled in the blankets behind you. Her side rose and fell softly in the rhythm of sleep. Padding over, you knelt down, pressing a light kiss against the crown of her head. She rustled momentarily among the sheets, but didn’t wake.

Oberyn was standing in the usual area, arm extended overhead to pry some fruit off a nearby tree. With a small grunt, he freed one that was round and reddish in colour — you were still so unfamiliar with the fruits that grew this far south.

Flashing you his enticing smile, he extended it out to you. You took it with gratitude, allowing him to loop your opposite arm through his. He was warm, the warmth of his skin radiating out as if he’d trapped the air of Dorne within his very body and brought it with him to King’s Landing.

He paraded you superficially through the garden paths lined with Lannister and Baratheon guards, their eyes smoothly looking over the pair of you, some giving small nods in greeting, used to the timely walks you took.

You took a turn down a hedge lined path, the green walls rising high above your heads, and the guard stationed near the next turn leaning back, his view obscured. Oberyn placed his hand gently at your back, pulling the branches back around the gap in the hedge you had found some days prior. You both slipped underneath.

The other side contained an obviously neglected portion of the gardens, some weeds overgrown and flowing out of their beds. Wildflowers had begun to bloom as well, their colours mismatched and vibrant, contrasting to those in the rest of the gardens that were tended to regularly. You much preferred these ones.

You sat on the nearby bench, tucking your skirts in around your legs, allowing the weight of the pretense of happiness to slip off, your shoulders relaxing. Oberyn sat beside you, his knee touching yours, heat radiating from the spot. You turned the still uneaten fruit over in your hands.

“You look far away today, little wolf,” he murmured. “Is it the King’s wedding?” He lightly brushed a lock of hair over your shoulder, fingers remaining to play with it.

“No,” you sighed. “Well, yes and no, I—” You paused, meeting his dark eyes. He stared back into you, waiting patiently. You wanted to lose yourself in his eyes, to dive in so deeply you could not see anything beyond them. “I spoke with Tywin Lannister.”

Something flashed in those eyes, briefly, but unmistakably. Still, he didn’t push you for any detail. He brought his hand down from your hair, settling it on your shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth. It sat on the edge of your gown, and occasionally his skin came into contact with the skin near your neck. You suppressed a shudder at the feeling.

You finally broke eye contact with Oberyn, unable to look at him for the next words. “He intends for me to wed Jaime Lannister. As soon as he can convince him to leave the Kingsguard. Perhaps he will even overturn their oaths, so that Jaime can marry regardless …” You trailed off, shaking your head.

“What would you want? If you had the choice?” His eyes were warm when you looked back up, his brow furrowed. His free hand clenched where it sat in his lap.

“I don’t know, honestly, I … I thought I would be able to make these choices with my Father, but now—” You bit down on your lip harshly as a sob threatened to work its way up and out of your throat. Oberyn’s hands quickly came to cup your face, holding it steadily as you took deep breaths. “The Lannisters … have taken my home, my family. I don’t want to give them my future as well … there are so many things I don’t want Jaime Lannister to have.”

A few tears slipped down your cheeks, despite your best efforts. Oberyn gently swiped them away, bringing his forehead to rest against yours. You could feel his warm breath against your face, and it was pleasant, and smelled of the fruit filled Dornish wine he loved. His lips were tinted from it as well.

“Is there anything I can do, little wolf? I hate to see you this way,” he whispered to you, even though you were alone and shielded by so much greenery.

“Let me give you something,” your voice shook as you matched his whispered tone. “Before he can take it from me.” When your hands slid up to the back of his neck, you knew the implication was clear.

He swallowed thickly. “I do not want to take advantage of you when you are upset, little wolf.”

“Please.”

It was both a second and an eternity before he brought his lips to yours. Your heart pounded in your chest as his hands tightened on your face, guiding your head as your lips slid against one another.

After the first few presses, he stopped, though he didn’t pull back, your breath intermingling in the miniscule space between you. Your eyes were screwed shut, but you raked your hands up, into his hair. He gave a breathless laugh before crashing back into you, lips pressing insistently now, the taste of his sweet wine permeating into your mouth.

Firmly but gently, his lips pried yours open, hot breath pouring into your mouth, filling your lungs. You felt yourself begin to shake with the intimacy of it. It felt as if he were providing you a new sense of life itself, with every touch, every breath, every sound he made. You had no idea how long it had been.

He swiped his tongue, wet and hot, over your lower lip, before taking it between his teeth, pulling it with him as he finally retreated from you.

With a heavy sigh, he reached an arm around your waist, resting his cheek against yours, and you lamented that you couldn’t see his eyes. You couldn’t even imagine the storms within them now.

You breathed heavily against his cheek, winded as though you’d been practicing your riding. You pressed him tighter against you, turning to plant a kiss onto the edge of his beard. His free hand twisted up into your hair.

“Thank you.”

—

Your hands drifted through the copper strands of Sansa’s hair, twisting the locks delicately around each other, as your mother had taught you. You smiled as you recalled how Sansa used to sit for hours, just letting you practice braiding in her hair, happy to receive attention and affections.

By the Gods, she had changed.

You pushed the thought aside as your hands left her, and you leaned over to peck her cheek, which had been dusted with rouge. “You look beautiful.”

Sansa wouldn’t meet your eyes in the mirror, staring at her own hands curled in her lap. You laid your hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Sansa … this is a day to celebrate. Because you are not the one marrying him.” She looked up to meet your gaze, her eyes brimming with conflicted emotions.

“But they made me marry his uncle. A man decades my senior, an imp, I …” She shook her head. “He hasn’t hurt me, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. Joffrey had to have gotten his sense of cruelty from somewhere.”

Your hands tightened where they held her. “I will never let him touch you. Or anyone, Sansa. I mean that.”

She stood, shaking off your grip. She was taller than you now, all long lines and elegant neck and the deep, irreconcilable sadness of her eyes.

You wondered if she saw that in yours, too.

“And what if you’re not there?”

You wanted to tell her that you always would be, that no force of man or the Gods could take you from her. But the words caught in your throat. The words your mother and father had told you, as well. Words that had proven not to be true, in the end.

A knock on the door from Shae saved you from the moment. She escorted you out into the bright southern morning. Everyone you passed seemed to have an extra bounce in their step, an extra swing to their arms, extra wide smiles on their faces. Apparently it didn’t matter how awful the King was, if there was still a wedding to throw.

You had to admit the attitude was infectious. And a well needed relief, after the months you had spent waking in terror, your dreams filled with your sister being married to King Joffrey, irreversibly tied to him by the laws of Gods and men.

The King’s breakfast was being held in the gardens, in full bloom now and having been prepared for weeks for this event. A long table sat as the clear focal piece of the area; Tywin, Cersei, and Cersei’s young son Tommen sat there already. Cersei and her father were discussing something in a low voice, despite the loud levels of ambient noise.

A chill shot down your spine as Tywin’s sharp eyes fell upon you, and you looked away quickly.

“This way, my lady,” Shae urged Sansa towards the direction of the King’s table, and you gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as she left your side.

It was clear the breakfast would not be starting until the King arrived, so you wandered the elaborately decorated area.

Everything seemed to drip in gold, the sheer grandeur of it all overwhelming to your eyes. Tables were laden with every type of fruit and cheese you’d seen since arriving in King’s Landing, and some you hadn’t seen. You spotted one of the red, sweet fruits that Oberyn had picked for you the other day.

“Lady Stark.” Jaime Lannister approached where you stood, hands awkwardly clasping behind his back. You’d heard the rumours from the maids that he’d returned from captivity with one less hand. You hoped Robb had been the one to take it.

“My lord,” you greeted, giving a shallow curtsy. You weren’t exactly sure what the appropriate address was for a man who was not your betrothed but likely would be once he bent to his father’s will.

“Are you enjoying the … uh …” He swallowed. He gestured with one hand — a flesh one — to the surroundings. “... festivities?”

You nodded. “Yes, it’s all very beautiful. You must be very happy to be here to see the King marry.” You knew the words came out somewhat clipped, tense, but you could do little to smooth them.

“I— well yes, it’s been…” He trailed off, clearing his throat. His eyes shifted around the area, seeming like they didn’t want to settle on you where you stood. “I … I know this is no consolation, but I admired your mother. She was a strong woman. A strong mother.”

Swallowing thickly, you cast your eyes down to the table, hand clenching at your side, eyes burning suddenly with the weight of his words.

He started to flounder, obviously putting together that this was not the right thing to say, but before he could sputter himself into a frenzy, a warm hand slid over the small of your back.

“Lady Stark, I was in search of your company.” Oberyn was there, his hand a steady weight against you, reassuring. “If you will excuse me, Ser Jaime.” He flashed a dashing smile at Jaime, who nodded eagerly for relief.

“Thank you,” you sighed, as he led you away from the buffet table. He stopped you once you’d reached a round dining table, which you assumed he’d been seated at. Turning you slightly, he placed a hand to your cheek, looking at you intently. Heat rose to your face as you wondered who was watching.

“Was he bothering you?” he asked, his voice impossibly low.

You shook your head, eyes unable to tear away from his. “No, no, he was just … no.”

For a moment you both stood there, unable to move, until a serving aide passed close by, snapping the tension like a matchstick. Oberyn’s hand left you, pulling out a chair for you. He sat beside you, posture relaxed as he poured goblets of wine, the sweet aroma wafting from the cups. He placed one in front of you, noticing your brief hesitation.

“Do you drink wine?” He smirked, watching as you held it beneath your nose.

“I have tried it, but …” You eyed the contents. It was dark in colour, so rich you couldn’t see through the liquid to the bottom of the cup. “At feasts in Winterfell. I always thought it tasted vile.”

He laughed at that, his head thrown back, and you admired the column of his neck, the golden skin, the muscles you could see move beneath the skin, the smattering of stubble that came down from his beard. You wanted to run your lips up it.

“Try it,” he insisted, bringing his own goblet to his lips. “They do not know how to make wine in the North. A Dornish wine will change your life.”

You smiled at him over your cup, raising it to taste the drink. Sweetness bloomed on your tongue, filling your mouth with tastes of fruits you’d had and fruits you never could have imagined. Heat seemed to follow its trail down your throat.

“Do you like it?” He smiled at you. His hand casually reached up, trailing up and down your arm.

“Oberyn …” You eyed his hand wearily. You couldn’t bring yourself to push it away, but you knew it was too bold of him to touch you so knowingly in the open. At the King’s wedding breakfast, no less.

He was interrupted in whatever he was going to say by the arrival of the King, who settled at the head table, where Tyrion had joined Sansa. A line of lords, ladies, and nobles brought forth gifts of all kinds. Oberyn rested his arm on the back of your chair. A goblet from Mace Tyrell, graciously accepted. A book from Tyrion, which Joffrey scoffed at.

You could feel the tension roll off of Oberyn in waves as the Mountain approached the table. You placed a hand on his thigh underneath the table, where no one could see, squeezing there. He carried a sword, which he placed on the head table. Tywin stood.

“One of only two Valyrian steel swords in the capital, your Grace, freshly forged in your honour.”

Valyrian steel. Freshly forged.

The words were ringing in your head as Joffrey excitedly unsheathed the sword, swinging it wildly.

“Such a great sword should have a name. What should I call her?”

Calls came out from the crowd around you.

“Stormbringer!”

“Terminus!”

“Widow’s Wail!”

“Wolfsbane!”

Your breathing was heavy.

Joffrey smirked. “Widow’s Wail. I like that. Every time I use it, it’ll be cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again.”

You shut your eyes, hand unintentionally grasping tighter onto Oberyn’s leg. He gently pried your fingers off, and you turned to apologize, but he just flipped your hand over, intertwining your fingers, hidden under the table covering.

And as you looked at him, you thought you could see that same irreconcilable sadness in his eyes, too.

—

taglist: @asta-lily @pedrostories @rpcvliz @xsadderdazeforeverx @elinedjarin @qhbr2013 @punkerthanpascal

#mywriting #the red wolf #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader #oberyn martell #game of thrones #got #asoiaf

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missingjackklinehours · 3 years

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when tomorrow comes 🌳

good gods i know it's ship day but this is solely a gen michael & lucifer & raphael & gabriel fic :')

Inspired by Sam & Dean's S.W & D.W carvings on Baby. Who's to say the Archangels weren't first in that idea?

Rating: G (Gen Archangels fic)

Special thank you to my beta!

Playlist & Fic available on AO3. (it's also under the cut, if you prefer that!)

Heaven's lush hills always seemed greener and livelier when all four archangels lay against them. A rarity the occasion was, a trivial shard of diamond in the cascading abyss. It always seemed that Heaven needed an archangel here, there, everywhere at once; It made familial bonding far more complicated than things used to be.

However, a special day plucked from each year never failed to offer the archangels plenty of time together. A day of thanks, a day where Heaven displayed gratitude for their eldest brothers—Michaelmas, the Feast of the Archangels.

Morning sun rays highlighted soft violets and dusk plums of aster flowers, a humble gift for the very firsts of their species. By nightfall, bright angel-made clusters of heat-producing hydrogen and helium littered the black sky in the name of each archangel. Fledglings flocked to watch the fiery protostars burn in the cosmos.

While Lucifer happily revelled in the praise, Michael hid his jittery hands by tucking them behind his back and flashed a polite, yet photogenic smile to his newest siblings. Raphael, seemingly indifferent to the holiday, remained by Michael's side, occasionally shooting their brother a subtly reassuring look. Jovial, yet also graciously wanting to include others, Gabriel mingled in the crowds with the fledglings to watch the protostars, enthusiastically explaining to Heaven's children how the young stars would eventually grow to become massive beacons in the night.

By the time the thick, yet routine night fog had clouded the view of the protostars, the flocks of angels had dissipated. It was their cue to leave; The archangel hideout awaited. Or, as Lucifer liked to call it: the Badass Lair.

The refreshing air genially accommodated them, the chilled wind carried their wings as they flew. There was always a sense of thrill around the Autumn Equinox, nearing Michaelmas—perhaps it was the comforting thought of familiarity, a high from nostalgia of sorts. Whatever the seed, it didn't matter; Focusing on the blossom of a sibling’s love and appreciation was much easier.

Raphael's garden always seemed to flourish increasingly with every rare gathering the four indulged in. Even midair, as they descended upon the immense greenery below, Michael had already begun to muse about how the banyan trees had expanded since his last visit. Raphael quietly, yet blithely soaked in the adoration from their archangelic brothers.

The softness of the grass, however, always remained the same. Lucifer was the first to land, being the quickest flier of the bunch. He cracked an astonished grin as he surveyed his younger sibling's growing garden, slightly pivoting to catch the vibrance of Raphael's indigo feathers amongst the blackness of the sky.

"Not bad, Raph!" The Morningstar loudly called out, adding more quietly with a snicker, "For a kid."

The thunderous sound of strong, flapping wings echoed behind him, prompting Lucifer's playful smirk to widen.

"I'm literally only four hundred years younger than you," Raphael's familiar voice remarked, and Lucifer turned once again to meet his sibling's deadpan expression.

"And despite the age difference, Raphael has created far better things than you have, brother," Michael offhandedly commented as he silently landed farther away from the pair. Lucifer's face contorted into a pout, and Raphael fought to contain their own appreciative smile at the eldest angel's words.

"Woooow, Mi! I'm hurt!" Lucifer faked offense.

The heavy fog of nightfall seemed to become almost pellucid at the very presence of Heaven's firsts. Peeks of sheer luminosity from the protostars of Michaelmas seeped from the impervious midnight clouds. Even the banyan trees seemed to lean into the comforting presence of archangelic grace.

Lucifer squinted into the elegant cloak of the night sky. "You think Gabe's gonna break his neck when he crashlands?"

Raphael turned their attention to the sky in search of the youngest archangel in question. "He's been getting better at landing. He'll do fine."

Lucifer hummed in response, brightening slightly when he caught sight of Gabriel nearing the garden. "Mn, doubt it. Wanna bet? Loser has to listen to Michael's fifty page manifesto on why ducklings are Pop's best creation."

Raphael blinked, looking over to Michael in bemusement. "Your-... your what?"

Michael's eyes darted to Lucifer to glare daggers at him, who only sniggered in response. A gust of wind washed over the trio, and frantic fluttering of golden wings broke Michael's glower. Beside him, Gabriel was close to landing—or rather, close to failing at landing. It was really more similar to falling, with his limbs flailing all about and eyes squeezed tightly shut in preparation for impact.

Michael sighed hopelessly at the sight, extending one of his grandiose fuschia wings low to catch his younger brother. Upon the soft sensation of Michael's velutinous feathers, Gabriel's eyes reopened in surprise.

"Hey, no fair! You interfered!” Lucifer huffed at Michael, who merely rolled his eyes and helped Gabriel to his feet.

“I almost made it, I was so close!” Gabriel whined, furrowing his brows as Michael thumbed a smudge of leftover party sweets that was stuck to his cheek.

“Next time, bug. You’ll get it next time,” Raphael reassured, and Gabriel’s grace seemed to relax at his older sibling’s encouragement.

Lucifer yawned, and the twinkle of the protostars above them began to reflect the dew on the grass. “M’kay, new bet. Last one to the tree has to listen to Michael’s manifesto.”

Gabriel perked up curiously and cocked his head at Michael. “What manifesto?”

Michael shook his head and stubbornly huffed. “I was two hundred years old, Lucifer. The duckling phase of my life is over.”

“Oh? So you’re saying ducklings aren’t the greatest living creatures?” Lucifer pried, exaggeratedly leaning his ear towards Michael to hear his response. Raphael and Gabriel eyed the two bickering brothers and exchanged amused glances.

Michael shifted uncomfortably in place in an attempt to keep in his passionate ramblings; He ultimately failed. “I never said that. Ducklings are the epitome of absolute goodness and commendable purity in the universe. The best traits of all of creation can be found in their small yet mighty little bodies. Not only do they bring togeth--”

“Blegh, no more lectures! Lulu, your bet’s on!” Gabriel groaned, spreading his sets of still-developing golden wings.

"'Atta boy," Lucifer impossibly brightened, his grin quickly returning. "On three! One... "

With one singular number down, Lucifer watched in incredulity as Gabriel mischievously laughed, a flash of golden feathers passing them all by. After the initial shock wore off, Lucifer briefly hummed, nodding in approval.

"Touché, little brother, touché," The Morningstar muttered to himself, before theatrically shrieking into the night, "YOU'RE DEAD MEAT, GABE!"

Gabriel's boisterous bursts of both elated and happily frightened screams in the distance elicited an endeared smile from all three of the older angels. With a whistling streak of vermillion wings, Lucifer chased after his youngest archangelic brother.

Michael and Raphael observed them in comfortable silence, the illumination from the protostars just bright enough to see the vivid colors of their wings against the midnight sky. As the breeze audibly raked through the trees, Raphael slightly swiveled to curiously peer at Michael.

"I'd actually like to hear about these ducklings," Raphael calmly stated, gesturing with their head towards the specific tree that Gabriel and Lucifer were headed for.

The blinding look of pleased excitement on Michael's face was enough to bring a smile to Raphael's lips.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

In contrast to the vivacious growth of much of Raphael's garden, the Badass Lair retained all of its youthful glory.

The haphazardly-built abomination of a fort from sticks and logs stood distinctly adjacent to the veiny streams of the garden. Across from it dwelled a meager hill of lush grass and florid lilac petals of asters—A place where Michael taught all three fledglings to fly, a place where Lucifer created his first defective star, a place where Gabriel grew the lavender flowers as a gift to Raphael. It was their safe haven, a site of alleviation and bliss.

In the center of both dear venues settled a special banyan tree— their banyan tree.

Against the smooth, grooving bark of their tree, Michael’s ginger fingertips almost seemed to purr. The swaying aerial roots that veiled the intricate trunk wavered joyously over his head, and in a sense, their tree looked overjoyed to see Michael. Behind him, Raphael sincerely watched at the way their older brother’s fingers reverently traced the markings on their tree.

“You know… it’s not just gonna disappear, Mi,” Raphael’s voice was soft, a kind whisper carried by the midnight wind. Michael’s hand never halted against the tree bark, marginally turning his head to look at Raphael with a sad smile.

“That’s true,” Michael’s gaze fell back to the etchings on their tree. “It just seems like it was yesterday when… You three have grown too fast.”

Raphael sympathetically tilted their head, stepping forward to place a soothing hand on Michael’s shoulder. Up close, the carvings on their tree stood out boldly, a beloved memory held close to all of their hearts.

Under the then-small aerial roots of their banyan tree, each fledgling archangel had carved their names into the young bark. Something to hold onto, Michael had stated, a bittersweetness as Heaven had first begun to flourish; The eldest had an inkling that duty would steal time spent together—And he was right.

Raphael could still make out the places where Michael had once helpfully guided Raphael’s shaky hand, the spelling mistake in Lucifer’s name, the heart that Gabriel had drawn after his name, and Michael’s near-perfect handwriting, even in carving-form.

“Lusifer?” Gabriel, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere, squinted as he approached the base of their tree. Both Michael and Raphael struggled to repress a thoughtful smile as Gabriel sounded it out again.

“That’s how my name should’ve been spelled!” Lucifer called out from above, and his siblings gazed upwards to catch him resting against an exposed branch. “Lucifer with a c… ridiculous! Looks like luck-i-fer.”

Michael’s rapture remained as he lightly shook his head. “Brother, you are just stating this because you lack efficiency in spelling.”

Lucifer playfully stuck his tongue out at his older brother. Michael scoffed in good nature, and Gabriel giggled at the sight. Raphael’s attention wandered outwards to the perched hill, a peaceful silence enveloping the archangelic siblings.

The argent light from the protostars shone divinely upon the lucid green and lilac of the hill, an invitation of sorts. The sifting breeze was cool, a grateful lullaby to its archangelic inhabitants. The night was the epitome of perfection, though not because of nature—rather, because of the familial love that radiated energetically from each of their graces. A comforting peace, a cherished silence of nostalgia lingered between the four… until Gabriel’s reticent, yet hopeful voice proposed a profound request.

“I wanna stay with you all forever,” His voice was dreary, a sweet innocence embedded into his tone. It prompted all eyes to shift to him. “Let’s stay together no matter what, okay?”

A beat of tranquility followed, their banyan tree leaned in to listen. Michael was the first to react, tugging Gabriel into a tight hug, a sentiment that few were blessed upon. Gabriel’s toothy beam was evident in his quiet giggles as Michael held him close, before the eldest pulled back with a gentle smile of his own.

“Of course,” Michael assured, crystal emotion brimming in his eyes.

A rapid flash of vermillion flared from the top of the tree, and both Gabriel and Michael’s squeaks of surprise induced a jump from Raphael. Lucifer, who had quite literally deliberately plummeted from the tree, now held both of his brothers in a deathgrip hug, a wide grin across his face.

“You’re a real dumbass if you think you’ll ever be able to get rid of me,” Lucifer sniggered lovingly, and Gabriel leaned into his brother’s embrace. Michael lightly elbowed Lucifer for the profanity, yet his delighted simper lingered on his face.

Raphael shuffled closer, eyeing their brothers with absolute admiration. Their hand moved to lightly ruffle Gabriel’s hair, who turned his cheery beam to his sibling. Raphael’s brothers observed them with a giddy sense of euphoria, the aura resonating a promising hopefulness in anticipation for their response.

“Without a doubt.”

#SPNArchangelWeek #this one might be my favorite of my own despite my crippling self doubt about all of them :D #archangels spn #spn archangels #my fics

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whereyoursoulresides · 4 years

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Chapter Title: Realization

Chapter Summary: Still reeling from his experience with Saitou-sama at Starlight Tower, Izou seeks comfort and answers from Shirai and Kuroi.

Full chapter under the cut (if you prefer not to click the link)!

The air was clear, the sky a muted blue. The rhythm of waves rolled around him, breaking quietly upon the silent bank of the beach. The leaves on the trees behind quivered faintly as the wind passed, but otherwise made no rustle, no sound. They hugged the house that stood amongst them, trees and shrubbery bowing in kind as if to protect it from the outside world. On this beach, in front of this forlorn and grand, and lonely house, Izou sat with his knees to his chest, hugging them as the greenery, and the ocean was meant to calm his nerves.

Greenery. Oceans. And white roses.

He heard someone come up behind him, and by the gait of their steps, he knew it to be Kuroi.

“Mind if I sit here?” the familiar voice asked. “Or would you prefer more time?”

More time wasn’t going to help him now. Izou shrugged listlessly, and so Kuroi scuffed down on the rock next to him.

There remained a couple of feets’ space between them, and Izou found it vaguely interesting that the distance didn’t bother him. He supposed he didn’t really want to be close to anyone right now, really.

“Any new revelations?” Kuroi asked. Izou hadn’t told him much after appearing atthe house that night, but Kuroi had his suspicions. Kunihiro-sama wasn’t who I thought he was, was all Izou had cracked that night. Once Kuroi and Shirai had confirmed that Saitou-sama hadn’t physically hurt Izou, the following days had been set about trying to decipher what Izou had meant - ...for he hadn’t explained any further since, remaining hollowed-eyed and tightly-lipped as he aimlessly wandered the green gardens and rocky beach paths.

In answer to Kuroi’s question, Izou shook his head, still staring at the horizon of the waves. He had come to some revelations, but not about Kunihiro-sama.

“Did you used to dream about this place?” Izou murmured quietly. “The sounds of the waves, the canopy of the leaves… did they haunt you?”

Kuroi arched his brow at Izou, and tilted his head from side to side in thought. “Yes, I suppose so,” he finally concluded. “I think this was both my first and my last memory. My first upon waking, my last before my...accident.”

Pink skies, surrounded by flowers. Peonies, roses, blossoms. I know of what it is that you dream, with petals raining from above. It was I who held you.

An accident, Izou mused quietly, but then quickly banished the thought with some bitterness. The word accident sounded right, but it was laced with terrible feelings he daren’t open now.

“How did you know this place was real?” Izou finally asked, still staring into the open ocean. “When Shirai brought you back, how could you trust this was really the true place from your memories, and not something you just...anchored to a dream?”

Kuroi leaned back against the rock. “Interesting choice of words,” he mused in return. “If I’m honest… I didn’t.”

Izou raised his head, and turned it marginally to peer at Kuroi from the corner of his eye. Kuroi shrugged.

“The way I see it, everyone must walk the path of self-discovery, regardless if they are amnesiac or not.” Kuroi gestured to their surroundings. “For you and me, our memories are both a blessing and a curse. We are burdened with fragments of what we don’t know, but at the same time, we get to choose what we want to do with them. Although I wasn’t sure this place was real...” Kuroi shrugged. “I decided which parts of it was, for me.”

Izou took a moment to digest these words. In the past, Kuroi had said something similar, but Izou’s situation now was far more...complex.

“But by casting those memories aside, aren’t we just…” Izou looked up at the sky, trying to find the right words. “Like, abandoning our destiny? Who we were meant to be?”

Kuroi almost made a noise that sounded like a scoff, but thankfully it was mostly politely contained.

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said clearly. “Shirai would tell you otherwise, but I don’t believe we’re meant to follow a premade path that has an end for us.”

While Izou knew these words were supposed to be encouraging, somewhere inside him he felt a pit of disappointment. Immediately he chastised himself for these conflicting feelings. On one hand, the idea of fated as a star-crossed lover had once been tantalizing and wildly romantic. On the other hand, it was now a nightmare too.

“Then why do we even bother remembering?” Izou pushed back, a bit of bitterness seeping into his voice. “Why do we even try to rebuild who we were?”

“We don’t,” Kuroi answered. “To a certain extent, our most important decision is to choose if we want to pursue and remain as who we were, or to journey forth into completely new people.”

Izou glanced down at his knees.

“What if we don’t know enough about ourselves to do that?” he finally whispered. “What if we make the same mistakes without knowing, and fall into that premade path…?” Tears started prickling at his eyes. What if we were stupid enough to let everything happen again?

“Hey.”

The hand Kuroi placed on Izou’s shoulder was firm enough for him to pull his head up. A couple of tears fell down the valley of his knees as he looked over to Kuroi.

Kuroi’s normally intense brown eyes were completely open and sincere. There was such a firm assurance to the kindness in his expression, that it made Izou’s breath begin to even steadily.

“That’s why we take it one day at a time,” Kuroi reminded him quietly. “Look back on what we know, to make changes to what’s happening now. If our destiny was meant to be, why did we have to restart it again?” Kuroi smirked here. “Obviously, something went wrong the first time.”

Despite himself, Izou had to choke a laugh at that. Kuroi’s smirk changed to an encouraging smile.

“We can honour our pasts, but we don’t have to repeat them.” Another squeeze, and Izou’s smile brightened a bit, despite himself. “We choose who we want to be, Izou, and what happens to us. Every day.”

Izou recalled how much Kuroi himself had changed from the kindly “Shin” he was before. His hair cut shorter, his clothes mostly modest and white. Now his hair was long, past his shoulders, always in a half-ponytail. His skin was darker, from being out in the sun all the time. His self-assuredness as Shin now shone as confidence that was fearless. Izou wondered who he would look like in a year from now, and if he would even like it. Would he be more like his past self? Or more like someone completely different?

“Did you not like being Shin?” Izou asked softly, with a bit of a smile on his face. Knowing Kuroi now, of course he wouldn’t.

Kuroi looked a little surprised at the question. “He wasn’t all bad,” he admitted. “I don’t think there was any part of me before that was Shin, but...he’s a good reference for whoever I want to build for myself in the future.”

At this, Izou’s eyes softened, and his face crinkled in a bit of a smile.

“I think you’re still like Shin,” Izou murmured.

Kuroi’s surprise increased. “Really?”

Izou nodded. “You’re still kind, just like Shin.” He looked back over to the waters, remembering the first time they had met… “Shin” looking concerned, helping Izou up from his disorientation. Here, let me help, he had said. Ah...be careful. Take it easy.

“You’ve always wanted to help people,” Izou continued distantly. “You still do.”

Kuroi still looked surprised, but now his face had softened with some humility. “I like to think Shin was more patient though,” he joked. “I know I can come off a bit hard sometimes. And my temper certainly doesn’t help.”

Izou’s smile widened. “I didn’t mind,” he said fondly, thinking of all the times other orderlies or Shirai would tease or sigh at Kuroi’s insistent advice. “I really appreciated it.”

Although Izou didn’t catch it, Kuroi’s face softened as well then. While it had been a common expression for Shin, it was a rare one for Kuroi.

“Well...thank you for letting me,” Kuroi said sincerely. It had been truly nice, wonderfully refreshing, and strangely, deeply validating - to have had someone like Izou love and accept that part of him as what it was.

Izou smiled back at Kuroi, this time much more brightly. Wanting to encourage Izou’s upswing, Kuroi wrapped his arm around his shoulders, drawing him into a tight, supporting half-hug. The two folded in on each other naturally, bonded in this moment of solidarity.

“Who you are is your choice to be, Izou,” Kuroi said again, as the two of them looked onto the sun cracking between the clouds. “Your past does not dictate your fate. It’s only the foundation - you have the build the rest.”

Izou sighed deeply and let himself commit this moment to memory. Kuroi squeezed him, and roughly rubbed Izou up and down the arm.

“Can I always come back here for help?” Izou whispered. “If I ever get lost on my own?”

Kuroi’s grip turned even more encouraging. “Of course,” he said with utmost confidence. Izou glanced up and saw how committed he was to these words. “We’ve always got your back, Izou. Promise.”

---

After Kuroi had left, Izou was feeling much better. He still hadn’t quite figured out what to do about his future, but Kuroi certainly had a certain campaigning effect on people.

After some time, he felt another presence beside him. He looked up to see Shirai standing where Kuroi once was. In his plain white, loose garments, he seemed more like a spectred monk than a human being.

“I just wanted to check-in and see how you were doing,” Shirai said. “May I?”

Izou simply nodded, uncertain yet how he was to feel about Shirai. The white flowers, the sea, the greenery. No one had said anything one way or another, but Izou felt that he could intuit now what was the nature of their relationship.

Shirai settled down in the same spot as Kuroi. The two sat in the silence momentarily; one cross-legged with his hands folded neatly in his lap, while the other was crunched and huddled together, with his chin resting on his knees.

“Kuroi’s spoken to you, I assume?” Shirai murmured. Izou nodded, still looking at the horizon. “What did he say?”

“Fuck fate, essentially.”

Shirai’s moonlike face broke into a bit of an amused smirk at that. “That sounds like something he’d say,” Shirai agreed.

Izou couldn’t help but smile wryly as well before his own face softened.

“How do you feel about destiny, Shirai-san?” Izou asked distantly.

“I’m quite drawn to the concept, actually,” Shirai said plainly. “There is a certain...comfort in knowing that your life has already been pre-written for you. I find it makes certain tribulations easier to accept. In my experience, fighting it rarely leads to any difference.”

The answer was so practical and vaguely pessimistic and Izou was a little alarmed. He knew Shirai was quite a pacifist in personality, but this took the cake. Izou then thought of his own tribulations, and immediately his gut twisted. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to accept what his memories were intuiting.

“But,” Shirai sighed softly, tilting his head at the horizon. “Perhaps I might reconsider my philosophy... “ His head drifted over his shoulder to gaze at the house.

Izou followed Shirai’s gaze, before leaning his own head on the arms on his knees. His face flattened a little.

“Would you pursue him now?”

Shirai looked surprised, turning back to face Izou. If there was any comfort in what Izou had recently realized, it was that Shirai was as transparent and honest as he was pacifistic.

“I’m sorry?”

“Kuroi.” Izou tilted his head more, arching his neck like a swan inspecting curiously. “You love him.”

Shirai’s face flickered with understanding, then broke into a bit of a half-chuckle.

“I’m afraid you haven’t got that quite right,” he said softly, looking down. But instead of elaborating, Shirai just turned back to face the ocean again.

Izou was mildly surprised; he wasn’t usually one to get romantic inclinations wrong.

“But you do care for him,” Izou pressed, trying to unravel his hypothesis. “You want to love him.”

The sad, wry way Shirai smiled confirmed Izou’s suspicions. But instead, Shirai responded with these words.

“I just want to do right by him.”

It was clear this was as much Shirai was ever going to say on the matter, so Izou returned to gazing at the sea. Before he could sort that mess out, he had other, bigger problems on his plate.

“If you don’t mind me asking, have you thought of what you’ll do with Saitou-san?” Shirai asked.

Izou shook his head.

"I know I don’t know much about you two,” Shirai started slowly, “but he does seem to care for you a great deal.”

At the implication, Izou blanched. He hadn’t really wanted to think about Saitou-sama’s... care, if that had been what it was. So certain, so absolute. As if Izou had absolutely no say in it.

“He talked as if we were star-crossed lovers,” Izou whispered bitterly.

“He knew you from your past, then?”

Izou laughed darkly. “Sure. Or something. I don’t entirely know.” He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his arms.

“I want to believe him,” Izou bit out in a whisper. “But I’m also scared. None of this makes any sense. He doesn’t even know me!”

Shirai didn’t reach over to comfort him like Kuroi did. But his voice was gentler, filled with much more compassion and understanding that Izou thought was capable.

“Perhaps that might be a good place to start,” were his kind words. “To put yourself first. Whatever you decide with Saitou-san, you don’t have to decide now.”

Both Izou’s heart and stomach twisted at that. He was about to protest, but Shirai hadn’t finished speaking yet.

“After all,” Shirai continued, “if Saitou-san truly believes you two are star-crossed lovers...then what’s a little more time? And some space?”

#kunzite x zoisite #anyo writes #without words #arc 1 #kunzite x zoisite fanfiction #fanfic #kunzite #zoisite #third life #civilian life #classic bssm #pgsm #crossover #kunzoi

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miscellanyofmusings · 4 years

Text

Grimscribe Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Grimscribe. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, gore, nihilism, unreality, body horror, clowns, and insects.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: Tagging:

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The Last Feast of Harlequin

A place behind the clownish mask / an enthusiastic urgency / sunny fields and farms / steeply roofed houses / a weird distortion of perspective / an album of old snapshots / a pointed hat jauntily askew / a billboard displaying a group of grinning vegetables / a neutral, bureaucratic voice / blue-green ink / a brilliant and profound circus of learning / a quotation from Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm” / a feeling of frigid numbness / dull, earth-colored scenery / the snowfalls of late autumn / black, ragged clumps of abandoned nests / the thin light of a winter afternoon / poles raveled with evergreen / holly wreaths / green lights / green streamers / peacock green floodlights / an eerie emerald haze / chthonic divinities / miniature candy canes / colored lights that bloom out of flower-shaped sockets / a chilling brilliance of manner and expression / sea-green lights / the face of an adept clown / a heart bathed in green / another coldness within the cold / warmly wrapped bodies and green-scarved necks / worried and guilt ridden glances / a wormy mass / the black void of winter / the brightness of an artificial spring / a great green rainbow / green gleaming streets / the dark immensity of a winter night / an effect of stricken horror and despair / an inhuman likeness more proper to something under the earth than above it / a festival within a festival / depressingly pallid clowns / the particular kind of hatred of resulting from some powerful and irrational memory / optimistic greenery in a period of gray dormancy / a kind of obnoxious intelligence / freezing atop an icy throne / commitment to a meaningful mania / bodiless invisibility / seeing without being seen / a sea of zigging and zagging celebrants / the darkness of narrow country roads / innocent normalcy / icy wind / trembling with cold / lanterns that beam with dazzling and frosty light / cadaverous clowns / the apex of darkness / a long snowy robe / moody malignancy / pure unlived lives / all the many shapes of death and dissolution / a dirge for existence / a sea of thin, bloodless faces / icy beauty / a moment of frozen trance / the death known to those whom the gods have first made mad / the welcoming glow of green / slow and silent and entrancing / a velvety white abyss / the paradise of the unborn

The Spectacles in the Drawer

A double-handled dagger with a single blade of polished stone / tall cabinets / ceiling-high shelves / tantalizing arcana / glistening fog / a tedious clarity / a cyclone of strange patterns and colors / spasms of sardonic hilarity / a pale-blue blade / stiff, crackling pages / a seeker of recondite knowledge / undying hope / a gutful of shame and regret / a small and silvery knife / a razor-sharp letter opener / a pair of old-fashioned wire-rimmed spectacles / everything that fascinates / the wish to look away / an infinite and overwhelming scene / the dazzling diffusion of all known universes / landscapes without end / landscapes that are themselves alive / a life unknown to mortal eyes / form and motion / design and dimension / cilia wriggling / mammoth shapes lurching in outline / an obscure oceanic niche / a mere fragment of all that there is to see and to know / labyrinthine astronomies / constant transformations of both appearance and essence / a witness to the most cryptic phenomena that exist or could ever exist / the ultimate thing waiting to be born / still greater visions / a cataclysm which will be both the beginning and the end / unbearable anticipation / ecstasy and dread / the ultimate source of all manifestation / the absolute and the wholly unknown / a revolution of all matter and energy / the visions remaining active inside you, deep in your blood / to be dazzled in the worst way / the total substance of things / an occultist auction / a disreputable quarter of a foreign city / a student of the Gnostics / artificial eyes / a malicious aim to undermine / a child’s awkward embrace / rusty scales / cockeyed bookcases / broken toys / standing ashtrays / desolate bazaars / the charm of disenchantment / a tilting mirror / a climate of dull horror / sinister whispers that make no sense yet seem filled with meaning / sensations of infinite expansiveness and ineffable meaning / astronomical emotions / a mutilated carcass / something of terrible rawness / a torn and flayed thing / microscopic precision / twitching and quivering like a gory heart / hellish giggling / a haunting, lifelong memory / unfathomable depths of feeling / to suffer over and over / a way to kill a dream / the sheltering shadows of one’s home / sobering shadows / a cold and stagnant peace / esoteric ecstasy / vulgar pain / a broad expanse of empty field / a mosaic of mirrors / a shocking galaxy / redundant reflections / dark stars on a silvery firmament / to see with countless eyes / a body ripped raw / a gallery of glass and gore

Flowers of the Abyss

The first rank scent of autumn / a glass of water / a thirsty walker of the woods / a pale flower amongst the dark summer trees / a ghostly flower of autumn / grayish planks / a pallid lily / a pulpy toadstool / a roof of rippling shingles shaped like scales from some great fish / sea-green and sparkling / attic gables with paned windows / the tip of a tear / hundreds of raindrops / light rain / an icy autumn storm / a fragrance damp and decayed / walking ahead of the clouds / the echo of hollow words / a long crooked arm / malodorous gardens of misshapen growths / an oval mirror in an ornate frame / cobwebbed corners / tilting books / something shapeless and nameless / something dampish and submerged / something swampy and abysmal / the pure cold of an autumn storm / a dusty green bottle / a sparkling glass / a world of frozen light / cool and limpid water / the hardness of a jewel / a small music box / stars of sound / twilight shadows and silence / infinitesimal flakes of light / barren decor of dead days / yellowish haze / silvery tones / a tenebrous expanse / unknown exploits / the madness of things / a vagabond of the universe / a drifter among spaces / a mess of hacked pieces / dark horizon meeting dark horizon / a universe of darkness / a convulsing tangle of shapes / the radiant entrails of hell / rain-softened soil / parted waters rushing to remerge / corrupt waters / sticky and pumping veins / slimy tendrils / aberrations of the abyss / a night-gowned figure / a crowd carrying lights / lamps and lanterns bobbing in darkness / clusters of flames / buried like a forgotten dream

Nethescurial

Delicate, crinkly script / greenish-black discoloration / dark waters / moonlit skies / earth mounds / mountain peaks / northern leaf and southern flower / each star and the voids between them / blood and bone / watchful winds / murky waters below / contorted rock formations / pointed pines and spruces of gigantic stature / sea-facing cliffs / stagnant fog / an omnipresent evil / a sleeping sense of doom awakened into full vigour / evil, beloved and menacing evil / sunshine and flowers / darkness and dead leaves / some shaping force of demonic temperament / wartlike hills / tumorous trees / oil lamps scattered about / a sacral glow / a degree of mutual ease / the verdigris of centuries / decomposing jade / pandemonism / cold gray waters / a mere mask for the foulest evil / an absolute evil whose reality is mitigated only by our blindness to it / the universe as a dream / the feverish nightmare of a demonic demiurge / an abstract monster of metaphysics / an altar of coarse stone / skinny shadows / to be actually bound in blackness / white-faced shadows / luminous smoke / glowing, ectoplasmic haze / something thick and oily and strangely colored / an ancient anonymity / spirits beyond all hope or consolation except in the evil to which they would abandon themselves / a ceremony of the chosen / an ancient, darkened mould / petrified lichen / wrought iron tracery / great overgrown gardens of writhing coral / a chaos of little carvings / a world of demonic faces and forms / oneiric visions / inkish waters / an infinitely extensive body of evil / the gods of the ordinary world / dream-induced illusions / visionary intrusions / a banquet of fear / what is squirming beneath every surface / penetrating the usual armor of objects / dark and greenish / garbled whisperings / an island of grass and trees in the middle of the city / globes of light balanced on slim metal poles / a glowing orb / set in the great blackness above / trees swishing overhead / muddied green / walking some indefinite time along some indefinite route / strings of colored lights / a tall, illuminated booth / clownish creatures / expressionless faces and dead puppet eyes / slow, monotonous phrases mingling like the sequences of a fugue / the faces of the living and the dead / wind-blown trees / the greenish darkness of the night / mold-colored smoke / a squirming, creeping, smearing shape / a great deformed crab / the black oceans of infinity / the island of the moon / the cancerous totality of all creatures / oozing ichor / dying in a nightmare

The Dreaming in Nortown

A solitary perdition / a mind to remember the stages of their downfall / a mirror to multiply their abject glory / a memoir of dreams / peculiar powers of sympathy / a decaying and spacious apartment / an ill-mapped world of dreams / a slightly infernal aroma / an acrid combination of tobacco and autumn nights / a small red glow / a long threadbare overcoat / many pungent Octobers / the remote heights or depths of an artificial paradise / the stumbling words of a returning explorer / a stuporous and awed voice / midnight assemblies / in the grip of strange mystical ecstasies / long red hair / esoteric development / a general tenor of chaos / a quality which may or may not make for good company but which always offers promise of the extraordinary / a contrived noisiness / a strange catalogue of sounds / low moans emanating from the most shadowy chasms of dream / sudden intakes of breath / the suction of a startled gasp / abrupt snarls and snorts of a bestial timbre / expressions of unknown turmoil / the calm darkness of the night / staccato groans / the entire audible spectrum of nightmare-inspired terror / mingling overtones of awe and ecstasy / a willing submission to some unknown ordeal / the deeper registers of somnolence / the smell of a freshly lit cigar / the dun colors of dawn / a flood of eidetic horrors / fleeting scenes of nightmare / a reverberating slam / a note scrawled upon a slip of paper / a disproportionate anxiety / the imagined threat of a reprimand / the frayed end of a disciplinary whip / colors twisting in blackness / a tentacled abyss / bone-colored stars / a dream-distorted voice / a spiral notebook with a cover of mock marble / mystical masochism / feats of occult daredevilry / glimpsing the inferno with eyes of ice / a doomed determinism / the striving for horrific dominion over horror itself / wobbling glitter / a field of venomous colors / the glistening inner skin of deadliest nightshade / the entrancing fragrance of fear / the city’s lurid glamor / cryptic badges whose significance is known only to the initiated / comic colors from an electric spectrum / a chilly autumn evening / engraved brass / dingy neon / a black autumn sky / scattering sparks across the sidewalk / flea-market antiquities / calling feline-voiced / colorful chaos / neon signs streaming across the night / clothed in flashing colors / a many-hued phantasmagoria / a flickering and disorderly rainbow of dreams / a multitude of indecisive thoughts and impulses / a brick and neon landscape / a frigid and fragrant October night / darkness and a voice / a coarse scream / a pulsing opalescent aura / a delirious blend of images derived from nightmare/ an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon / a field of fear / a painfully lush iridescence / a burnt-out patch of earth / newspapers mutilated by time / two fresh cigars / a thin book-like box / a scene from some Boschian hell / a hideous series of transfigurations / the screaming mass of a damned soul / an abyss of nightmares / explorations in a hell of one’s own choosing

The Mystics of Muelenburg

Trees made of poster board / houses built of colored foam / mud and dust and ashes / a nightmare of nonsense / fantasy, that misty domain of pure meaning / dim and empty storage space / an ancient armchair / reposing far beneath crumbling rafters / surveying remote worlds / a burst of fireworks / buzzing like flies in the blackness / glow worms flitting in the blinding sun / to keep the sun in the sky / to keep the dead in the earth / a universal vice / a parasite of chaos / a maggot of vice / the prospect of absolute terror / men in the mouths of demons / withholding heaven’s light / the pointed shadows of peaked roofs and jutting gables / faded artifacts of a dead town / high castle turrets / grayness undisturbed / ashen twilight / the yellow light of lamps / sumptuous chambers / humble rooms / the lost luxury of shadows / an infinite vault of glowing dust / a deception by demons / old deities formerly driven from the earth / shadows streaming horribly / the twitching light of a thousand candles / prismatic jewels / a greyish whirlpool / indefinite twilight / the blackness which is the domain of death / necromantic learning / drunken dialogues / unparalleled credulity / fluidity, always fluidity / an ornamented void / the stars and moon / the legions of the dead

In the Shadow of Another World

Walking down streets at twilight / watered lawns / the edges of leaves / pale specters within a fog / the infinite sky itself / gently stirring trees / old silent houses / strange cities disguised as clouds / the depths of a vast, echoing abyss / a blurry little window with a crack in it / a tree-lined street / a pale sky at dusk / peaks and porches / worn wooden steps / dreams and vapor posing as solid matter / a fabulous overlap of properties / petrified flesh / gigantic bones from great beasts of old / chimneys and shingles / a shadow on the horizon / a thing of nightmarish beauty / impossible hopes / a kind of ceremonious desolation / translucent festivals / the faraway sounds of mad carnivals / an instinct for mystification / dubious spectacles / trumped-up histrionics / immaculate to the point of being suspect / a plush and well-tended mausoleum / where the dead are truly at rest / oppressive awareness of other times / secret conspiracies with departed spirits / the unnatural mood of twilight / sinister echoes / dark, polished floors / lofty, uncobwebbed ceilings / a malign presence in the cellar / an insane shadow in the attic / thaumaturgic curios / a hermetic chant of the heavens / no hint of hauntedness / an innocent ambiance / a spiritual wasteland / spiritually antiseptic surroundings / a twisting and tenuous stairway / shattered panes of glass / misshapen glyphs / the shadowy nuances of clouds / a twisted kaleidoscope of colors / the aura of stained-glass cathedral / some obscure desecration / prismatic lenses / that of the dead or the demonic / an eclipse of this world’s vision / a quivering translucence / iridescent sterility / the aftermath of a strange exorcism / neither hallowed nor unholy / a pristine laboratory / a science of nightmares / a small, lamplit library / night’s darkness / a voice that’s accustomed to speaking of miracles / mystical freakshows / a grave sincerity / dissonant overtones of fear / the shadows of another world / forms of specter or demon / the eyes of the flesh / a luminous hell / psychic survival / hopelessly dreaming / terror recollected in tranquility / mazy trauma / the sensations of the soul / a monstrous mystery / a theoretician of nightmares / crude and cryptic designs / a remote and shadowy stage / an adept of pasteboard visions / mucilage and gauze / pulling the strings of light and shadow / shadows gathering / a strange radiance / phosphorescent panes / superlunary light / some cosmic tapestry / a haunted world / the marriage of insanity and metaphysics / a spectral ontogeny / a pageant of nightmares / sunlit bazaars in exotic cities / transparent masks / insectoid countenances / moonlit streets in antique towns / a strange-eyed slithering / dim galleries of empty museums / a ghostly mold / the sullen hues of old paintings / sticky luxuriance / pulpy warmth / an uncanny flux of sounds / cadaverous generations / sculptures of human coral / bodies heaped and unwhole / limbs projecting without order / eyes scattered and searching the darkness / a monument to Terror / a maze of interconnecting doors / spectral monstrosities / the cover of masks / the concealment of stones / feverish properties and intentions / a framed phantasmagoria / grotesque transfigurations / a systemless cosmogony / the caprice of the immaterial / weirdly lucent rooms / chaotic fantasies / narrow, spiraling stairs / the gazing eye of some god / a pyrotechnic craze of colors / a vibrating echo of vocal utterance / swirling sights / a vacuum and a void / doubtful strategies / unknown and extravagant possibilities / occult theories / arcane analyses / the irreducible certainty of nightmare / great shadows in the stars / an infinite catastrophe / protective sigils / the full glare of starlight / stars and shadows / privileged arcana / the enchantments of hell / cold sunlight / the visionary time of twilight

The Cocoons

A gloved hand twitching / a rather unapologetic tone / egg-shaped pills / a half-glass of water / a soft grinding noise / a quietly urgent voice / blotched vapors / a growl of exasperation / unpeopled avenues / a mass of shadows / a landscape without pattern or substance / the moon shining / a doubtful glance / a devastated plain / an open field heaped with debris / bits of glass and scraps of metal / lunar spaciousness / a skeletal structure with all markings of identity scraped off its bones / a densely tangled nest of houses / the dull light of the moon / a yellowish swatch of illumination / high wooden fences / a ruined turret grazed by moonlight / a minor mania / a cobwebbed corner / a blank battered wall / warped floor moldings / a watery light / the quivering light of candles / an old-fashioned film projector / the whirring of a projector / a visual record of a scientific experiment / dark wiry appendages / a pair of slender snapping pincers / tiny translucent wings / glistening but useless / malicious eyes / a dubious look / candles flickering like fire-flies / a cold swamp of shadows / a collection of bones / dazed silence / a clockwork world / sunrise schedules / lunar routines / a pandemonium of forces / a phantasmagoria of possibilities / the shadow of a laugh / a curious hedonism that can’t be controlled / the vagaries of omnipotence / breeder of indulgence / languorous exhaustion / a psychic matter / unheard of habits / languorous exhaustion / a clown’s oversized grin / bliss on the brink of apotheosis / a universal process of transfiguration / restless skittering / a pitiful delight / giddy pride / demoniac undercurrents / the grotesque ultimatums of creation

The Night School

A high, full moon shining among the spreading clouds / shadows singing with the clouds / a slowly flowing mass of mottled shapes / a kind of unclean outpouring / the black sewers of space / the wall of night / smoke, dense and dirty, rising up to the sky / the spastic flames of a small fire / a slender gentleman / a dark suit / broken bones / the process of degeneration / the mulchy rot of autumn or early spring / yellowish light / dark scabby bricks / ruined factories / ravaged mausoleums / abandoned orphanages / a blossom of the cemetery or the cesspool / guttering candles / blurred remnants of past lessons / cloacal forces / time as a flow of sewage / drowning in the pools of night / a thousand molting autumns / the melting soil of spring / a pair of yellowish eyes / undiluted darkness / a darkness far greater than the night itself / consolidated darkness / the science of a spectral pathology / a philosophy of absolute disease / the metaphysics of things sinking into a common disintegration or rising together / dark rottenness / filthy smoke from some smoldering source of expansive corruption / the scent of corruption / the nostalgic perfume of autumn decay / the feculent muskiness of a spring thaw / smoky blackness / the offal of worlds in decline / the dark compost of those about to be born / the primeval impurity In which all things are founded / native putridity / pieces of paper with strange symbols on them / the very face of a plague—pustulant, scabbed, and stinking terribly / a black fog / many voices crying and calling from total blackness / tightly packed earth in a grave / the disease of the night / bright flames / the noise of a fire and the wind / a full moon / shining bright and blurry / a luminous mold / the great sewers of night

The Glamour

A fine aura of fantasy / both blurred and brightened / a starless evening / diamonds of plate glass / old buildings of dark brick / the display window of a toy store / a chaotic tableau of preposterous excitation / mechanized monkeys / fated antics / tiny cymbals / the destined pirouettes of a music-box ballerina / a newly sprung jack-in-the-box / strangely picturesque / dreamily illuminated / sculptured frosting / a winter landscape of swirling, drifting whiteness / snowy rosettes / layers of icy glitter / a glacial kingdom / a brilliant arctic scene / a vitality of enterprise / a glossy light / the placidly enigmatic expressions of a different time / faded lighting / an old photograph / the kind of acute anticipation that a child might experience at a carnival / a possessing impulse without object / wretchedly aglow / a long, narrow corridor with a single light set far into its depths / a strange shade of purple, like that of a freshly exposed heart / a purple lamp / arterial light / a deep pink / a richly blooded brain / a beating heart / wispy shrouds / sparse hairs sticking to the scalp of an old corpse / purple-tinted glass / the darkness of a theater / a swarm of filaments / an elaborate chandelier / a sickly, liverish shade / an operating room where a torso lies open on the table / a palette of pinks and reds and purples / diseased viscera imitating all of the shades of sunset / headstones in a graveyard / endless filthy alleys / long desolate corridors in an old asylum / the dripping passages of a sewer / a dust-blinded window / a dark unvisited cellar / a mirror gone rheumy with age / facets of murky crystal / cobwebs / long pale threads / hazy purple light / the slow curling of thin smoke / a great rectangular web / the ever-mutating images of clouds / a surge of dark elation / a sudden chill announcing bad weather / a vibrant presence / an expression of avid malignance / inner webbings / swirling fibers / wild shocks of twisting hair / a portrait of atrocity / lust for sites and ceremonies of mayhem / writhing cobwebs / reaching tendrils / graveyards and alleyways / a joyous hysteria / a pale purple / sinister and seamy regions / spectral ambiance / all pervasive purple coloration / the labyrinth of a living anatomy / palest pink / a purple light / putrid chambers and cloisters / an infernal land / fleshy, gelatinous integuments / translucent tissue / the theater of a mad surgery / hair-thin sutures / unseen hands designing unnatural shapes and systems / weaving a nest in which possession would take place / the weaver and web-maker / an old puppet-master / setting a helpless creature with new strings / through eyes unknown / purple shadows / a type of degraded rapture / a seizure of debauched panic / webs of hair / great evil / an appeal for deliverance / eyes that would see what should not be seen / stray threads pulled from a sleeve or pocket / a paralytic silence / eyes gazing fierce and malignant / a purple glow / two shafts of the purest purple light / an old woman with glowing eyes

Father Sevich’s Visit

A manner at first vaguely troublesome and afterward rather attractive / the arrival of a priest / the very echoes of the air / mellow afternoon sunlight / dark wooden floors / pale contortions of ancient wall paper / invisible games / abstract dread and a bizarre sort of indebtedness / a thick maze of propositions / a well-made bed / a relentless failure / cloistral tunnels / vaulted penetralia / a single column-clutching hand / the necessary features of fear / a maddening task / a series of completely irrelevant expressions / misty-eyed wonder / cretinous bafflement / smiling in an almost amiable way at one one’s impending doom / the trap of expectation / a sleepy whisper / the sound of soft conversation / the world of good manners and polite talk / a look of incompleteness / some unfinished effigy in a toy maker’s workshop / something vital to expression / the purple-robed mysteries of priesthood / animated eyes / withered things reeking of medicine and prayer / a painfully delicate subject / varnished wood / salvation through suffering / sacred horrors / the divine destiny toward which the paths of anguish have always led / volumes of blessed agony / an attitude of prayerful pleading / torturing demons / a single squatted devil / bristling lashes that sprout like weeds / an explosion of miniature grotesquerie / a brief and calculated absence / a modest fund of moral energy / a macabre icon / profane lessons / a countenance of true terror / a ridiculously empty slate / an off-stage atrocity / a cycle of mute, incredible lore / anthropomorphic mist / an eerie lividity / unconscious hours of darkness / a chronicle of truly unspeakable things / the light of every constellation in the visible universe / the oppressive mysteries of the autumn season / thick orange crayons / black cats / black paper / a hopeless urge for innovation / a tiny white collar / dripping with fever / hat and cloak and walking stick / narrow, nocturnal streets / a fairy-tale vision / serpentine lanes / the distorted glow of street lamps / the thinnest blade of moon / a narrow niche / an unpaved lane / a small courtyard surrounded by high walls / the stars above / jaundiced lamplight / a stairway of cut stone / the earth and absolute blackness / tiny lights glimmering like stars / clouds of shadows / some golden metal / a caricature of serenity / a hand as white as the whitest glove / chaotic rays / underworld starlight / a certain expression of rarefied scorn or disgust / indignant shadows / black, ankle-high shoes / the natural nightlight of the moon / an infernal aura or an angelic halo / a planet revolving its unspeakable tonnage in the blackness of space / a small bottle of holy water / secret denial and privilege / a smile of deep contentment

Miss Plarr

Misty, drizzling days / sharp, urgent rappings at the front door / a world of darkening mist / mist-covered locks / listening with intense expectancy / the world’s chaos of faces / a seething luxuriance / dark battlements of clouds / a mute and sullen twilight / a stone-gray sky / those days all shackled in gloom / a fugue of noise / the livid radiance of moonlight / the wild shape of some night-blossom / some strange and cruel kingdom / an intimate dungeon cell reserved for the most exclusive captivity / constant, noisy marauding / sedentary or stealthy rituals / an abyss of unspoken reproaches and suspicions / some ancient seagoing vessel / an old oil lamp / a series of quite fascinating lectures / a kind of brutality and an air of exile / deliriums of earth and sky / fog-bound islands in polar seas / shadowed realms littered with dead cities / peaks lacerated by unceasing winds / a bluish slime / the proper way to behave / the great mists of spring / murky sheets of ice / a world of shadows bound in place / the sound of something that stings the air / the hissing of rainy afternoons / immense blades sweeping over vast spaces / expansive wings cutting through cold winds / long whips lashing in darkness / intangible sympathies / a dark mesh of nightmares / a foul nest in which one’s own suspicions are swarming / links to a strictly mundane order / a briskness that seems to be an effort / a heavy spring dampness / lost to the world of wholesome practicalities / a hypnotic and fateful determination / a child’s weakness for prospects of misadventure / a fog-smothered landscape / a pale, floating web / an immense and awful kingdom / a patternless conglomerate of crystals / a misty graveyard / angular and many-faced monuments / the mountainous and murky thunderheads of a rainy season / the very essence of a storm / a matter of suspicion and conjecture / atrocious potential / fogs and mists and gray heaping skies / a conspicuous stridency / a dour mystique / a gray mist / skies of hissing rain

The Shadow At the Bottom of the World

Some feverish intent / sheaves of cornstalks standing brownish and brittle in a newly harvested field / a sky of empty light / fiery leafage / something dark, something abysmal / small shadowy voices / sweet wine turning to vinegar / a hysteric brilliance / displays of thorn apple, sumac, and towering sunflowers / crooked roadside fences / a moonlit field / a bright round moon / nocturnal solitude / patched-up overalls / worn flannel / the withered leaves of cornstalks / moonlight spread across a dead field / a great idol in shabby disguise / a sacred avatar out of season / fidgeting bemusement / a leaden vault of clouds / pure sunlight / misty dreams of the past night / a vine-twisted stone wall / dormant vines / a strange network of dead veins / calculated grayness / radiant leaves / legions of local cicadas / a dark fungus / of the blackest earth / a rich loam / a bog of shadows / an abyss in the outline of a man / the feel of wind and water / a few shifting flames / flames of only the slightest warmth / black flames / the molten texture of spoiled fruit / a shriveled scarecrow / an armory of axes, shovels, and other implements / an eccentricity of the harvest / a viscous mire / innumerable insects laughing / sprouting blackness / a perverse reluctance / the great shadow of a moonless night / the dark rustling depths of the season / the glass globes of streetlamps / the dense leaves of elms and oaks and maples / blazing auras / the frigid aurora of dawn / frost-powdered earth / shadows and corn shocks / countless insects chattering unseen / the feverish life of the earth / the wrinkled grimace of decay / corrupted by vile impulses / a mound of soft dirt / the darkish grooves of ancient bark / the mottled complexion of old flesh / a multitude of crooked smiles / a freakish mask painted with russet, rashy colors / a virulent intensity / an autumn night when fields lay ragged in moonlight / moist and fertile shadows / a hollow-eyed howling malignity / the cold emptiness of space / the pale gaze of the moon / the depths of an extraordinary harvest / insecure hints and delvings / the luxuriant shadow of trees / the mocking plumage of a strange season / an array of whims and suspicions / scraps of lush color / gold and crimson hieroglyphs / deathless leaves / an ill-formed village / a hideous impersonation of a face / leprous masks / knotty shadows / a subterranean craze of roots and tendrils / an underworld riot of branching convolutions / gnarled ornamentations / autumnal decay / knives and axes and curving scythes / countless colored leaves / pronouncements of dire or delightful curiosity / a dull trance / a wild luminousness / a diamond-bright fever burning within / perennial strangeness / tenacious foliage / softly glowing against a black sky / an untimely nocturnal rainbow / a harvest of hues / peach gold / pumpkin orange / honey yellow / winy amber / apple red / plum violet / the pyrotechnics of a new autumn / a thousand glittering dreams / a rigid scarecrow / a patchwork of shadows / a quivering glow / a premature craving / an expertly whetted blade / a betrayal or deception on the part of creation itself / something buried deep within appearances / something that wears a mask to hide itself / holding a spatula like a weapon / moldering shadows / a dreamless sleep / a sudden rage of mortification / the remains of a dismantled scarecrow / an ashen autumn morning / the feeling of blood / a bottomless grave

#rp meme #roleplaying meme #aesthetic meme #horror tw #blood tw #gore tw #clown tw #body horror tw #nihilism cw #roleplay meme #long post #meme

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turquoisedays · 4 years

Text

Grimscribe Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Tagged by: Me, myself and I, because I’m ALWAYS A SLUG FOR THOMAS LIGOTTI.

Tagging: @choujin @mothersins @flowerytruth (You decide which muse! >:3c) @givealls (For Kazuma mayhap?) annnnnnnd my other blog.

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The Last Feast of Harlequin

The Spectacles in the Drawer

Flowers of the Abyss

Nethescurial

The Dreaming in Nortown

A solitary perdition / a mind to remember the stages of their downfall / a mirror to multiply their abject glory / a memoir of dreams / peculiar powers of sympathy / a decaying and spacious apartment / an ill-mapped world of dreams / a slightly infernal aroma / an acrid combination of tobacco and autumn nights / a small red glow / a long threadbare overcoat / many pungent Octobers / the remote heights or depths of an artificial paradise / the stumbling words of a returning explorer / a stuporous and awed voice / midnight assemblies / in the grip of strange mystical ecstasies / long red hair / esoteric development / a general tenor of chaos / a quality which may or may not make for good company but which always offers promise of the extraordinary / a contrived noisiness / a strange catalogue of sounds / low moans emanating from the most shadowy chasms of dream / sudden intakes of breath / the suction of a startled gasp / abrupt snarls and snorts of a bestial timbre / expressions of unknown turmoil / the calm darkness of the night / staccato groans / the entire audible spectrum of nightmare-inspired terror / mingling overtones of awe and ecstasy / a willing submission to some unknown ordeal / the deeper registers of somnolence / the smell of a freshly lit cigar / the dun colors of dawn / a flood of eidetic horrors / fleeting scenes of nightmare / a reverberating slam / a note scrawled upon a slip of paper / a disproportionate anxiety / the imagined threat of a reprimand / the frayed end of a disciplinary whip / colors twisting in blackness / a tentacled abyss / bone-colored stars / a dream-distorted voice / a spiral notebook with a cover of mock marble / mystical masochism / feats of occult daredevilry / glimpsing the inferno with eyes of ice / a doomed determinism / the striving for horrific dominion over horror itself / wobbling glitter / a field of venomous colors / the glistening inner skin of deadliest nightshade / the entrancing fragrance of fear / the city’s lurid glamor / cryptic badges whose significance is known only to the initiated / comic colors from an electric spectrum / a chilly autumn evening / engraved brass / dingy neon / a black autumn sky / scattering sparks across the sidewalk / flea-market antiquities / calling feline-voiced / colorful chaos / neon signs streaming across the night / clothed in flashing colors / a many-hued phantasmagoria / a flickering and disorderly rainbow of dreams / a multitude of indecisive thoughts and impulses / a brick and neon landscape / a frigid and fragrant October night / darkness and a voice / a coarse scream / a pulsing opalescent aura / a delirious blend of images derived from nightmare / an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon / a field of fear / a painfully lush iridescence / a burnt-out patch of earth / newspapers mutilated by time / two fresh cigars / a thin book-like box / a scene from some Boschian hell / a hideous series of transfigurations / the screaming mass of a damned soul / an abyss of nightmares / explorations in a hell of one’s own choosing

The Mystics of Muelenburg

In the Shadow of Another World

The Cocoons

A gloved hand twitching / a rather unapologetic tone / egg-shaped pills / a half-glass of water / a soft grinding noise / a quietly urgent voice / blotched vapors / a growl of exasperation / unpeopled avenues / a mass of shadows / a landscape without pattern or substance / the moon shining / a doubtful glance / a devastated plain / an open field heaped with debris / bits of glass and scraps of metal / lunar spaciousness / a skeletal structure with all markings of identity scraped off its bones / a densely tangled nest of houses / the dull light of the moon / a yellowish swatch of illumination / high wooden fences / a ruined turret grazed by moonlight / a minor mania / a cobwebbed corner / a blank battered wall / warped floor moldings / a watery light / the quivering light of candles / an old-fashioned film projector / the whirring of a projector / a visual record of a scientific experiment / dark wiry appendages / a pair of slender snapping pincers / tiny translucent wings / glistening but useless / malicious eyes / a dubious look / candles flickering like fire-flies / a cold swamp of shadows / a collection of bones / dazed silence / a clockwork world / sunrise schedules / lunar routines / a pandemonium of forces / a phantasmagoria of possibilities / the shadow of a laugh / a curious hedonism that can’t be controlled / the vagaries of omnipotence / breeder of indulgence / languorous exhaustion / a psychic matter / unheard of habits / a clown’s oversized grin / bliss on the brink of apotheosis / a universal process of transfiguration / restless skittering / a pitiful delight / giddy pride / demoniac undercurrents / the grotesque ultimatums of creation

The Night School

The Glamour

Father Sevich’s Visit

Miss Plarr

The Shadow At the Bottom of the World

#meme response #this took a bit but >:0 i enjoyed it #gore tw just to be safe?#blood tw also to be safe #horror cw #nihilism tw #unreality tw #clowns tw ////

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zigsexual · 6 years

Text

Theoreticals; part 3 (maxwell x mc)

part one. part two.

asdkfjals guys i finally DID IT it only took me a damn year but this is it, the final piece of the hypotheticals verse! love u all for continuing to bother me about this until it was finally finished,, idk what else to say i dont wanna ramble but im proud for my babies that they made it this far, fuckin hooray

note: this is the final companion piece to hypotheticals and empiricals, and honestly if you haven’t read those then u probably should because this one has a lot of plot throwback and also tbh its like very divergent from the main storyline seeing as i started writing it in 2017

summary: the coronation is actually happening feat. private planes, maxwell as a baby????? an unfortunate run in with some potpourri, dancing, drake, and an uber driver

word count: 5800+

Well.

Riley takes a deep breath, attempting to calm the absolute whirlwind of thoughts in her head that are, at any moment, threatening to become a hurricane. She can’t take the waterworks again, not when she’s finally stopped crying. She turns slightly to catch herself in the mirror, rubbing at the last smears of mascara with her thumb. The girl who looks back reminds her far too much of the girl who used to stare out from the curve of a freshly washed spoon in a New York bar. A reflection of another time; a defeated time.

She rolls her shoulders back. Today is not the day for defeat. At least, not yet.

When she emerges back out into the hallway, she’s relieved to find it near deserted but for a few of the king’s guard. One of them spots her and turns to the others, whispering something. She raises her hand in a brief wave, quickening her pace back towards the ballroom. Now is not the time to be intercepted and interrogated about her whereabouts.

She rounds the corner too quickly, head turned back to be sure none of the guards are still watching her, and nearly collides with Liam, who is also taking his corners too fast.

“Lady Riley!” he says, catching her by the shoulders before she can fully crash into him. His eyes, surprised and earnest, wash over her in such a way that she can feel herself beginning to blush.

“Hey,” she replies, mouth quirked up in a sheepish half-smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He laughs, dropping his hands back to his sides. Riley can’t quite meet his gaze; the full measure of him is just so… well, there was a reason she had decided to come to Cordonia in the first place. Liam is still Liam, still resplendent with that aura of dignity he carries so easily, still with that face like her teenage daydreams.

And now, this. This utter mess she’s made with his heart. No, there are too many reasons to keep her eyes downcast, fingers toying with the satin of her gown.

Liam’s voice drops lower. “I’ve actually been meaning to speak to you, if you have a moment?”

“For you?” Riley shrugs. “Of course.”

“There’s a family garden out back,” he holds out his arm, and she takes it, hesitantly. “The guests aren’t allowed out there, so we won’t be interrupted.”

She smiles, but it comes off more pained than pleased. “Oh, I mean there’s no need to, ah… we can just talk here, if you want?”

“I think it’d be better to have some privacy,” Liam says, and the air of finality to his statement pulls Riley reluctantly along with him.

The ‘family garden,’ another one of Liam’s modest descriptors, turns out to be a sprawling thing almost double the size of the palace itself, adorned at every turn with manicured greenery and delicately arranged flowers. Even the cobblestone paths seem somewhat luxurious, which is a relief to Riley as it means Liam won’t fault her for looking everywhere but at him.

“I’m glad you came here,” he says. “It’s been a joy getting to know you, and seeing you defy the odds against you. You have a very particular kind of strength about you that I admire.”

“Thank you,” Riley says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sure you must have some idea of what I wish to speak with you about.” His brow furrows, and he looks off towards the lights of the palace. “I hope… I hope this doesn’t come as a surprise.”

Riley turns, finally, to look at him, her heart pounding in her chest, “Liam, I —”

“I can’t marry you.”

Riley’s mouth falls open. “Hold on, what?”

“Oh —” Liam looks taken aback. “Did I misjudge?”

“Misjudge?” Riley stops walking, dropping his arm so she can stand in front of him, staring. “Misjudge what?”

“You,” Liam says gently, his eyes sweeping across her face, “Your heart.”

“My…” Riley reaches up and presses her hand to her mouth. “Oh.”

Oh.

“I thought as much,” Liam sighs. “I know I’ve been quite open about my affection for you, and I worried you might feel… obligated? Perhaps that’s too strong a word, but it troubles me to think that you might not be living the life you want. With the person you want to live it with.”

Riley feels her heart in her throat. She presses her hand harder against her lips.

“I suppose I wanted the chance to tell you all this before the official announcement to the court. I wanted you to know that your presence here has never been anything but a gift, and I’ve never expected anything in return.”

She nods.

“All that to say… I’m not going to ask you to marry me tonight. Or any night, for that matter. I didn’t want you to spend the whole ball fretting over the possibility of it, when you could just be enjoying yourself.”

She nods again, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

The breezes rustles against them, the gentle scrape of leaves echoing in the wind.

Liam laughs softly, “It’s funny, Drake had always mentioned that you —”

“Oh my god,” Riley squeaks, voice sharp with panic, “No, Liam, oh my god. It’s not Drake. I’m not — we’re not — I would never—”

Liam laughs even more at her response, stunning her into silence. “Riley, I know. It’s my job to be aware of what happens in my court.”

“Oh.” Riley hates herself. “Uh, just wanted to… y’know, clarify that.”

“He does have a fondness for you, though,” Liam muses.

“He told you?”

“Well, not in so many words. I asked him once what he thought of you, and he said you were ‘almost passable,’ so I drew my own conclusions.”

“Wow,” Riley crosses her arms across her chest. “High praise from Drake.”

“The highest.”

“Can we… uh,” Riley nods towards a nearby stone bench, nestled amongst the rosebushes. “Can we sit down? Sorry, this is just…”

“A lot?”

“A lot.”

They both sit, Riley sweeping her skirts underneath her to allow Liam more space. There’s a fountain not far off, reflecting the lights from the party beyond, although the splashes of water are the only sounds of civilization she can hear.

“I’ve wanted to tell you,” Riley says nervously, “I kept trying to find the right time, but you know how that is. It doesn’t exist, not really.”

“You don’t have to apologize, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he reassures her, “I understand.”

“I know, but that almost makes it worse. You’re too good. I’m such a shitshow.”

He laughs. “On the contrary, you’re the only thing about this ball that isn’t.”

Riley hesitates. “Not to be weird or anything, but can I… can I ask who told you?”

“About you and Maxwell?”

Hearing Liam actually say his name sends a rush of something through her. It’s as if he’s made it real, now; as if something about him knowing has elevated the quiet nothingness of their relationship into a profound and essential Thing.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Liam looks pensive. “No one told me. I mean, not exactly. It’s just that I’ve known everyone here all my life, and when you’re around someone for that long you notice when things… change.” He glances at her with a smile. “You’ve been a catalyst for a lot of that, here.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I wasn’t entirely sure at first, it was just a hunch. But you know how Maxwell is: never stops talking, terrible at lying, loyal to a fault. He’s always been at the center of things. And then you came along, and…”

Liam turns to her, his expression thoughtful. “He was so guarded about you. So careful. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Maxwell be careful about anything in his life.”

“He’s careful about the important things,” Riley says softly.

“He used to spend hours talking you up to me, working on distractions so you and I could be alone together. He wanted you to succeed in all of this, that much was evident. And it was gradual, the way he stopped bringing you up, the shorter and shorter conversations, but of course I noticed. He wanted you to succeed… and then he wanted you.”

Liam sighs, the quietest moment of weakness slipping out. “I guess I didn’t realize as quickly that you wanted him too.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” Riley swings her legs under the bench, shivering slightly as a breeze brushes her bare shoulders. “Trust me, when I decided to come to a tiny foreign country to compete for a chance to be royalty, this is the last outcome I expected.”

Liam laughs. “It is rather ridiculous, I suppose.”

“Will you be alright, though?” Riley glances up at him, worried. “Madeleine told me there’s this law or something, that you have to get married to be on the throne?”

“Oh, that.” He waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t actually matter, I can change it after the coronation. It’s not as if we have any alternate governing body. This is an absolute monarchy; I can basically do whatever I want. Honestly, it’s a little strange we haven’t had some sort of democratic revolution yet.”

“Not on your first year agenda?”

“Not yet, no.” He smiles at her, and the sadness in his eyes has almost faded out. “Riley… I hope that you won’t find it awkward to be at court after this. I don’t have many friends, and although I know it may not have been my initial intention, I should hope to remain friends with you.”

“Oh, Liam,” Riley bumps her shoulder against his, “Of course. And I’m not just saying that because you’re about to be king of an absolute monarchy and can basically do whatever you want.”

He laughs again, standing up from the bench and brushing off his jacket before reaching out a hand to help her up. She’s only slightly unsteady on her heels until her feet catch purchase in the cobblestones, and she rests a hand on Liam’s arm to regain her balance.

His eyes meet hers, only inches away, and she feels that gentle tug in her chest again. In another life, maybe; in another timeline, she could be his queen.

But not this one.

They walk back to the palace in silence, Liam with his hands in his pockets, surveying the grounds. Now he is the one desperate not to meet her eyes, though she doesn’t blame him. Even though Liam tries to be the picture of strength, of nobility, he’s only human.

His lips brush across her cheek for the briefest moment when they part at the door. “You don’t have to stay,” he tells her, and she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

He’s swallowed up into the palace before she can think of anything real to say back. And she knows it’s not goodbye, not really – but it certainly is an ending.

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. The emotional turmoil of this night (of the last few days, really) has been weighing far too heavily on her soul. Liam’s blessing seems to have unlocked something in her, released the dam on her heart and flooded her body with feeling.

When she opens her eyes, she knows exactly what needs to be done.

The ballroom is still teeming with people, although many have begun edging towards the bar. A quick glance around the room doesn’t return any hits, and Riley frowns, wondering where to look next. As Liam mentioned, Maxwell is usually at the center of everything, and she can’t imagine what’s more central than this.

She catches Drake still pouting near the hors d’oeuvres, her skirts bunched in one hand as she tries her best to run towards him in those damn stiletto heels. He looks over at her when the frantic click of her shoes gets close, then crosses his arms and watches her approach, amused.

“You’re such a dick,” Riley says, bracing herself on the wall so she doesn’t trip. “It’s not easy to get around in these things, you know. You could’ve moved.”

“Why move when you’re already en route?”

“Dick.” She pauses to take in a deep breath, embarrassed at how winded her wobbly half-jog has made her. Maybe she needs to take Maxwell up on that offer to accompany his morning runs, although the thought of him seeing her like this is mortifying.

“Do you know where Maxwell went?” she asks, straightening up and rolling her shoulders back, hoping good posture will eliminate the residual humiliation. “He was in here last I saw him, but then I got, uh — otherwise detained.”

Drake sighs. “You’re a piece of work, Aldridge.”

“Oh, fuck you. I should’ve just asked Hana.” Riley looks out at the room, running a quick sweep before turning back to Drake. “Um, where’s Hana?”

“Seriously?”

“Look Drake, you’re not my ideal conversation partner right now either.”

He laughs sardonically, but there’s a hint of affection in his eyes. Drake can talk all the shit he wants, but she knows she’s his weak spot. Well, her and Liam. And whiskey.

“I haven’t been keeping tabs on Hana,” he says, “But Maxwell went looking for you a while ago, so he’s probably lost. Good luck with that.”

Riley makes a frustrated sound. “Do you have your phone? I should just call him.”

Drake reaches into his pocket and hands her something that may have possibly been a phone, once, but now resembles a sort of conceptual idea of a phone as designed by a seven-year-old fresh into the twenty-first century.

Riley stares at it. “Drake, what the fuck is this? What am I supposed to do with this? Oh my god, is that an antenna?”

“Yeah,” he frowns, seemingly unaware of her horror at this technological trashcan. “I don’t get great reception at the palace. It helps if you pull it out.”

Riley groans. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Okay, nevermind — how do you text someone on this thing? You’ve got Max’s number, right?”

“I don’t have texting.”

Riley blinks. “Sorry, repeat?”

He shrugs. “It’s a waste of money. I mean, why text someone when you can just talk to them?”

“What in god’s name —” Riley barely stifles an angry shriek. “Drake, you’re useless. Why the fuck didn’t I pick a dress with pockets? I’m going to go find him myself; take your stupid prehistoric waste of plastic.” She shoves the offending object back into his hands before turning her back and starting off towards the very door she had just entered.

Figures.

“Sometimes you can get service on the third-floor balcony?” Drake offers. Riley lets out a final disgusted sigh before quickening her pace. The sooner she is away from this dude, the better.

It’s a much overdue blessing that when she pushes open the ballroom door, she nearly runs into Maxwell. Just the sight of him is enough to make her stumble forward, her shoe catching the marble with an ill-placed step.

He grabs her shoulders to catch her, visibly flustered. “Riley?! Oh, thank god. Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere, I even asked Bastien, but no one knew where you were, no one had even seen you in ages, and I thought —”

Riley takes his face in her hands and kisses him quiet, her lips curling in a smile against his, giddy and breathless and warm. She doesn’t pull back until she absolutely has to — until laughter spills out of her lungs and she can’t keep the grin away any longer.

She beams up at his bewilderment. “Oh Max, you have no idea how good it is to see you.”

“I — uh,” he blinks, mouth turning up in a confused smile. “Thanks? Or, um, you too?”

“Let’s go,” she says, brushing her thumb along his cheekbone, “Let’s just leave.”

“What?”

“Right now, let’s just —” she tilts her head towards the end of the hallway, “We can just run away, before anyone says anything.”

“Riley,” his brings a hand off her shoulder to curl his fingers gently around her wrist, just as her fingers thread into his hair. “What are you talking about?”

But the question is already answered as she brings her lips back to his, stepping closer and wrapping her free arm around his neck. His hands find her waist and she falls into him, clutching at his shirt as she opens her mouth against his, and suddenly everything is a blur of soft and hard and need and want and more than anything, hope.

She leans into his touch, eyes closed, head swirling with every wasted moment that has led to this. It’s like a dream: the sense of detachment she feels as they pull each other closer, the heady drunkenness of her hands as she struggles to find a hold on his shoulder. They’re breathing too loud, touching too soft, loving too hard.

She lets out a shuddery sigh and feels him rest his forehead against hers.

“Riley...” he says, voice soft. She can feel his eyelashes brush against her cheek, and her fingers dig in against his back, trying in vain to grasp at the strings of their ephemeral moment and keep it from drifting away.

They look at each other, inches apart.

“I want to run away with you,” she tells him, “Right now. I want to run away with you and I want you to say yes.”

“Where would we go?”

“I don’t know — anywhere. McDonalds, for all I care. I just want to say fuck it to all this courtly shit and nobility and be with you. Like, properly with you.”

“Properly?”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip. “You’re my best friend, you know?”

Maxwell takes her hands in his, and he’s looking at her so intensely she feels the blush pool hot in her cheeks. “You’re mine too.”

She dips her head, hoping to hide the burning spreading through her face. “I’m always yours.”

He smiles.

“What,” bellows a new voice, echoing down the hallway with footsteps far too angry for a ball, “in the crown’s name —”

They both turn, hands still clasped between them, and Riley whispers, “Fuck.”

Bertrand looks equal parts flabbergasted and livid, his expression twitching between the two as if he can’t quite make up his mind which is more applicable. He is walking much too quickly, the furrow in his brow getting more defined by the second, and Riley grips Maxwell’s hand tighter while also fearing slightly for his life.

“Did I just — did you just —” he comes to a halt in front of them, out of breath for more reasons than one and seemingly unable to string together a coherent sentence. “Have either of you ever — did you even once consider —”

“Down to run away whenever you are,” Maxwell says under his breath.

“Have the both of you lost your damn minds?!” Bertrand throws his hands up, eyes wild. “All of the work, all of the time and moneythat we have spent, ensuring that this occasion would be one of restorative glory for our household — and the entire time the two of you have been sneaking around… fraternizing?”

“How long have you been standing there?” Riley asks tentatively. “Because technically we were friendzoning each other at the end.”

He gives her a look so withering that she takes a hasty step behind Maxwell.

“You should both be grateful that I am the one who ran in on this abhorrent exchange instead of someone who might have let it slip to the Prince, or else this—” he gestures sharply at the door of the ballroom, “would be over.”

“Oh, um,” Riley says, “Well, about that.”

“Bertrand,” Maxwell starts, “Look, you have to give us a second to —”

Riley raises her voice. “Liam knows.”

“What?” Bertrand hisses, at the same time Maxwell looks down at her in shock, “You told him?”

“I didn’t tell him,” she answers Maxwell, meeting his eyes and trying to pretend it’s just the two of them. “Or, well, I did tell him, eventually. But he already knew. He said he guessed.”

“He guessed?” Bertrand is losing his mind. “How long has this been going on for? Has the entire palace been in on this ridiculous affair?!”

“It doesn’t matter.” Riley takes a deep breath, turning back to face him. “Liam knows, and he’s not going to marry me, and I’m not going to be queen.”

“There’s still time,” Bertrand says desperately, “Maybe if you talk to him, if you just explain the situation, perhaps he would be willing to overlook the indiscretion?”

“Oh my god, this is not an ‘indiscretion,’” Maxwell says, a sharpness in his tone that Riley hasn’t heard before. “You have to stop treating Riley like some tool to get back in the court’s good graces. It’s nobody’s fault but yours that things ended up this way, and you can’t expect anyone but yourself to clean up the mess you made.”

Bertrand scoffs. “What are you insinuating, that our current state of affairs is my fault?”

“Yes.” Maxwell’s resolve doesn’t waver, but Riley can feel his fingers tighten in hers. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about, unless you conveniently forgot the last girl you tried to send packing?”

Riley glances between the two of them, confused. Clearly there are a lot more secrets in this family than anticipated. Who needs to keep up with the Kardashians when you have the Cordonian nobility?

“This… this is absurd,” Bertrand sputters, clearly taken aback by Maxwell’s unexpected turn on the offensive. “Both of you are coming with me, and we’re going to fix this. We’ll set things straight; we have to. Perhaps Prince Liam misunderstood, he’ll be gracious, he —”

“I said, it doesn’t matter!” Riley shouts, startling the both of them. “Maxwell and I are in love, and we’re running away together, okay?!”

Bertrand blinks.

“But not like, far,” Maxwell interjects quietly, “I mean, we’ll be back.”

Bertrand rubs his temples, visibly distressed. “I absolutely cannot condone this. Will you not stop?”

Riley loops her arm in Maxwell’s, pulling him closer. “No?”

“You could at least be definitive.” Bertrand sighs. “Perhaps I should have expected this from both of you, since you seem entirely incapable of doing what I ask. Why not go full speed in the completely opposite direction?”

“Good idea,” Maxwell says, squeezing Riley’s hand. She looks up at him, raising an eyebrow, and he raises one back, and then before she even has a chance to squeeze his hand back in confirmation, they take off towards the other end of the hall.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Bertrand yells from behind them.

Riley can’t help the rush of giggles that break free from her at his voice, the sound punctuated by the echoes of her and Maxwell’s footfalls in the vast hallway. “Running away together!” she calls out in response, not looking back.

She almost trips as she steadies her hurried steps on her toes (these ridiculous shoes much louder and higher than they need to be) before the two of them barrel into a side door and stumble out onto the garden.

Riley is breathless, hopping on one foot as she undoes the clasp on her heels, kicking the shoes off with a deft shake of each ankle, then running out towards the lawn to grab them. Maxwell follows her, laughing too, and she holds up the shoes in one hand like a prize.

“We did it,” she grins, “We even beat Bertrand. That’s final boss type stuff right there.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I didn’t mean to go off at him.”

Riley tilts her head, tracing a finger down his arm. “I don’t know, it was kinda hot.”

Maxwell laughs so hard at this that she smacks him with a shoe. “Shut up! It kinda was!”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind next time I fight with my brother. Real romantic stuff right there.”

“You’re the worst,” Riley wrinkles her nose at him, but can’t quite suppress her smile. “What’s his deal anyway? I can’t possibly piss him off that much, right?”

“He’s not good at emotions. Or like, relationships. He’s got — um, girl trouble.”

Riley barks out a laugh. “With who?”

“You’d be surprised.”

He slings an arm around her shoulders, and she wraps hers around his back, shoes still dangling from her other hand, and the two of them set off across the damp grass of the palace lawn. They don’t really have a destination, now that the running is over, but that’s okay.

“Oh! I’ve been meaning to tell you all night,” Riley says, feet sinking into the earth with each step. “I think Olivia is into Drake.”

“Olivia? Olivia Nevrakis?”

“Yes, oh my god, right? She said the weirdest thing to me in the bathroom.”

“How weird?”

“Like, ‘I want to fuck Drake’ weird.”

“No.”

“I’m serious!”

“That’s simultaneously the worst and best thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You’re welcome.”

Riley feels her feet hit the cool cobblestones of the main walkway, the lights of the city edging up over the hedges beyond. She pauses, her heartbeat loud in her chest, a sounding drum for the bridge in their lopsided melody. Maxwell halts along with her, his eyes falling on hers in a question.

“Let’s steal a car,” she says.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Well — I mean, first of all you’d have to find a car to steal, and then you’d have to know how to steal it, and then there’s the matter of the King’s Guard.” Maxwell is rubbing gentle circles against her shoulder blade with his thumb. Riley’s not even sure if he’s aware he’s doing it, but her heart swells. “So like, once you get past all of that stuff. Sure.”

“Doesn’t Liam have like a hundred cars or something? What’s the point of being royal if you don’t have a hundred cars?”

“What’s the point indeed.”

“And the second part — we can just google that.” She frowns. “Wait, shit. I don’t have my phone. Do you have yours?”

“Yeah, but service is notoriously terrible at the palace.”

“Again, what is the fucking point of being royal.”

“Pretty much nothing when you put it that way.”

She sighs, letting her head fall against his shoulder, shoes swinging from tired fingers. “What if we just call an Uber and go home?”

“What’s… Uber?”

Riley jerks her head back up, suddenly too exhausted for this. “No, do nottell me that Cordonia doesn’t have Uber. I will personally march back into that goddamn ballroom and scream in Liam’s face until he calls the fucking CEO himself and gets that shit set up, I’m not even kidding, I am dead serious—”

Maxwell is laughing, eyes alight with that all too familiar mischief, and she feels herself slump back against him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Of course we have Uber,” He’s got his phone out in his free hand, the glow of the screen illuminating his smile. “You’re too easy, you know that?”

“I’m not easy,” Riley grumbles against his shoulder. He kisses the top of her head.

“Whatever you say.”

Their driver looks thoroughly unimpressed upon arrival, despite the resplendent glamour of the palace behind them. As Maxwell opens the door for Riley, the driver gives her a look through the open window.

“No shoes, no shirt, no service.”

Riley holds up her heels, now dangling from a single finger. “Shoes.” She nods towards Maxwell, who’s trying not to laugh at her. “Shirt.”

“Well, I’m charging extra if you make a mess,” the man grumbles, turning back towards the road. Riley drops down into the backseat in a huff.

“You know he’s like, basically a Duke?” she says loudly, leaning forward and making eye contact in the rear-view mirror. Maxwell slides in on his side and pulls her back, and she scrunches up her face, but leans in against his shoulder anyway. “What? You are.”

“Bertrand’s the Duke, not me. It’s much less impressive with the qualifier.” The driver has fully tuned them out at this point, and Riley closes her eyes, reaching down to fold Maxwell’s hand in hers as he shuts his door.

“Okay, but what if some terrible accident befalls Bertrand?”

“Title goes to his heir.”

Riley laughs. “What heir?”

“Um — I mean like, hypothetically, if he had a child with a secret fling who consequently went into hiding somewhere like, I don’t know, France or whatever. Then, y’know — heir.”

“Sounds juicy,” Riley murmurs. “We can only dream of Bertrand leading such a dramatic lifestyle.”

“Mhmm.” Maxwell sighs. “More like a nightmare.”

The further they get from the palace, the more Riley feels the tension of the coronation night slipping away from her. It’s a welcome relief, a lightness in her shoulders and in her heart that she hasn’t felt in weeks. Maxwell is warm against her side, and she can feel her eyelids getting heavier as the streetlights become fewer and far-between.

“Max?” she says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

He turns to look at her, and she blinks up at him from her spot nestled into his side, hoping he understands exactly what she means.

She’s half asleep when they finally pull in at the Beaumont estate, her shoes still loosely clutched in one hand as she emerges, bleary-eyed, from the car. Maxwell is a few steps away, fiddling with the payment on his phone, and she watches him illuminated in the glow of the screen.

He looks up finally, catching her staring. “What?”

“Nothing, I just…” she sucks in a deep breath, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’m glad this is happening. You and me.”

“Yeah,” He offers her his arm and she takes it, the two of them heading up the walkway to the entrance. “’We’re in love and we’re running away together,’ right?”

“That was — look, it was thematically appropriate phrasing at the time, okay?”

He slips his hand into hers, fingers falling into place like they were always meant to. “You would be a terrible poker player Riley.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The door opens before they’ve even made it up the stairs, one of the staff members emerging from behind with a demure bow. Maxwell pauses in a brief moment of panic, watching as her eyes flick between their clasped hands and Riley’s disheveled appearance.

“Lord Beaumont, Lady Aldridge,” she says carefully, “We didn’t expect you back this early. Everyone’s been following the coronation proceedings on television.” Her tone is pointed as she raises one deliberate eyebrow. “Very interesting waiting to see which of his suitors the prince will choose.”

Riley feels the heat in her face, but Maxwell is moving again, pulling her after him, taking the stairs two at a time.

“That’s great, that’s wonderful,” He’s talking even faster than he’s walking, striding past the judgmental gaze with each word. “Then you’ll know the whole thing was terribly stuffy. Huge bore. Not our kind of scene at all, old nobles and all that. Figured we would just get the highlights later, leave the ceremony to Bertrand.”

The woman shuts the entrance doors behind them, the air of propriety still heavy around her even as Maxwell practically drags Riley down the hallway and out of her presence. “My apologies sir, the Duke informed us that you wouldn’t be back for several days, otherwise I would have prepared —”

“Don’t worry about it!” Maxwell chimes back, already halfway through another doorway as Riley hurries after him. “I’ll let you know if I need anything!”

Riley kicks the door shut behind them, sinking down into a nearby couch and dropping her shoes on the side table. “Jesus,” she says dryly, “Suddenly I’m thankful for my common upbringing.”

“It’s not the worst thing she’s caught me doing, that’s for sure,” Maxwell runs a hand through his hair. “But given the circumstances… I guess it ranks.”

“Ooo, storytime?”

Maxwell drops down next to her on the couch, wrapping an arm around the back so his fingertips brush her shoulder. “Only if you’re lucky.”

She kisses his cheek. “I’m always lucky. What room is this?”

“It’s a parlor room,” He answers. “No one should come in here — at least, none of the staff.” He glances over, sheepish. “Or Drake.”

Riley laughs, but it turns into a yawn midway through. “You and your staff… sir.”

“Lady.”

She grins, reaching up to brush the hair off his forehead, fingers lingering along the side of his face. “Is she going to tell on us?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He catches her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist. “This is some prime gossip; I imagine she’s already sent out a news bulletin.”

“I can see the headline,” Riley yawns again, leaning into his side. “’Desperate Love Affair Exposed: King’s Former Suitor Caught Barefoot with Almost-Duke.’”

He makes a face. “Don’t focus on the barefoot, that makes it sound foot fetish-y.”

“Hmm, okay… ‘Waitress Gets Biggest Tip of Her Life’?”

“God, Riley, seriously?”

Riley closes her eyes, her laughter just barely audible. “S’like a bad porno.”

“There’s your headline,” Maxwell says.

She blinks one eye open, blearily looking up at him. “I can’t believe the one time we’re actually alone… and all I wanna do is sleep with you.”

A pause, then she adds, “Like, the sleeping kind.”

He laughs, eyes bright. “I gathered.”

“But the other kind too,” She sighs, tucking her feet up. “Gonna jump you in the morning, okay?”

“Mmhm,” he replies, resting his head on hers as she nestles in against him, “And we can get brunch.”

“Waffles.”

“Belgian waffles.”

“And mimosas.”

“And pineapple.”

In a moment of clarity, she sits up, touching his shoulder until he looks back at her, their faces a breath apart.

“Hey,” she says, voice suddenly low, “I don’t wanna make this weird, or weirder than it already is, but I just need you to know —“

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “You don’t have to say it. We have time. We’ll have so much time to say it.”

She lets out a breath of nervous air. “Do you think… do you think we’re gonna be good? I mean, with everything going on and all this stuff… do you think there’s a happy ending for us?”

He kisses her forehead, pulls her closer in to his side. “Why would you want an ending?”

Her heart swells with something deep and gentle, a touch not unlike the drowsy tug of sleep already pulling her from reality. And maybe that’s what this is — a break, a piece of time pulled separate from the rest. A little moment all their own.

She closes her eyes, already halfway to a dream.

#trr fanfic #playchoices fanfic #mc x maxwell #maxwell x mc #the royal romance #trr #my fic #ok now that those are out of the way #big shoutout to all who have said nice things about the parts before this #i love u guys ur real ones #like truly it does mean so much to me #i dont wanna clog peoples dashes with reblogs but i try to respond to all my asks and/or replies bc they genuinely fill me with such love #idk if ill write more for these two in this world #maybe with a very large timeskip #but for now its time for my driam fic so god knows when that will get finished at this rate #long post

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ka-za-ri · 7 years

Text

Hegemone (Gladiolus x FemOC)

Genre: Slice of life Rating: SFW Pairing: Gladiolus x FemOC Wordcount: 2,232 Suggested Listening: Prayer -- M:a.ture Tagging: @itshaejinju @sweetchocobae @r-e-g-a-l-i-a @interitusrot @desperateauboise (WHY WON’T IT LET ME TAG U???) @cagedbycravings @roses-and-oceans @kanekeii (Omg u too???)

Notes: YEAH. More character studies. This is probably going to be a series for all of the chocobros and possibly Nyx... and maaaaybe Cor??? depending on how crazy my muse gets lol. Noctis will most probably be next if I keep this up. As usual, no beta in sight for experiemental stuff.

Hegemone (Ἡγεμόνη) was a Greek goddess of plants, specifically making them bloom and bear fruit. According to Pausanias, Hegemone was a name given by the Athenians to one of the Graces.

Gladiolus Amicitia knew full well the weight of duty and bloodline. His life was bound and tied to the ink which wrapped around his arms and held his back. He, of all people knew how heavy a burden responsibility truly was. He was reminded of this load he bore daily by the ferocious, glaring bird which graced his chest and spread throughout his body. Gladiolus, the name itself spoke of gentleness, a flower, almost unfitting for him. Gladio, there, that name was much stronger to him, it spoke of warriors and grand fights to the death. Gladio Amicitia was built from his lineage and shackled by a duty he did not ask for.

What weakness he did have he hid behind a cheeky grin and gruff laugh. A shield should not, could not, show cracks for a future king. Though, shield he may be, he was as human as they all were. A temper boiled within him that at times, couldn't be held back. As such, Gladiolus found himself camping often. The outdoors and vast open sky let him breath and listen to the sound of his own heartbeat. The call of animals in the distance let him believe that as bound by duty as he was, he was still just another cog in the great world. He was a large man, but still, he was infinitesimally small in the grand scheme of the world.

During his trips camping, Gladiolus discovered the precious beauty in succulents. He related to them in a way. There was a sense of responsibility they had about themselves that drew him in. The way that Fibonacci ruled, dictated, bound them by their duty to numbers to become the geometric beauties that they had reminded him of the structure and responsibility that he bore as a shield.

Often, people were at awe whenever they saw the overflowing pot filled with echeveria and peyote blooms that sat in his room. They reflected him well, simple and hardy, low maintenance and bound by laws beyond control. Many times, he found himself apologizing to them in the event he forgot to water them for an extended period. Always, they would forgive him, for they too, understood the weight of his duty.

His temperament would often get him into trouble. "Remain calm." They'd tell him. "You've got to work on your temper." They'd chide. "This will get you in trouble someday." They'd say as if he didn't know full well what sort of havoc his short fuse could bring about. He couldn't change this about himself, try as best as he could, he could never find the patience in him to see clearly before everything went red. "Staying calm" just wasn't in his dictionary, and as much as they tried to push this additional responsibility to him, he refused it with all his might as it just another way for them to take his sense of self away from him.

His escape from the burden of life became words. Immersed in books, he could forget who he was born to be and he could find a momentary sense of peace from it all. However, even sometimes, the books became too loud for him and in the end, he sought solace in being alone with nothing more than the sounds of the wild about him. The crackle of a cheerful fire under the grand void of stars was sometimes all he needed to feel the weight on his shoulders melt away.

A routine, lonesome camping trip was the first time he encountered a goddess. Within his brief exchange with her, he truly felt and understood what it meant when the distance of the stars was too close.

It was a good thing that the spring had been relatively mild and rain hadn't made the ground too soft and wet. It was best during these times for him to feel the dirt underneath his shoes as he hiked up the mountain, taking the well-worn path, he knew would lead him to his preferred campsite. His journey was always planned when he went camping, his goal always in mind and he rarely ever strayed from the paths he had long memorized. Gladiolus never brought music with him when he went out alone. The sound of scampering creatures and songbirds accompanied by the stream nearby was enough to keep his ears entertained.

So, when he heard someone whistling past the sound of rustling leaves, he was sure he was hallucinating.

Framed by budding spring foliage, shoes thrown to the side, she tiptoed barefoot amongst the dead leaves and branches on the ground, drawing shapes with her toes only she understood the meaning of. The hem of her dress was smeared with dirt, and she shamelessly dusted more onto as she felt was needed. Lost in her own head and ignoring the world around her, she danced to a tune she had long memorized from a forgotten lullaby that was centuries old. Intrigued, Gladiolus found himself leaning against a nearby tree to watch her as she gracefully moved to a tune unknown to anyone but to herself.

Her whistles sometimes melted into soft humming as she plucked leaves from the trees to weave into her hair. They became a halo greenery which dipped and ducked into wild strands of her hair while the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across her cheeks from her eyelashes. Her languid movements and leisurely movements smelled of bamboo blossoms drenched in summer rain and honey.

He lost track of how long he had been staring, until eventually she turned to greet him when she noticed she wasn't alone.

"Why hello there, stranger! Not often you get people camping this time of the year!"

"And why wouldn't it be the time of the year for camping?" He asked, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. She hardly looked like she was even prepared to do any camping herself with her thin dress and bare feet.

"Bears are waking up from their hibernation, y'know." She warned in hushed tones while she took a good look at him. She never kept still enough for him to catch more than a brief whiff of her scent which reminded him of fresh rain and sun brewed tea. "And a handsome guy like you probably doesn't want to get eaten by bears."

He let out a loud, hearty laugh at her statement. "I don't know if I should be the one who's afraid of bears, what about you? You don't look like you're equipped to handle them yourself."

"I have a house I visit every now and then little ways from here. So, I'll be perfectly safe." She shrugged pointing in the direction her home was before standing on tiptoe to reach just past his shoulder and grab at a leaf that caught her fancy. "My job takes me lots of places so I can't come back here as much as I like."

"Is that so? What do you do?"

"I'm an agrologist. I get to do all the fun dirty work!" She explained with a giggle.

How he wished he could bottle that sound that bubbled from her lips to listen to when the sky was dark and his burden was too heavy to hold. Again, he was back to watching her gentle movements as the sun set and the dappled light danced with her to a tune he could only wish he could follow.

"So, do you usually come out to camp when it's dangerous out?"

"I go camping when I feel like it." Gladiolus explained with a shrug. Realizing that this indeed was not a figment of his imagination, he took it upon himself to put his gear down and strike conversation with her.

"Ooh, tough guy." She teased, sitting herself down on a tree stump and lazily picked at the rotting bark at the edge of her makeshift seat. "Something about it makes you feel alive or something deep and meaningful like that?"

He didn't want to admit to her that she was right. That the more treacherous times of the year were what he looked forward to the most. There was a strange sort of recklessness that came over him during this time of year that he craved. It satiated his temper and let him feel a little less responsible for his own life.

"I'll take your silence as a yes then." She grins. "Well, don't mind me! You can go on your merry way and do that manly camping thing that you do!"

Before he could give her much more of an answer, she had already left his line of sight and fluttered to a different spot, enamored by something else. Part of him wished it that she would keep her attention on him. But, he was too enraptured by her motions, her aura and the old folk songs she hummed. He found that he didn't mind doing anything other than watching her go about her way while the shadows became longer and the setting sun lit the forest ablaze with reds and oranges between softy rustling leaves.

Perhaps it was the way she didn't have a care in the world that made his heart flutter. Or maybe it was the way she cradled the soil in her hands and whispered encouragement to it that made him realize that she truly was a goddess of the little things in life. He wasn't hallucinating and this was a moment too real for him to grasp in his own hands.

"Shouldn't you be heading over to your campsite soon? It's going to be nightfall before you make it, and daemons are scarier than bears."

"Ah... Yeah. It was nice meeting you?"

"Likewise!" She grinned, plucking a leaf she had saved in her hair and placing it precariously behind his ear. "For good luck, and a safe journey." She said with a wink before picking up her discarded shoes and flouncing off, following a path that only she knew. As brief as their meeting was, Gladiolus was sure that she was the kind of person who never followed any beaten trails to get to her destination.

He made it to his preferred campsite barely in time as night set in. As peaceful as he found his trips out to the wilderness, his meeting with her had left him yearning for something more in his life. He envied her, her freedom, her ethereal movements, all of it. She was created from stardust and long forgotten fairy tales filled with happy endings. Whereas he was built from blood and forged in steel and ink. The leaf she presented him itched at his skin, reminding him of everything he could not have. Try as he might to throw it into his campfire as extra kindling, he couldn't bring himself to destroy the only artifact he had of her existence.

Instead, he gently tucked it into the pages of his book, pressing and preserving her memory for as long as he could.

That night, he slept restlessly, his dreams haunted by the sounds of daemons in the distance and the soft whistling of a song older than the world.

Taking the worn path back down to civilization would have been the easiest and quickest route. However, the day after his meeting, Gladiolus let his feet wander off the dirt road and in the general direction she had pointed her place to be. I should at least get her name...

The soft spring soil dipped easily under his weight as he followed nothing but his internal compass and instinct. It's got to be somewhere this way. That's where she pointed... The further and further he delved into the forest, the more he began to doubt his sense of direction. It wasn't until the sun had long passed its midday point when he found an inkling of his destination. There, tucked neatly in the densest part of the forest was a tiny hovel of a home.

There's no way...

Approaching it, Gladiolus was certain that no one lived there, but his tracking senses told him otherwise. Disturbed earth and the traces of footsteps told him that someone truly had been there previously. The closer he got, the more he saw how overrun with greenery the house was. Even the windows had the snaking tendrils of vines covering it. He let out a long, loud laugh when he saw that the nameplate in front of the house which would have told him about the family who lived there had long been rusted out and made illegible from time.

"I'm going crazy... I really am."

If that was the case, then perhaps one day, when the stars were finally far enough apart and his books were filled with leaves the color of the setting sun, he'd be willing to take that journey to find her again. He’d look for her and try to remember what it's like to live life without responsibilities. Gladiolus Amicitia was born into duty and bound by ink and steel. However, he always brought the memory of the onetime his heart felt free in the form of leaves pressed into the pages of his favorite novel, sticky with the residue of crushed succulents.

#Gladiolus x femoc #gladiolus amicitia #FFXV imagines #FFXV scenarios #my writing #freeform as fuck

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theimaginesyouneveraskedfor · 7 years

Text

At Your Service ~One~

Imagine being an elvish gardener of Mirkwood, tending to the grounds, and Thranduil being impressed with how much care you give to each individual plant, even singing to them as you work.

Once again I’ve dug myself a hole and this one shot will likely be two or three parts. Anyhow, enjoy and please, if you can, tell me what you think. I want to get an idea before I post the next parts. Thank you for reading!

The life of a servant was often unexciting. Yet, as you were sent off in a cart among a party of six fellow maids, you had been told that you were on a lively adventure. Rather, you were merely transferring household from that of Rivendell to Mirkwood. Your fellow travellers tittered at the chance to work for the vaunted woodland Elvenking and yet you could find little difference or passion in the transition.

You resented that you were being sent to the distant kingdom as a ‘gift’. You were low upon the ladder of society, but you had treasured your position in Rivendell. Lord Elrond and his fellow noble elves treated you well enough, as if you were more than a set of hands to carry a tray or beat the dust out of a well-used rug. King Thranduil, however, was famed for his extravagance and snobbery. You had heard-say that a sneer down the long bridge of his nose often sent elves running; nobles and commoners alike.

In your head, you imagined a bitter elf with little more to enjoy than the squirming of others as he wielded his crown with cruelty. Never one to be toyed with, you resolved that you would not be among those he used for his own amusement. You could not guess at why you had been chosen for the Mirkwood assignment, but as a servant, you were used to being jostled around from one chore to another.

Arriving in Mirkwood, you watched the twisted branches which lined the façade of the palace as they loomed above. Tinted glass in varied shades of blue, green, and violet lent an ethereal glow to the grand woodland alcazar and nearly took your breath away. Refusing to let your awe get the best of you, you steeled yourself as the other elves chattered in high-pitched tones and sing-song. Before the day was done, you would be sweeping and dusting the very halls they marveled at.

Surpassing the front steps, marble lined with intricate veins of ivy, you and the other servants were led from your cart through the back entrance meant for your ilk. To your surprise, however, you were taken past the kitchens and into the greater halls of the palace. The corridors were airy bridge ways and branched hallways which smelled of forest and summer. You followed the rest through wrought golden and glass doors, your skirts sweeping across the pristine marble floors patterned intricate ivory inlays.

A throne sat at the end of the spacious chamber, sunlight glowing in faded indigo rays down upon the silver figure draped across it. King Thranduil’s branched crown sat elegantly atop his pale hair and his crystalline eyes slowly found the half-dozen servants walking silently towards him. The rest had fallen silent, their breath held in mutual nervousness, while your own came steady and unfazed. You were more impressed by the architecture than the monarch.

“You must be Lord Elrond’s gift,” He mused as he looked the six of you over indifferently; your dull grey gowns welcomed little interest with their high, stiff collars, and straight-boned corsets, “I’ve always need for more hands in my palace. You shall be welcome kindly by the help, I am certain, and I never let my dues go unpaid.”

You could hear a few of the girls trying to withhold their giggles and whispers beside you as the king stood and smiled at the lot of you. Your own face was placid and you resisted the urge to scowl and roll your eyes. Years of service had readied you to conceal you disdain. Unlike the rest, you remembered the custom of a bow and they followed suit with embarrassment. The sooner you were dismissed, the better. These servants should know better of such behaviour and you were loath to be pegged in with them.

“Evin,” He neared the liveried attendant who had shown you in, “I trust you know what is to be done.” Thranduil turned back to the six of you, “Please, make yourselves at home before you take up your assignment. I trust you will live happily here and be welcomed in kind.”

With an air of dismissal, he turned back up the steps of his throne and you shook your head at the others, nearly tripping over themselves as Evin motioned you back through the doors. You hated formalities, especially those paid towards the help, as they could hardly seem anything other than false. It was the king’s duty to welcome all who arrived in his kingdom but a messenger would have been less laughable than that curt affair.

The others seemed little affected by the king’s obvious nonchalance towards them; what was another servant among hundreds? You sighed as they whispered; oh, wasn’t he a handsome king? Lithe hands and trim figure. A king among kings. Much more attractive then Elrond. Did they not realize they would see as little of him as they did of their former master?

At the doors of the kitchen, two of the girls were ushered inside as an aproned elf instructed them in their new duties, though they had done similar work before. The next stop was the laundries, and resigned to the steam and humidity of those torturous corridors, you were relieved when two other servants were ordered to depart. You and one other remained, the thinnest of the bunch who had lost all giddiness.

“You,” Evin pointed to the slim blonde elf beside you, “You will be among the chambermaids,” He stopped at an intersect of corridors, gesturing to his left, “At the end of this corridor, you will find the head dame awaiting you with orders,” He bowed his head snootily and she hesitantly looked between you and the attendant before setting off down the hallway, “And you,” His eyes narrowed as they explored your appearance, “You look fit for a stablehand. They’re always in need of workers there.”

“Happily,” You accepted, sensing that this elf thought himself the noblest of commoners and unwant to show your annoyance, you veiled yourself in indfference, “I’ve always preferred the outdoors.”

“For now,” He allowed darkly, “Give it a week.” He turned, waving you forward with two fingers over his shoulder and you followed him with a tilt of his head. You had done worse work in more dire circumstances.

There were few occasions in which Thranduil was truly at peace. He had always enjoyed the grounds of Mirkwood, walking amongst the greenery and birch trees reminded him of his childhood. It had been long ago but the blossoms and leaves smelled just as they had then. He inhaled, closing his eyes as he paused behind a tall hedge, trimmed perfectly between rose gardens. Few others traversed the winding paths and maze-like shrubs, thus it was easy to forget the worries of his throne.

Among the chirping of bird, he heard another song, this one closer and sonourous; a voice carried lyrics as rich as its tones. Keeping his footfalls light and noiseless, Thranduil walked along the hedge, following the music until he edged around to the other side. A servant, dressed in the pale cornflower of Mirkwoodian servants, sang to the roses she pruned them caringly with small pair of clippers.

“The woods are burning, the ground lies bare. Do you feel it in the earth? Can you smell it in the air? The war is upon you, Death moves in the fading light. Are you part of this world? Will you join their fight?”

She sang and Thranduil recognized her, keeping his distance as he watched her without notice. Her hair was pulled back behind her head and the same eyes which had shown him so little regard focused on her toil with a passion. She was one of the servants who had arrived a fortnight before, the only who had not seemed dumbstruck by her new home. And king. He had noticed her disinterest and in a way, it had irked him.

Trimming away an errant stem, her fingers caressed the petal of a pale rose and she smiled, her song ending. She stood, dusting off her soiled hand on her dirt-smeared apron and turned, slipping the clippers into her pocket before stopping short. Her lips twitched but her surprise was well-handled and she gave a stiff and formal bow.

“Your majesty,” Her voice has lost all trace of its former spirit, “Is there some task you require of me?”

He looked her up and down, pondering her question, his mind tempted to bawdiness just to make her flinch, but he was sure even that would not vex her. It was a feature he treasured in his own person; a stoicism so fine-tuned that it seemed almost impenetrable. As king, it was necessary, but as a servant…he had never seen a commoner so indomitable. It stirred in him a peculiar twang, one which he could not place. One which intrigued him.

“Not at all, I was only admiring your song,” He replied after a drawn out pause and she merely nodded, looking around at the gardenscape, “You’re as skilled at singing as you are with those.”

Thranduil gestured to the clippers peeking out from her apron pocket and her fingers twiddled just slightly, enough for his encouragement.

“Thank you, your majesty,” She accepted blandly, “I fear I get carried away. The flowers…”

“They’re inspiring,” He finished with a smirk, “You are one of the Rivendell elves.”

“I am,” She answered without hesitation, “The gardens, they remind me of those in Rivendell.”

“I have visited Rivendell,” He glanced at the roses, “I daresay our flowers are enviable in comparison.”

“But you have no lilies,” She argued and the slant of her mouth, not quite a grin, set another spark within him, “If you would, your majesty,” She smoothed her skirts and issued another bow, “I still have work to be done.”

“As you will,” He allowed with a flutter of his fingers, “But, before you go, your name?”

“My name?” She wondered, for the first showing a trace of interest, “…Y/N.”

“Y/N,” He repeated, suppressing the smile his lips longed to form, “Lovely.”

He lowered his head politely and she gave him a brief look before disappearing beyond the hedge he had only just passed. He listened to her footsteps, intermingled with the metallic bite of the clippers as she stopped to touch up the hedges. At last, his lips curved in his delight and he tried to decipher the emotion. Such fervor was novel, dangerous even.

You finished another day, your shoulders sore from lifting bales of hay and reining in the horses run wild from the summer breeze. You wished every day could be pruning flowers and shrubs but it was not all bad. Listening to the whine of the others, the Rivendell six roomed together in the servants’ quarters, you could not help but be thankful.

Lottie and Rena complained of the humidity of the laundries and Mina and Kia were bored with kitchen duties, as Netti loathed being a chambermaid. The smell of grass, pollen, and even manure was delectable compared to their grievances. Even the meagre potato soup and bread offered for dinner could not dampen your spirits. That was to be the duty of another.

Evin, ever sneaky and snobbish in his demeanour, knocked at the door and Lottie answered, blanching at the elf on the other side. The six of you lined up quietly, as was expected during his spontaneous and rare visits. You counted the seconds until he would be gone but his words spoiled any respite that would be had with his absence.

“Y/N,” He looked along the line as if he did not know which name belonged to each of you, “You are to report tomorrow morning to the royal chambers.”

You glanced down the line from the corner of your eyes and resisted a grimace. You merely nodded and he took that as ascent, his grey eyes indifferent.

“Netti, you are to show Y/N the duties of a chamber maid,” The room was suddenly suffocating and its lack of space all the more apparent, “You,” He pointed to you as if disgusted by the mere gesture, “Are to serve the king from now on.”

You chewed the inside of your lip and looked to the other girls who peered at each other in confusion. You hid yours to the best of your ability but your change in duties was like a slap across the face. Evin left with a scoff and the others broke into their flighty chatter, asking you questions you would not answer even if you had been listening.

“I can’t believe you’re so lucky,” Lotty whined, sitting on the edge of the bed she shared with Rena as your hearing returned, “The king? You know, you’ll be getting special treatment. Besides, I’m sure it’s much preferable to the stables.”

“Yes, you do smell like a horse by the end of the day,” Rena added with a flutter of laughter, “Besides, a barn is no place for an elvish lady.”

“We’re servants not ladies,” You scowled at her; you spent more time in the gardens then you did the stables, “And it’s much better than any laundry. How is it down there?”

“You don’t have to be rude, Y/N,” Lottie chimed her defense of Rena, “We only meant…we’re awfully jealous is all.”

“Now that there’s a free spot in the stables, do you think they’d let me transfer?” Netti asked as she smoothed her skirts across her lap, “After I finish training you of course. I figure if they’d let you change at such short notice--”

“I didn’t ask to change,” You protested as you leaned against the cool wall, sideways across the thin mattress beside Netti, your bed mate, “I don’t want to. I’d rather any of you take it from me.”

“Truly?” Mina and Kia perked up from their bed, the former’s voice hopeful, “If you could put in a good word…”

“Oh, Mina, you are the last one among us deserving of that,” Rena shot back, a new argument beginning as the girls began to compete for the position you were to fill.

Perhaps you could put in a good word and one of the others could relieve you of the work. Netti was already a chambermaid and better qualified, but any would be more pleased than you at the prospect. You remained silent, ignoring their heated row, as you thought of a way to keep your stable duties, though dread underlined the hope brewing in your chest. The king did not seem the bartering type and you could face worse if you overstepped yourself.

Only tomorrow held the answer but first you would face a night of the unknown, tossing and turning as you awaited your fate.

*courtesy tag: @little-red-83

#at your service #miniseries #part 1 #Thranduil #the hobbit #imagine #fic

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[MF] Spirit Chapter 2

Spirit Chapter 2

Amber light filtered down through the grey clouds, rejuvenating the sombre winter sky, signalling the arrival of dawn. His body, now rightfully sore from spending most of the previous day on hard stone, Riku gingerly trudged his way out of the park through the winding path amidst the foliage, leading to Minato High Street.

Usually vibrant and full of activity during the daytime, the eerie stillness of the early morning seemed to intensify Riku’s senses, the scent of fresh dew coupled with the sound of songbirds singing their respective melodies against the backdrop of the steadily rising sun entranced him. Everything he usually took for granted was made even more noticeable.

The events of the previous night suddenly flashed in his mind. The arguments, the park, the howling wind and to top it all; that mysterious place he had found himself in. ‘’Was that real?’’ Riku asked himself, ‘’It had to be, the sand... the old man... it couldn’t have been a dream!’’ he exclaimed.

He had so many questions, but one took priority over the rest. ‘’Why do I feel like a different person?’’ he pondered. Now passing various traditional Japanese restaurants, souvenir shops and even the odd flower shop or two, Riku made the familiar left at the main intersection at the end of the street. He lived in a small city called Midori-Shi (Green City) aptly named for the abundant flora and fauna littered amongst the buildings. Riku continued a few blocks down Yamamoto Avenue until he arrived at a dilapidated apartment complex.

Nothing about this place stood out. Mossy grey walls telling of years of neglect coupled with an intricate network of cracked cement made Riku sigh each time he saw it. Through the front entrance, up the stairs 3 floors to the right, down the long corridor and into apartment 13.

‘’Back to the holding cell it is’’ he mused. As he was opening the door, a sharp pain emanated from his lungs, as if they were being constricted by an invisible force, the same as when he encountered the old man. ‘’The old man…!’’ Riku gasped, desperately trying to vacuum in as much oxygen as he could, clutching his chest tightly. Memories of that mysterious figure clad in grey robes came flooding back to him. The images were vivid, almost as if part of him was still there.

Finally managing to catch his breath he hurriedly tried to get his thought back to some semblance of normality. "What’s happening to me?’’ he wondered out loud. ‘’What’s that Riku-chan?’’ a soft, gentle voice inquired. ‘’What’s happened to you now?’’ The door swung open. In front of him stood his older sister, Sayako, still in her blue pyjamas and thick black sweater, she was up uncharacteristically early. She ushered Riku inside and quickly shut the door behind them. Her normally silky brown hair in a frizzy mess, she looked as though she hadn’t slept in years.

‘’What were you muttering to yourself just now? And where have you been? I was worried sick about you!’’ she said while simultaneously giving him a gentle tap on the back of the head.

‘’I should be the one asking you the questions’’ Riku replied, taking careful measure to remove his shoes at the doorstep, as is custom in Japanese households. Planting himself on the sofa serving as the only piece of furniture aside from a small wooden TV stand in the tiny living room, he questioned her further, ‘’Why are you up so early?’’

Cheeks reddening, Sayako gave a meek smile. ‘’Well. I was upset about yesterday to the point where I couldn’t sleep, so I spent the time cleaning and testing out a new blueberry pancake recipe that we could have for breakfast, but that’s beside the point, what happened to you? You look awful.’’

Sudden fatigue now setting in, Riku sleepily managed to mutter ‘’ Hayabusa Park, strong wind, crazy dream’’ before awkwardly stumbling into his small room and dropping onto the comfy futon that awaited him. With a loving smile, Sayako whispered ‘’Sweet dreams Riku-chan.’’

The next week things fell back into the usual rhythm. Sayako made the daily commute to the dreaded cubicle, seizing any opportunity in-between to snag a beer or two, while Riku returned to Kawasaki High School. In his final year, the majority of his time spent there was sleeping in class or retreating to the school roof. This was his sacred fortress of solitude, complete with a spectacular view of the city. Every building, street, alley and winding sidewalk gleamed in the sun’s light, reflecting with it the very soul of the city. One unique aspect of this city was the sheer amount of greenery surrounding it, lush forests and rivers ringed the outskirts, blessing the city’s inhabitants with the purest of air.

With so much outward beauty surrounding him, Riku began to reminisce on his life. ‘’Why was I fraught with so much negativity, when I had everything I needed right in front of me?’’ he questioned. Trapped within himself, a deep abyss, with no means of escape. Until now. A light shone through the utter darkness. Unable to determine it’s source, he felt compelled to hold on to this light, to reach out with any strength that remained, for he knew deep down there was always a better future. The anguish of human beings had blinded him to these realizations.

Riku knew the meeting with the old man was a life changing one. Something in his heart had permanently shifted. Instead of weakness and self pity, he felt a new strength surging within him. The strength of hope. No longer would he be like a lone wolf, separated from its pack, destined to roam the lands aimlessly, howling at the moon for any sign of life.

Friday night came in the blink of an eye. Riku lay in bed, dreaming of the events of the previous week, wondering what would be next for him. The answer came abruptly, in the form of a drunken outburst from his sister. ‘’RIKU, get over here now!’’ she shrieked. All dreams now quickly erased from his mind, Riku made his way to the living room, bracing for the imminent storm, engulfing the entire apartment in clouds of negative energy. It seemed to sap his strength, each step a laboured effort.

Sayako had been drinking again. The absence of her father took a huge psychological toll on her. Forced to take care of her little brother from a young age, she grew up fast, perhaps a little too fast. Robbed of a large portion of her youth, cursing the injustices of life with every passing day, she shifted from job to job before settling down in an insurance firm at age 19, toiling away for the sake of Riku. Alcohol was her only release, bringing with it the terrible anger, taken out on Riku after a hard week. ‘’Why didn’t you take out the garbage?!!’’ she screamed, ‘’ What do I ever ask you to do? While I’m at work all day, you frolick about like this is a vacation or something… I can’t wait for the day you turn 18 so you can get a job and I never have to see you again!’’

Riku winced, normally used to these episodes, that particular line stung him. He loved Sayako with all his heart, but had been so powerless all these years, constantly viewing himself as the victim, thrust into a life he had no control over. He wanted this to end so badly, he longed for some magical cure to the lifelong ailment, but alas it never came. ‘’Maybe that meeting with the old man was just a dream after all’’ he thought to himself.

Time froze, as a deafening silence filled the room. Sayako remained in position on the couch, mouth half open as if about to continue her drunken tirade. Nothing moved. With the exception of Riku’s muffled breathing, chest expanding and contracting in time with his heartbeat, not a sound could be heard. ‘’RIKU’’ a deep, cavernous voice echoed throughout the room. ’’Open the front door’’ it commanded. Riku instantly recognized it. The clear unwavering tone undoubtedly belonged to the old man. It was such a voice that anyone who heard it, would stop and listen.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Riku inched towards the door. With trembling fingers, he barely managed to open it.

A strong gust of wind collided with his face. Eyes watering, he stepped forward. Instead of the adjoining corridor outside of his apartment, his foot landed on soft grass. He was on top of a grassy hill, the odd bush strewn about on its gentle slope. From this vantage point, Riku had a clear view of the surrounding terrain. Endless undulating hills clothed in lush green grass, that not even the finest pastures in his world could dream of, surrounded him on all sides. Above him was a clear sky, filled with flying creatures that he’d never seen before. Strange bird-like creatures with scales instead of feathers squawked noisily as they flew overhead. The gushing sound of stream water could be heard somewhere in the distance.

‘’Welcome young Riku’’ the voice sounded, much closer this time. Riku looked around but could not locate the source. He noticed that his apartment was cut off from the adjoining walls, as if someone had sawed it neatly in place. Time was still frozen inside, all its contents (including his sister) in the exact same position as before. Eyes now scanning furiously for any sign of the old man, Riku’s gaze fell upon a beautiful Sakura (Cherry Blossom) tree in full bloom, situated at the hill’s base. That’s when he saw it.

A wolf, much larger than any wolf he had ever seen in pictures. Its fierce yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at him while a coat of magnificent grey fur enhanced by the bright sunlight made it appear even more majestic. The wind picked up in strength, cherry blossom leaves swirling in every direction. The wolf, still staring at Riku, opened it’s mouth to speak. ‘’So we meet again Riku Hashimoto’’ it said, in the same sonorous voice as before. ‘’Prepare yourself, for your first lesson is about to commence.’’

Riku made his way down the hill to the tree, a lump rising in his throat. Nothing could prepare him for the events that were about to unfold.

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Edited by T.Bell

submitted by /u/ConsistentLocksmith2 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2yM1pW9

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mayzobean-blog · 6 years

Text

The Eighth Kingdom - Chapter Three

Group: BTS

Pairing(s): BTS x OC

Genre(s): Fantasy, Adventure

Rating: PG-13

“In a land not unlike those found in fairy tales, a princess is sent on a life changing journey to rediscover a lost kingdom…and must tame the seven men she encounters along the way.“

The small castle in which the Festival of Peace took place in was more beautiful than any of the paintings and drawings Sheila had seen of it.

Pearl and pristine, it was surrounded by a plethora of flowers, bushes, and greenery, which made the stronghold stand out even more amongst the surrounding marsh. This beauty must be the work of warlocks, it's almost impossible for this to be so beautiful, Sheila thought to herself. The springtime afternoon sun behind it only enhanced its natural beauty.

It was also encircled by tall, white brick walls with a tall metal gate. Sheila's carriage briskly approached the main entrance, her sisters' carriage trailing close behind, and was quickly greeted by a knight (a lower military rank used for basic protection among the seven kingdoms).

With his face obstructed by a large silver helmet, the knight began with, "King James of Persephone. I recognized the seal on your carriages. You are the second of the royals to arrive."

"Is that so?" James inquired, "Might I ask who the first was?"

"The King and Queen of Elle, with their son, Prince Taehyung."

"Ah! I'm not surprised, Elle is not too far from here. We shall introduce ourselves once we are inside," James chuckled.

"Perfect, my lord," the knight replied. He waved over another, similarly masked in silver, nearby knight, "He will show you where to leave your carriages and where we will gather your belongings."

"Thank you, my good man!" James gave the knight a gold piece and Sheila's carriage began to move once again, following the second knight around the outside of the gorgeous castle.

They were led to the left side of the castle, near a large set of white wooden doors (although, of course, these doors were not nearly as large as the main ones in the front.) As soon as the carriages stopped, the white doors opened and what seemed like a flood of servants walked out, strolling towards the carriages and immediately began taking any luggage they could into their arms before Sheila could even lift a finger.

Behind the servants sauntered a well-dressed, extremely tall, lean, older man. He approached King James as he exited the carriage, bowing. "My lord, it is an honor to serve you and your family once again."

James helped Sheila out of the carriage while answering, "It is wonderful to see you as well, Archibald." He smiled.

Returning the smile, Archibald turned towards Sheila. "Oh my, and is this your third daughter, Princess Sheila?"

"Yes, this is she," James remarked, "She looks just like her mother did at that age, does she not?"

"My oh my, she really does!"

"Sheila," James turned to her, "Archibald here takes care of this castle throughout the rest of the year, and will be taking care of you and the rest of the princes and princesses during our stay here."

Sheila curtsied slightly, "Thank you for your hospitality, sir."

Archibald chortled, "Ah, the pleasure is all mine, miss! Now, let me show you both inside--ah, but where are your eldest two daughters, my lord?"

"Ah, well, they're--"

Suddenly, loud voices were heard from behind the trio.

"Oh please, Fauna, why would anyone want doves at a wedding?"

"Because, Flora, they're beautiful creatures! Who wouldn't want them in a wedding?"

"Someone that doesn't want to clean up bird sh--oh!" The two identical-looking sisters finally noticed the presence of their father, sister, and Archibald. They curtsied, slightly to be polite but mostly just out of embarrassment. "Father, Sheila, Archibald, good afternoon," Flora sputtered.

"Yes, good afternoon," Fauna blushed. The two were wearing similar green dresses to Sheila's, although their hair was light blonde and tied into neat buns on the backs of their heads, contrasting Sheila's loose dark tresses.

"Well, my, it is good to see you both!" Archibald exclaimed, "And, may I say, congratulations to the both of you on your weddings!"

"Thank you," said Flora.

"The weddings will be sometime in the summer," said Fauna.

"Ah, summer weddings truly are magical," Archibald declared, "May I show you four into the castle now?"

"Of course, Archibald," James said. The four of them began to follow him through the white doors, with Flora running to catch up with him to discuss her wedding plans.

As Sheila stepped inside into a moderately sized marble corridor, she heard her other sister, Fauna, whisper to her, "Hey! Sheila!" Fauna approached Sheila, wrapping her arm around her shorter sister's shoulders.

"Hey, Fauna."

"Did the knight at the front say if any other royals arrived here before us?" Fauna inquired.

Sheila thought for a second. "I believe he said the King, Queen, and a Prince from the Kingdom of Elle were already here."

"Ah, the King and Queen are such lovely people. Everyone from Elle is, truly. Such a peaceful kingdom, although that isn't all that surprising. I haven't met their eldest son, Taehyung is it? I believe he's your age."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, as far as I know," Fauna giggled, "I wonder if he's handsome. Everyone says he is. Maybe he'll take a liking to you, sister?" She poked Sheila's side with her free hand.

"How risque, sister!"

"Oh, hush," Fauna smirked, "I'm only teasing. Although...it would be interesting to see two royal families merge for the first time in generations!"

Oh, little does she know.

As the group approached the end of the hall, the sound of trumpets resonated throughout the building, followed by a nameless voice announcing, "The King of Persephone and his daughters, Princess Flora, Princess Fauna, and Princess Sheila. May they receive a warm welcome!"

The coterie entered a large central room, presumably the main hall of the castle. Ornate, crystal chandeliers and tall paintings made up most of the room's decor. On the other end of the room was a small group of people, their faces somewhat difficult to see, wearing thick hoods and robes of red and orange. In the center of the group was a trio, wearing clothing that, although was finer and of a higher quality than the rest of their circle, they still retained a rather modest and conservative appearance.

"Oh, that's them! That's everyone from Elle!" Fauna exclaimed, letting go of her grip on Sheila and rushing to greet the others, along with the rest of Sheila's party.

As Sheila approached, the others removed their hoods, revealing that the better dressed trio was, indeed, the royal family of Elle. The King and Queen seemed to be quite a bit older than Sheila's father, although their son, much like Fauna had said, looked to be about her own age. The rest of the group were a variety of men and women, all of them, Sheila now noticed, wearing large wooden pendants around their necks.

The boy flashed a large, toothy smile to Sheila as his mother declared, "Ah, James, it is so lovely to see you again!" She embraced him, and soon after her husband shook James's hand. "Flora, Fauna, how lovely to see you both again as well!" She similarly embraced the girls, planting friendly kisses on their cheeks. She turned to Sheila, "Oh, my dear, you must be Sheila." She embraced Sheila, somewhat taking her by surprise, although she had to admit, the woman gave off quite a sweet, motherly air, so she didn't really mind.

"It is so great to finally meet you and your family, Your Majesty," Sheila said.

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine!" The woman exclaimed, "And please, dear, call me Maria. 'Your Majesty' is so formal, and we believe in simplicity over in Elle. Oh! This is my husband Yang, and my son, Taehyung." Maria motioned to both, her husband still talking to Sheila's father, her son still smiling. He walked over to join the conversation. "You know, you two are the same age! It is his first time here at the Festival as well...he has been dying to meet y—"

"Mother, let me introduce myself," Taehyung chuckled, taking Sheila into another warm embrace. For a man with a cute face, he had a surprisingly deep voice, and he smelled like tea leaves.

"Oh, of course sweetheart. I'll let you socialize!" Maria then walked over to Flora and Fauna. Sheila could overhear a brief bit of their conversation, "Ah, yes, we have just arrived as well..."

"Ah, she's so embarrassing..." Taehyung muttered to himself.

Sheila stared for a moment at the pendant-clad men and women before asking Taehyung, "Why do they wear those necklaces?"

"Who?" Taehyung turned to see what Sheila was referring to. "Ah! They are monks. Each symbol on their pendants represents the deities they serve." He smiled once again.

"How interesting," Sheila mused, "But, why would they want to come to the Festival of Peace? Isn't it all just political talk and celebrating?"

Taehyung laughed, "It's so much more than that! This may be my first year, but I do know that our monks are facilitators of peace, and what better place for them to go than a festival that celebrates that? This is a perfect place for them to discuss religion and potentially spread the faith."

"That does make sense..."

Taehyung smirked, "I also hear there's great food. If there's one thing our monks love, it's good food."

Sheila chortled, "Hah! I bet!"

They both laughed as Archibald, now on a different end of the room near a staircase, announced, "Let me show everyone to their rooms! Please, follow me."

The combined groups began to move toward the staircase. "Want to sit next to me during supper?" Taehyung inquired, "I know the others haven't arrived yet, but I think we're the only two that will be new to everything this year...I can try to tell you everything I know about the other princes and princesses though!"

"My, I didn't realize that a prince of Elle would be such a gossip," Sheila jokingly chided.

Taehyung flashed another square grin. He really did smile a lot, although Sheila didn't mind one bit. "We may be a peaceful country, but we don't live under rocks, that's for sure!"

Sheila burst out laughing. She could tell that her and Taehyung were going to be fast friends.

Chapter 4

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