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nonsensicalobsessions · 5 years

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A Symphony without Strings, Chapter 5

Today’s musical program: Today I am going to change things up a bit. I will list the musical selections as they correspond to each scene, as everyone’s reading speeds vary and of course there is never any guarantee a reader can finish a chapter in one sitting (especially considering the size of my chapters. I make no apologies.). Therefore, should you be interested in hearing the piece that has been selected for each section, simply play it on a loop/repeat until the next piece is indicated. If you find this intrusive, I do apologize...but for this chapter, it is completely necessary that the corresponding scene have the corresponding music.

Section the first:

https://youtu.be/GqvF8DXT0Z0 or conversely, https://open.spotify.com/track/5rzzZvgdCbktKTuxaeAT5E?si=wDpq36b6Q9-6etf36GI6uA

Trigger warning: Leukemia

*** *** *** ***

They were staying in a new place now, and it was so cool.

Liam had come back from some really neat moo-see-ums with Aiden, to find Mr. Hidd’l’son there, with another man, who didn’t look very happy. Mr. Hidd’l’son said he needed to take a look at the inside of his mouth with a swab, which was funny, because swabs were usually meant for ears, but both Aiden and Clara said it was okay. And it didn’t hurt. When Aiden wanted to know why he had to clean the inside of his cheek with a swab (“I brushed my teeth this morning, Aiden saw me,”) Aiden just smiled and shrugged.

“Gotta do weird things sometimes, Dude,” he teased. “Remember that time we had to take your picture in the post office?”

Yeah, that had been weird, Liam reflected.

Mama was sleeping when all of this happened. Mama was doing that a lot, it seemed.

But the new place had a piano, a real one, not just a keyboard. When Mama saw that, she just looked at Mr. Hidd’l’son and said, “Really, Thomas?” Liam thought her voice sounded mad, but Liam could see she was trying hard not to smile...like the time Aiden made his voice really high and squeaky by playing with some balloons.

Mr. Hidd’l’son just looked at Liam and winked. “It was that or drums, Merry. I thought you would prefer the piano, but if I was wrong, I can always...”

“No, no, the piano is fine,” Mama had laughed. Liam was a little disappointed. Mr. Hidd’l’son stage whispered into Liam’s ear, “Don’t despair...there’s always next time.”

The prospect alone made Liam’s heart beat faster! Just like a real set of drums!

Mr. Hidd’l’son had even given Liam a bear and some new books to go with his new room. Mama had given Mr. Hidd’l’son a look when she found that out, and for such a tall man, he looked like Liam did when he got in trouble! He looked down at his feet, and sort of shuffled them around and mumbled, “It’s just to go with his new room, is all.”

Mama just closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “I might as well ask the sun not to rise in the east...” she sighed. “Liam, please thank Mr. Hiddleston.”

Liam was most happy to do so, which included a very enthusiastic hug, and extracting the promise of having the books read to him at bedtime. Mr. Hidd’l’son seemed just as pleased with his side of the bargain, Liam thought.

Soon after, Liam overheard Mr. Hidd’l’son tell Mama that “The paternal inclusion between Liam and Thomas Sharpe is 99.99%...there is no question of the match.” This made Liam very excited, and he demanded know where was this match, and who was Thomas Sharpe? Mama scolded him for listening at closed doors, which was very naughty, and sent him to time out.

Liam knew better than to ask again, but no one ever told him anything more about the match, or Tom Sharpe. He wondered if he would be a new playmate. It got lonely, being the only little boy sometimes.

Later that day, Mama told him he didn’t have to call Mr. Hidd’l’son “Mr. Hidd’l’son” anymore, but he could call him “Mr. Tom,” instead.

This was good, as Mr. Tom was living with them now, and he was a lot of fun. It turned out Mr. Tom did know how to play some instruments, after all. He could play the piano, and the guitar. He brought his own! Mama was very surprised.

“All this time, Tom, and you never told me...?”

Liam looked carefully at Mama. She sounded very sad, like she was about to cry.

Mr. Tom must have thought so as well, because he quickly sat next to her and explained, “Darling, telling you what little I could do would be like a preschooler showing their finger painting to Monet. My ego found it easier to profess ignorance.”

Mama looked even more sad and answered, “Was I that arrogant? Or is your ego that big of an idiot?”

Mr. Tom gave her a hug and said, “Never the former, and always the latter, sweetheart. Can’t you see where I would have been embarrassed?”

“You shouldn’t have been.”

“But I was.” He made Liam giggle when he kissed Mama’s nose. Even Mama laughed a little.

That night, Mama and Aidan played and played for Liam and Mr. Tom, and then Aidan stopped, saying Mama had gotten over his head. (“That means your mother is playing pieces he doesn’t know yet,” Mr. Tom explained quietly to Liam. Aidan seemed really happy with the way Mr. Tom said that, but added, “Mr. Tom is being kind. I’ll never be the musician your mother is.”)

Liam frowned at Aidan. “Not if you don’t practice,” he scolded, and all the adults laughed.

Mama played fun songs and slow songs, pieces that made you want to dance, and pieces that made Mr. Tom sit very still, and hold Liam close.

Tom was surprised at how quickly Liam was willing, even wanting, to climb into his lap. It began the first night in the new suite, when Tom was settling Liam down for his new books before bed. At first he was a tiny bit skeptical, even as he felt his heart melting. Tom did not see if this was Liam’s usual posture for story time, and he was unsure if Liam was becoming overly excited. Tom knew full well what little boys were capable of in the interests of delaying bedtime! But when the books were closed, Liam very obediently crawled into bed and laid down. All Tom could surmise was for some reason, the child—his child—wanted to be close to him.

He was used to channeling emotions. He did it for a living, he studied it, he practiced long hours perfecting his craft, mining within himself whatever feelings would best suit the character he was bringing to life.

Nothing had ever prepared him for the feeling of having his son throw his arms around his knees in a genuinely affectionate, excited hug...it was something he had realized it was something he greatly desired, but long-despaired of, it made his heart swell in ways he, even with all of his poetry and Shakespeare and quotations, could not adequately describe. He saw Merry watch his interactions with Liam, and saw how each softened her face that was so tense with pain and weariness, and brought out the smile he had missed.

It was incredibly difficult for him to restrain himself and not be as openly affectionate with Liam as he craved, for him to always maintain a certain distance as would be proper. Liam only knew his as his mother’s friend. He was not family.

And yet...

Tonight, as Merry played, Liam was in his lap once more, completely voluntarily. In fact, he made it clear by the way he wiggled and squirmed he did merely wish to sit in Tom’s lap.

He wanted to be held.

Tom’s throat tightened as he carefully wrapped his arms around Liam, sometimes the two of them laughing and clapping hands when Merry and Aidan made their fingers fly with bright, sprightly tunes. He held Liam close to his chest when he leaned close to speak softly in Liam’s ear at times, to explain Aidan’s words, or even to get the over-excited boy to settle down a bit.

But when Merry began to play gentler tunes, some of which Tom remembered her learning or playing when they were together, he couldn’t help but hold Liam close to his heart, and Liam responded in kind by resting his small head against Tom’s chest, snuggling into his embrace, listening quietly and respectfully to his mother weaving magic with strings, talent, and the love she had for all in the room as well as the music.

Merry and Tom would curl around each other, tracing an ear, a jaw, a collarbone in the dark, sharing their souls as they had just shared their bodies.

They found they both had a deep love for The Lord of the Rings trilogy. While they both were rabid fans of the films, Tom wasn’t surprised that Merry was also deeply in love with the soundtracks as well.

“Let me guess,” he teased her. “You can play the entire trilogy’s soundtrack. On all three instruments.”

“Not all of it,” she muttered, ducking her head into his shoulder.

He burst into exuberant laughter. “Of course. My Mozart can play anything!” He gently tickled her sides, making her giggle.

She squirmed away from his fingers, her hair spilling over her back and bare breasts. Tom’s silly mood evaporated. In the dim light, he could see her form outlined in the barest silver. The moonlight and streetlights were throwing brighter beams for bouncing off the snowbanks that were piling up outside her bedroom window.

“My God, you are so beautiful,” he sighed.

“Tom—“

“Don’t. Don’t say anything. I can see you, Merry, glistening with moondust and starshine .”

She sighed, the sound warm and content. “My Tom. Ever the poet.” She leaned over and kissed his lips softly, then slipped out of bed.

“Sweetheart? Where are you going?”

“Such a bard should have music,” she replied easily, and her saw her figure pick up her cello, and begin bowing soft tunes from the movie trilogy they had just discussed. Of course she started with the well known “Concerning Hobbits,” much to Tom’s delight. He was utterly entranced, as she both bowed and even plucked the strings for more staccato sounds as she pleased.

“Darling, how on earth are you doing this in the dark,” he marveled.

“Do you need to shower with the lights on? Of course you don’t. You know where all your parts are,” she replied, teasing. “It’s just the same. I know where the music is. I just have to go and release it.”

Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed as she segued into an ethereal interpretation of “Evenstar.” Tom grew pensive as he reflected on the saga of Aragorn and Arwen.

“He was not worthy of her devotion,” he mused aloud.

“Who is to make that judgment,” countered Merry, as she slid into the iconic “May It Be.” Her voice sounded slightly impatient. “Her father? Aragorn? Why can’t she be the one to make that decision?”

Tom stood, and slid behind her. “You are correct, my lady. I yield.” He gently and carefully placed his hands on her bare shoulders, not wishing to impede her playing. He luxuriated in feeling her muscles stretch and contract as she continued to play, tenderly bringing his palms down her back as she began playing “In Dreams.”

Tom did not want to hear her play that piece...did not want to be reminded that there would be a day when he would only see her in his dreams. He deliberately allowed his hands to become more bold, in an attempt to distract her. As her bowing continued, so did his caressing, until she said, her voice showing signs of strain, “You are making this quite...difficult, Tom,” and her voice caught as one adventurous hand cupped her breast and captured her nipple.

“Oh, sweetling,” he growled in his throat, “I thought you’d never catch my hints. This poet longs for his musician. Come back to bed.”

Merry had never, in her entire life, been so careless with her beloved instrument as she was at that moment when she all but dropped it so she could spin and press herself against Tom’s body to sear his lips with a heated kiss. All the fervor and passion that had been flowing through her fingertips now poured through her kisses and Tom knew now he had again unleashed a fire that was going to consume him fully.

Merry looked at him as she graced him with her slow smile he considered his own and winked, then played “Concerning Hobbits” followed once more by “In Dreams.”

Tom felt as though his heart might burst. He didn’t think he was meant to be this happy.

Clara told Mama that she had to stop for the night, and Mama didn’t argue, just set her bow and Kermit down. Mr. Tom whispered into Liam’s ear, “Slide down, and let me play for your Mama. She looks so tired.” Liam nodded seriously, and moved to the side of the sofa while Tom picked up his guitar. Liam watched as Mr. Tom played quietly until Mama fell asleep in her chair, and Mr. Tom then carried her to bed. Mr. Tom was so careful, so gentle, that Mama didn’t even wake up.

Later that night, Liam heard Aidan and Mr. Tom talking. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but he liked hearing their voices. Mr. Tom’s voice was low, and quiet, or else warm and laughing. He heard it in Mama’s bedroom at night, when Mama was awake and Liam got up to go to the bathroom. He made Mama laugh. Liam liked hearing Mama laugh, too. She hadn’t laughed so much in a long time.

One day, Mr. Tom took Liam out all by themselves. Mr. Tom was wearing a very weird hat, which was funny, but it was part of a game. Mr. Tom explained it to him. They just went for a walk to a park, and then they flew a kite, and then just laid on their backs and pointed out cloud shapes. Liam had such a wonderful time, it made his heart very happy. Aidan made him happy too, but this was different. It was hard to describe. Maybe it was the way Mr. Tom looked at him, like he was the only little boy in the world. Maybe it was the careful way he held his hand. It was hard to say. Mr. Tom liked ice cream, but didn’t spoil him, he checked with Mama and Aidan first before they had some coming back from the park. Mr. Tom was always careful to check about things like that.

But when Liam’s legs got tired, Mr. Tom didn’t think twice about picking Liam up and carrying him on his shoulders all the way back. And when Liam fell asleep, his head resting on top of Mr. Tom’s, and Mr. Tom’s hands carefully holding his back to keep him steady...Mr. Tom thought it was the best day ever.

*** *** *** ***

Section the second: https://youtu.be/SjwnWWNNeFg, or conversely, https://open.spotify.com/track/4WlxkezQytVXHqtPqq8bHe?si=rs-vTkpLSFyoZRfZkFRPQw If you have been paying attention to music selections as named in the story, you will see where this piece is significant. This piece can be looped until the end of the chapter.

Mama was leaning against her headboard, propped up with a multitude of pillows when Liam came in, being led by Aiden. He wasn’t surprised to see Mr. Hidd’l’son...oops, Mr. Tom, sitting besides her. Mr. Tom spent most of all day with his Mama these days, and most of all night, too.

Aiden climbed up and cuddled next to her, peering closely at her face. “Mama, you don’t look like you’re feeling so well today,” he fretted. “I can give you some hugs, if that will help.”

“I’m not, Liam,” she answered honestly. Liam didn’t notice how faint her voice was, but he did notice the firmness of her resolution. This was her “Mama” voice at its strongest, her “You need to pay attention” voice. Volume didn’t matter. Tone meant everything. Any musician knew that.

“Liam, I would dearly love those hugs, but right now, I need you to listen to me, and do as I ask. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mama.” He sat up straight, even as he took her proffered hand, and felt Aiden slip behind him to take him in his lap so he wouldn’t fall off the side of the bed. Mr. Tom took his other hand. Liam liked that. It was like a triangle. Liam liked triangles. They were fun to play. He wanted to say comment on it, but instinctively knew this was not the time. Mr. Tom was sitting right next to Mama, in a chair.

“Tell Mr. Tom the story I told you about your Papa.” Mama’s voice was still firm, but so tired. Mama should nap.

“Mama said that she and Papa loved each other very much, but Papa had to move away from Mama because he worked...works so hard. And when he moved, they lost each other, I mean, they couldn’t find each other again, because sometimes people move around so much with their jobs. It didn’t mean they stopped loving each other though...they just got lost. Which is one reason why it’s so important to hold on to grownup’s hands when you are out of the house.” He turned to Tom and added, “Mama didn’t tell me that part, I just figured it out all on my own.”

Mr. Tom was looking at him very strangely, as though he was going to cry, but he said, “You are very smart, Liam, to have figured that out. You are a very intelligent young man.”

“So when it was time for me to be born, Mama couldn’t find Papa to tell him. Aiden was there, though, and he loves me, and while it’s not the same because he’s not my Papa, he is here and always takes care of me just like Papa would, and someday, Mama is going to find Papa, and tell him all about me, and Papa is going to be so happy. Because Papa loves me, even though he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Just so, Liam...now, tell Mr. Tom your real name.”

“You mean, the one you use when I’m in big trouble?”

Mr. Tom choked on something that sounded like a laugh as Mama sighed, “Yes, Liam, that one.”

“William Thomas Skye.”

Mama turned to Mr. Tom and asked softly, “Tom, would you please tell Liam your full name?”

Mr. Tom squeezed Liam’s hand softly and said, “Liam, my full name..the name my mother, and coincidentally, your mother, uses when I’m in big trouble, is Thomas William Hiddleston.”

“Oh wow,” Liam marveled. “That’s almost like...” He stopped.

He gets it, thought all the adults in the room. Mama and Mr. Tom held Liam’s hand tightly. Aiden wrapped his arms around Liam that much closer.

“Mr. Tom...Are you...are you my Papa?”

“Yes, Liam. Your Mama found me at last. And I love you with all my heart,” Tom answered immediately, struggling with the tears that wanted to escape from his eyes that were so similar to his son’s, but only in shape...because they were still the color of his mother’s eyes, the color of a summer sky.

Liam looked at his mother, who smiled and nodded. “Liam, it’s true. Mr. Tom is your Papa. Would you...”

She didn’t have to say anything more, because Liam launched himself from Aiden’s arms into Tom’s waiting embrace, sobbing. “Papa, I’m so glad, so glad it’s you, I missed you, I missed you so much...”

Tom wrapped his arms around his son at last, burying his face and his tears in his hair. “I’m so glad, too, Liam. I didn’t know it, but I was missing you all this time. But I’m here now, and you will never have to miss me again, I promise.”

“You won’t get lost again?”

Merry’s eyes closed. This was her fault, and as soon as she could, she would own it, would take all the responsibility. “William Thomas Skye, it wasn’t Papa’s fault. You need to know this. Listen to me, son, you cannot blame your father, at all...”

Both father and son looked up at Merry, and saw she was weeping, as well. Aiden went to leave the room to allow the little family some privacy, but both Tom and Merry would not allow it, Merry by desperately grasping Aiden’s hand, her face begging him not to leave, and Tom by physically blocking Aiden with his long crossed legs even as he held Liam against his chest.

Aiden looked about, unsure what to do or say, but Liam’s quavering, “Aiden, now that we found Papa, you’re not going to leave, are you?” made his question about his position in the family puzzle snap into place as both Merry and Tom cried out, “No!”

Merry was shaking her head, replying passionately, “No, never, Liam, no, son, no...” and Tom was murmuring, “Liam, that’s not what this is about,” and Aiden crouched down and wiped Liam’s tears with the pad of his thumb, hoarsely answering, “Leave you, Liam? I’d like to see anyone try to make me.”

It ended in a tight, loving, much-delayed but heartfelt group hug that was only broke by Liam finally complaining, “I’m getting squished..!”

“If it’s all the same to you, Liam, I think I will take that hug now,” Merry laughed, but then Liam replied practically:

“Okay Mama, but you need to get Ms. Clara to help you first, because your nose is starting to bleed again.”

Tom looked at Merry in shock, and then quickly handed Liam to Aiden, who took him and ran off calling for Clara, because the trickle became a gush.

*** *** *** ***

The bleed was bad.

Tom had never seen anything like this before, and it was hard for him to understand. This wasn’t special effects, there wasn’t anyone who was going to call “Cut!”

It wouldn’t stop, and he could tell Clara was alarmed. Even as Tom held Merry and whispered words of support and comfort in her ear, he could tell Merry had slipped into semi-consciousness, and Clara was beginning to lose her composure.

“Tom, it’s no good,” she said at last, desperation seeping into her voice. “I have to get her to a hospital.”

“Surely not,” he pleaded with her. “Not for a nosebleed, she’ll be better in a moment, she’s getting better...”

“She isn’t, Tom. She isn’t.”

Tom had a driver on standby, and he and Clara had Merry bundled up and off in a matter of minutes. Clara deemed an ambulance unnecessary, but she did call ahead to the hospital that Sloan Kettering had advised them to use in case Merry needed emergency care.

The three of them were swiftly taken past A&E and up to Oncology. Clara was on her mobile with her team, as well as consulting with the staff at the local hospital. Labs were being run. CT scans. X-rays.

Tom stood still, feeling as though he was at the center of a hurricane. Fortunately, he’d had the sense to apprise Luke of the situation, and Luke came onto the scene and provided him with a much needed sense of calm.

Luke arrived with cell phones, chargers, laptops and more chargers, tablets and chargers...he found a comfortable, secure place for Tom to sit and wait while Merry was going from lab to imaging to another imaging center. He made sure there was enough food and entertainment at the suite so Liam wouldn’t be unduly frightened by the fact that his mother, newly-acquired father, and mother’s nurse had suddenly left, leaving Aidan pale and anxious. Aidan was understandably a wreck and Liam was very observant, so everyone wanted to keep Liam as absorbed in something—anything—as possible.

Tom was...still. The man Luke had once despairingly referred to as a living Rube Goldberg machine, was sitting, or standing, so completely still. Waiting.

Clara came though for a brief moment to explain what was happening to Merry.

“Tom...I’m sorry, who is this?”

Tom quickly made introductions. Clara still looked askance, but muttered, “At this point, what the hell,” and continued.

“Tom, uh, I’m glad someone is with you at any rate...I think you should sit down.”

Tom, who had been leaning against the wall, paled and shot Clara a look of pure fear.

“No. Nononono. Why do I need to sit down, Clara, tell me she’s okay, she’s fine, she’s just fine, it was a nosebleed, that’s all it was! That’s all!”

Clara and Luke exchanged a look of sudden solidarity, and each took an elbow, and guided Tom to a chair. He looked helplessly at each face as his knees gave way.

Clara crouched in front of him.

“Tom...the trial failed. We need to get her back to Memorial Sloan Kettering right away...”

“Luke, I don’t care what you have to do...”

“Tom!”

As both voices called out his name, he subsided, and his lanky frame seemed to shrink into itself.

Clara continued compassionately, “I don’t know if she is strong enough for the flight.”

Luke saw as Tom’s pupils dilated, and something inside his client winked out. He took over.

“Tell me what Ms. Skye needs. Is it a private jet to get her back to New York? Is it getting her specialists here?”

“She isn’t going to...hang on,” she sighed as her mobile began buzzing angrily again, “I have to...yes. Will they take her here...No?! Seriously?” She got up and strode out, her face agitated.

Tom leaned forward and placed his face in his hands. Luke took Tom’s shoulders and squeezed them. “Hang in there, Tom. We will find a way to help her, there’s got to be a way...”

Tom shook his head in disbelief, watching through the glass as Clara was intently listening and pacing, clearly upset. Then she hung up, her face streaked with tears.

When she entered the room, she barked, “Ignore the tears. I’m not sad I’m pissed. There is only one therapy left for Merry, and only one doctor at Sloan Kettering that is willing to take her on...it’s her last chance...the therapy is available here in the UK...but she doesn’t fit the parameters, no one is willing to let her try...”

Tom stood up so rapidly, the chair went flying. “Who do I need to talk to...”

“Stop it, Tom, you can’t take on the entire NHS...! There are families just as desperate as you, are you going to step ahead of their children? When Merry doesn’t even fit their protocol? I’m angry, yes, but we have got to respect the scientific procedures! As it is, we are lucky there is someone...anyone...willing to give her this one last chance!”

Luke, ever the voice of reason, spoke up. “Clara, if we need to get Merry to New York, what has to happen? How much time do we have, and how much time do we need?”

Clara groaned, “I need to get her stabilized as quickly as possible so she can tolerate the eight hour flight...”

Luke interposed smoothly, “A private jet will be able to make the trip faster than a commercial airliner. It will also be able to make Merry more comfortable as well. Get everything Merry needs ready, and I will get us a plane.”

“Us?”

Luke’s smile was wry. “Do you want to be the one responsible for keeping that one (he pointed to Tom) calm at 50,000 feet? No? Are you sure?...Then yes, us.”

Clara looked at Tom. “Don’t you go anywhere,” she warned. “Merry is in and out, but she asks for you and Liam in the same breath. I need her calm. Can you do that, for once? Can you reassure her and keep her quiet? Tom, this is her absolute last chance. I can’t stress this enough.”

Tom gave her his steadiest, most unwavering expression. “Clara, I gave my word days ago I would give her and Liam everything they need, everything they want, everything in my power to give them. I haven’t reneged, and I won’t. When can I see her?”

She shook her head as if weighing him against the consequences, before deciding, “Follow me.”

Merry...Sweetheart? Merry?

Tom wanted nothing more than to scoop her tiny, frail body up into his arms, but he knew that would not go over well in this very cold, very sterile room. Monitors beeped, oxygen tanks hissed, there were drips and she was so small in the very uncomfortable looking bed.

He took her hand and found it cold, so he pressed it against his cheek. “Merry, I’m here. Your Tom.”

Her eyelids flickered. “Tom,” she breathed, her weak voice muffled by the oxygen mask strapped to her face. “Liam, where’s Liam?”

“Liam is safe, with Aidan. I understand there is pizza, and a movie we are missing tonight. He is fine, and calm, Merry.”

Her smile was genuine. “So glad, Tom...thank you.”

“Thank you...? For what, Mozart?” He took her hand, warming nicely in his, and kissed it as he smiled at her, leaning against the side of her bed.

“For a man...promised no strings...taken them...composed...a symphony,” she sighed, her eyes beginning to close again.

“Hey, not so fast,” he chided her, cupping her face. He marveled, as always, how naturally she nestled into his hand. “You are the composer, the musician, sweetheart.”

“Liam...Liam is our symphony,” she whispered. “You’ve taken to him...he to you...couldn’t ask for more...You and Aidan..take good care of him...know you will...”

Tom felt the air freeze around him. “No, Mozart, we are going to take such good care of him. All three of us. Mama, Papa, and Aidan. What a lucky little boy he is!”

“Tom.” Her eyes were reproachful.

“Merry...please. Please, I beg you, don’t do this...”

“Don’t have to hang on...for him...any more, Tom...He’s safe...will be loved.”

Tom bent over, so his face filled Merry’s vision. “Yes, Merry, he is safe, and he is, and will be loved...but please, Merry...will you hang on for me? Because you are, and you will be loved...I love you so, Meredith. I love you. Please, Mozart, please...If you leave me, you take with you all the symphonies, all the song, all the music in the world. You’ve played on my heartstrings from the first day I met you...you lifted your bow and all I heard was the beauty in your soul. Don’t give up yet, Merry. Will you try? Please try, Merry...Clara and I are going to get you back to New York and Sloan Kettering. But you have to rest, and not give up yet.” Tom could scarcely speak, but forced his words out, smiling as best he could while holding her hand against his heart and stroking her cheeks.

“Back?...the trial, I heard...it’s over, Tom.” Tears fell from the corners of her eyes. “Trying...not to be bitter...knew no guarantees...but I failed..tell me these beautiful things...when it’s too late...” The tears were flowing down both their faces now, Merry’s face was regretful, but Tom’s was anguished and determined.

“No, not true, Merry, that’s not true. You didn’t fail at all. This trial didn’t suit you, but as it turns out, there is one more.”

Merry’s eyes widened, but then her face fell. “Tom...I couldn’t bear it if...”

“Merry, I have never lied to you, nor will I begin now. The only time I was untrue was when I lied to myself, when I told myself I could be happy if I let you go. I never stopped loving you, Meredith Skye.”

The slow, languid smile he never thought he would see again crossed her face.

“Thomas William Hiddleston...” Was it his imagination, or did her eyes become a little sharper, her shoulders a little higher?

“Yes, my Mozart?” He took her other hand, and kissed it hopefully.

“Couldn’t stop loving you...any more...than...playing the strings. For me...always strings attached...just didn’t want..to tie you down.” Her eyes closed, exhausted.

“Silly Merry.” Tom kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her hands, as he smiled down upon her, his eyes stinging. “How can anything be tied down what Meredith sends, like a lark, ascending?”

Merry opened one eye and moaned, “Tom...that is...truly awful...know how many times...had to deal...variations on a theme...that line?”

“Oh, come on,” he pleaded. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to use it?”

“Not...long enough,” she sighed, and closed her eye again.

It took a little more than sixteen hours for Clara to become satisfied Merry was stable enough for the flight. It took Luke less than two hours to finalize the flight plans, as he had already begun sussing them out from the moment he left the room.

Liam’s eyes could not stop moving. He thought the flight coming to London was exciting enough, but this, this was beyond astonishing.

“The whole plane is just for us?” he kept repeating in shock and delight.

Aidan held his hand firmly. “Yes, and you need to listen and stay still just as you did on the flight over. The rules haven’t changed at all...”

“Why don’t you tell me the rules, Liam,” suggested Tom, as they were fastening their seat belts. “Just in case I’ve missed a few since the last time I was on an airplane.”

Liam ticked them carefully off on his hand. “You hafta keep your seat belt on whenever you’re sitting down. Aidan takes care of me. Clara takes care of Mama. And Mr. Luke takes care of you!” He broke down into giggles.

“And of all of us, I have the hardest job,” mourned Luke, who was sitting across from Liam and Aidan. “Aidan, can I convince you to trade?”

“No, I’m only trained up to four year olds,” smirked Aidan. “I haven’t qualified for grown-up wrangling just yet.”

“Nothing to it,” Luke offered hopefully as the plane began to taxi away from the airport. “Offer them a little scotch and you’re all set.”

“Then why haven’t you done so yet?”

“Um...” Luke bit his lip, as he scrambled to find an acceptable answer in front of the very interested little boy who was sitting, listening to every word.

“Yes, Luke, do tell,” drawled Tom, who was craning his neck back trying to see how Clara and Merry were faring in the aft part of the cabin.

“Papa? Will you color with me?” Liam’s voice was hopeful as the plane began to take off.

Tom reached across to grasp his son’s small hand in his. “Absolutely, son. As soon as the pilot says we can stand up and walk around, I will check on Mama, and then sit back down, and we can color.”

“But you hafta...”

“Put my seat belt back on, yes.”

“Tom Hiddleston, star of stage and screen, coloring,” teased Luke quietly. “Who would have thought?”

“Yes,” agreed Tom, looking at Liam’s happy, alert expression, his own face alight with a sunshine smile of pure joy. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

The brightness rapidly faded when they heard pained coughing emanating from behind them. Tom rapidly disengaged his seat belt and launched himself towards the back of the plane, which had a privacy panel erected. Liam had been able to see his mother in her seat that reclined into a bed, and give her a kiss before he was seated, with the understanding Mama needed her rest during the flight, so she wasn’t to be disturbed.

“But Papa, we’re not s’ppos’d to even...”

“Hush, Liam,” Aidan told him firmly. “Let Papa see about Mama. That’s his job now, too.”

“Like you used to?”

“Like he still does,” Papa’s firm voice came floating from the back. “Listen to Aidan now, that’s a good boy.”

Liam was a bright boy, and he quickly learned that when Papa used that tone of voice, it was best not to make him repeat himself.

“She’s fine,” Clara fussed quietly. “Just a bit of a cough. I’ve got her, Tom.”

Merry opened her eyes, hearing his name. Between her medications, the pressurization, and weakness, she could barely keep her head up. Her breathing shifted when she saw him.

“Steady, now, love,” he crooned. “You’re doing well, Clara says so, and I’m not brave enough to argue with Clara. Not at this altitude, anyway.”

A ghost of a smile tickled her face. He was kneeling at her side, so it was easy for him to stroke her forehead and cheek, and take her hand and kiss it. Her oxygen mask was firmly in place.

“It’s still so cold,” he fretted softly.

“Then put it back under the blanket,” Clara scolded.

Merry mumbled, “Liam...?”

“Liam is well, darling, I’m going to go color with him in a moment.”

She closed both eyes then. “Mind your...blue crayon...hoards them...” and went back to sleep.

To both his chagrin and delight, Tom learned Merry was right.

Aidan took several photos of Liam, curled up in Tom’s lap, clutching his new bear, Tom’s arms protectively holding him close to his chest in a similar fashion, both of them asleep. He knew that Merry would want to see them later.

Luke whispered, “Would you mind sending those to me? Tom’s mother did not get to meet Liam or Merry, in fact Tom barely got to explain the situation to her before we left. I know that she would like to see them as well.”

“Wow, sure,” Aidan agreed. “I wonder how that conversation went...if I dropped that bomb on my mom and then left the country, well, I think I’d better leave and keep on running. If we were still speaking, that is.”

“Oh, uh...”

“‘S alright,” Aidan yawned. “‘S better off like this, the old harridan. Merry and I, neither one of us had mothers worth a damn...” he closed his eyes. “Gonna try and rest a bit, because once we hit the ground, Liam’s gonna be fully recharged, mark m’words...”

Luke was certain Aidan was right. Perhaps it was best that they all get some sleep...

When Merry had a better idea of her surroundings again, she was back in a spot she was familiar with, although she wished she wasn’t—a room in Sloan Kettering. She found it was easier to take a halfway deep breath, without feeling the room spin or having tunnel vision. She noted there was a large bag of packed red blood cells hanging over her head, and gave a half smile. Guess the vampires are going to start picketing again...

Clara was busily consulting with Doctor Kelly Florence, who cocked her head and looked at Merry when she saw her open her eyes and lift her head.

“Well, there you are.”

Kelly had a soft North Carolinian drawl and a gentle face that belied a will of steel and a mind like a Cray supercomputer.

“Well, kitten, I’m real sorry that last trial didn’t do you much good,” Kelly sighed unhappily. “I’d hoped Dr. Roths had something goin’ for you with that. Let’s recap.”

“Wait, please,” a thick, sleepy voice spoke up. “I need to get as much backstory as possible.” Tom stretched as he awoke from the chair he had been sleeping in from the corner of Merry’s room.

Clara rolled her eyes. “Trust you to think of it as backstory,” she snarked, as Tom rubbed his eyes and tried to shake himself into mental alertness.

“I’m sorry,” apologized Dr. Florence, extending her hand. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet. Dr. Florence. I thought I’d met all of Merry’s support team by now.”

Tom flushed as he shook her hand with his right and rubbed the back of his neck with his left. “Ah, well. Tom Hiddleston...I would that I had been here...but I’m here now.”

Merry took his hand and murmured, “Looking forward, Tom...’member?”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Just so, darling.” Inwardly, he was braced for the inevitable dance of recognition, but was both relieved and delighted when it never began. As far as Dr. Florence (“Just call me Kelly”) was concerned, he was simply another loved one in Merry’s life.

“Okay, Merry. Looking at where you’ve been, and where you are...The most important facts are, hon, you can’t keep any red blood cells—which is why you’re always cold, dizzy and light headed, tired, weak, and short of breath—or platelets—which is why you’re always bruising and bleeding all the time. Poor thing, you must be so tired of those nosebleeds...We’ve already taken your spleen, and you are darned lucky that so far this monster hasn’t moved into your brain or your liver...but I’m always worried about your lungs, honey, because you just have so much trouble breathin’, it’s a concern...” Kelly clucked her tongue in sympathy. “We’ve tried just about everything, haven’t we...radiation. Chemotherapy. You were never a candidate for stem cell therapy, sadly...”

“Excuse me,” Tom asked quietly. “Why not?”

“Oh, Tom, she never had a chance for that to take. There wasn’t anyone we could get get a match from...no family match, not even little Liam, even if Merry would consider it...”

“Merry...?” Tom asked, his voice quiet. Dangerous. “Did you ask your parents? Please tell me you asked, I know that relations were strained between you and your family when we last spoke of them, but for Liam’s sake, did you approach them?”

Merry took care not to look at Tom as she replied, “...not the time for this discussion.”

“Merry...” Again, his voice was quiet, but now, more pleading entered his tone. “If you don’t wish to see them, point me in their direction. I will ask, I will beg, I will...”

“Tom...not necessary. My father is dead...my mother is...not interested in helping...Case closed.”

Kelly jumped into the conversation before it degraded further, she could tell by the temple vein pounding wildly in Tom’s face that he was barely holding his temper in check. “Tom, even if her mother had a sudden change of heart, it’s too late in the game for that. We’ve gone down just about every avenue, every road...Dr. Roth took the path of a new targeted therapy, using new drug combinations to attack specific cancer cells without harming normal cells, using antibodies to block cancer cells from growing, keep them from spreading, stop your white blood cells from growing like weeds...

“I’m sure you remember, but at the time you were given a choice, going with Dr. Roth, or going with me. Dr. Roth’s track record’s better than mine, so it made sense to go with him. But since it didn’t work, do you want to give me a try, hon? There is no shame if you don’t. You have fought this monster for so long. I know you are tired, your bones hurt... If you are ready to say you just want to concentrate on your quality of life, I can make sure we keep you comfortable as possible. It is not quitting. It is your life, Merry. I want you to—”

“I’m in.”

Kelly’s eyebrows rose. “Merry...”

“No, Kelly...’m all in...have too much to live for.” Merry looked at Tom, smiled then looked down and away. “...a little boy who needs his Mama...”

“You have the little boy’s Papa, who very much needs the boy’s Mama, as well,” Tom reminded her tenderly, as he squeezed her hand.

Really, the way she smiled and looked down and away grabbed him every. Single. Time.

Kelly lifted her shoulders and said, “The lady says go, then the word is given. Let me explain to you, Tom, what CAR T-Cell therapy is, how it works, and how I hope it’s going to help Merry. I can’t make any promises. But it’s the only thing left to try.”

Afterwards, Tom looked at Merry, feeling much more daunted by the prospect. Dear God, what else would she have to endure?

Merry and Tom looked into each other’s eyes.

“Are you sure about this, Mozart? No matter what you decide, you know I am with you, every step of the way.”

Merry smiled. “Bring it, Papa Bear...everything to gain...nothing to lose.”

After Merry signed all the consent forms, he hissed, “Papa Bear?”

“Didn’t see the pictures...? Luke showed me...before we were on the ground...”

Luke, you utter, utter...you know what, I don’t even have words. Those photos with me and my son...do you know what Merry is calling me now? Do you have any idea?

Take it up with Aidan, Papa Bear.

TAGGING: Lifetime Memberships @hopelessromanticspoonie @yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @vodka-and-some-sass @winterisakiller @theheartofpenelope

Symphony Season Ticket Holders: @jessiejunebug @alexakeyloveloki @scorpionchild81 @tinchentitri @theoneanna @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @blacksuitofdoom @mishaandthebrits @wegingerangelica

#tom hiddleston #a symphony without strings #tom hiddleston rpf #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston angst #tom hiddleston x oc #look Christine I did a thing #Nonsensical Writes

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courtorderedcake · 5 years

Text

Roses : A CS retelling of ‘Tam Lin’

Hi, everyone! Thanks to @kmomof4 and the extremely talented @eastwesthomeisbest for their patience on this. As usual, thanks to @ultraluckycatnd who I would be lost without, the woman is a monster editing machine, and super beta. I live for my updates from her. Without further ado, here is my laaaaaaaaaaaate contribution to @cssns. You get TWO chapters for the price of one! WHOA!

Read on Ao3 right here, darlings! Chapter 1/4 Chapter 2/4

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The rain pours for several more days, and Killian lurks indoors anywhere she is not, a ghost in the corners of her eyes. The cable company's arrival makes him bolder, showing the workers the drilled holes in the wood from previous owners, and identifying the ancient telephone cable.

Laughing, a bewhiskered man clapped him on the back in good nature as he held up the cord. “Haven't used these since 1910! This used a switchboard to even operate, probably used for transmission in the First War. This is a damn antique!”

Killian laughed with the men doing the installation, but as Emma looked closer, it seemed to be only for show. He followed them asking questions, watching the cables thread through walls, helping where he could. It was not a one day job, which luckily Emma had predicted.

The next day was even busier, with deliveries arriving, a team looking at the major pipes, electrical repairs and more cable installation making the quiet halls echo with voices. Emma directed what felt like a never ending stream of people carrying various items to rooms, instructed men on how she wanted furniture arranged, and helped identify the structural issues she had noticed, or take note of the ones the contractors had. Carterhaugh stood strong and not many issues were found, although the plumbing and wiring were a mess that would need to be addressed and modernized.

Around lunch time, Emma took a pop tart out of its sleeve and noticed she hadn't seen Killian all day. Walking to the back solarium and sunroom that looked over the gardens, she watched as he worked. His back muscles rippled under an undershirt, plaid flannel wrapped around his waist. His arms were deeply defined, and she didn't notice how lost in thought she was until he gave a sarcastic little wave. Blushing she gave a half wave back, stuck half the pop tart in her mouth, and quickly went back to ordering people about like some evil queen.

At the end of the day and after a hefty set of invoices, Emma collapsed in the plush chairs that sat next to the great room's fireplace. Closing her eyes and rubbing her temples, she groaned.

“Miss Swan? Are you alright?”

Killian’s voice. She nodded with a sigh, opening her eyes. “I… Your phone came today.” Nodding her head at the package that sat on a small table, she closed her eyes again.

"Oh. Okay." He looked down at the box with a frown.

"Don't worry, it literally walks you through the set up process. Just turn it on with the button, and follow the instructions." Emma stretched with a groan, letting her joints pop.

"You got a lot done today, it looks like."

"I did. The teams I chose are phenomenal, but it will be nice to be alone again here soon. I have never had a home, so I would like to enjoy this while I can."

"No home? You're an orphan, then?" he asked, and she nodded. "Did you live in a foundling home or ministry?"

"No. No. It must be different in America, I don't know what a foundling home is, actually. I lived in an orphanage, then foster homes. My adoptive mother legally got custody of me at 15. I consider her and my brother my only family."

"Ah. A foundling home is for found children, usually abandoned by their parents or orphaned by war, famine or plague."

"Oh, crap, I didn't mean to be insensitive. Those must be rare nowadays, I don't think that there's been any of that sort of thing over here for at least 60 years."

Killian muttered under his breath, laughing bitterly. "Yeah." picking up his phone he gave her a nod, then returned to work.

After a few more hours, Emma sat aside invoices neatly arranged into piles after double checking everything scanned into the cloud by her phone, and began a small fire in the grate of the ancient fireplace. She went to the kitchen for a glass of wine and some chocolate, surprised to find Killian sitting enraptured by the light of his phone screen.

"Emma, this device is… It's bloody magic. I have never seen such a small encyclopedia of knowledge. So many flowers and plants have been discovered, animals and places. The pictures are so close up I feel like I'm there -"

"Calm down, Buster, have you seriously never had internet? You might of well have been Amish."

"What's Amish?"

"Alright, forget Amish. What's your favorite thing you have learned so far."

"The sky, I've mapped the stars in detail during my time in the Navy, and written about clouds, but there are so many more names, the conditions that create them are all documented, and the stars, we've been in space -"

"How did you miss Neil Armstrong? One giant step? Do I need to rent 'The Right Stuff'?"

"When you live here, and you have no one, it's easy not to know anything but this. Thank you Emma. I… I can't say how much this means to me."

"I'm glad you like it. I guess." Emma said shyly back, surprised by the genuine delight in his voice. Shrinking back without her glass of wine, she doused the fire and went to bed instead, her stomach full of butterflies sorely in need of some Raid.

In the morning, the butterflies became a full force flock when Killian called her name from the conservatory. She waited, stopped and watched his easy jog over to her over the parquet as wingbeats tickled her insides. The rose he held out to her did nothing to help her distress either.

"Would you let me take you for lunch, out on the meadow? It's a perfect day to watch the clouds come in, and you look like you could use a break. I'd like to repay you for the phone. It's been truly… I have not words in which I can express my gratitude fully."

At her hesitation, he backtracked. "If you don't want to, please, it's alright. I'll just go -"

"No, no. You're right, it's a beautiful day for it. Yes. Yes, let's have lunch. I'll set up some quilts and you can meet me there."

"Cheese sandwiches alright?"

"As long as there's cocoa."

These lunches become a weekly part of their routine. On the nicest days they find one another wandering the grounds, and in the rain the eat in the kitchen or in the solarium watching rain pour down the glass. There are many nice days, mild breezes carrying the sound of their lively conversations, the weather becoming temperate and fair. He brings tea, cookies, cakes and sandwiches, while Emma brings pop tarts, cocoa or coffee.

It turns out that his sense of humor is actually amusing, her face and sides hurting from the way he somehow gets her. It's in the late summer, when he places a daisy crown on her head while talking about the constant storm on Jupiter (he's obsessed with learning everything about space and technology lately), and she realizes after that she didn't flinch. It's easy to forget that he hasn't been a fixture in her life forever when he greets her in the morning in the kitchen, or when he gives her a lazy grin with a wave with soil covered hands.

It's hard to be in the quiet when Killian has recited poetry, or shows her how to tell if a tree is 'wick', and how to take cuttings to grow more of certain bushes that have started to thin. She reciprocated to her own surprise, and tells him about life in the city, about the movies she loves, and about the best apps for his phone. He's great at candy crush, has a following on GreenThumb, and when she lets him on her Spotify he shocks her with a Playlist of roaring twenties, classical, and old swing band songs mixed with the classic rock he has heard her screeching out lyrics into a broom handle. Emma watched him weave magic with plants, feeling aimless and antsy when she went back to work in the house alone.

Occasionally he joined her, and in those moments it's almost as if he saw the house in its full glory. He knows everything there is to know, except the local legend of the estate.

"So did the family really just up and disappear? Were they really cursed by Leprechauns?"

"Fae folk." The grimace he made was tight when he gritted out the words. It was warm, the cliff side by the sea enticing with its cool spray. Both of them had worked long enough to have a break as they stretched across slightly damp stone. Killian licked his lips, looking almost pained. "They probably left before the next war hit. That's my guess. Although, tales of the Fae due run rampant out here. ‘The Fae court will ride their wild stallions across the plain, under the cover of thunder and lightning’. They ran their undying horses too loudly to go without notice otherwise."

Killian’s face fell, and he looked out pensively towards the estate, his features tensing as a sudden chill nipped at them. "Or teaching wee ones to be kind to strangers without asking for something in return… Fae folk have dominion over anyone who violate their hospitality unless given sincerely. Even then, they're bitter, wicked, twisted creatures with not an ounce of warmth in them. That falls back to 'Never find friend in Fae, or show them favor'."

"You sound like you believe they're real." Emma said quietly,

"Do you, Swan?" The question comes out strange, not quite teasing.

After a moment and a steadying breath, Emma let the truth eke out. "Maybe."

Killian didn't laugh, didn't say anything, really. Emma found that the best reply, her heart beginning to slow again when she confirmed that he's truly not mocking her by glancing up at his darkening eyes.

"Just who are you, Swan?" This question is worse, worst - it lodged deep as her walls snapped back up around her.

"Wouldn't you like to know." If he noticed the iciness in her glare, he didn't say.

Instead he called after her as Emma made her way back inside, a sudden cold rain pouring down. "Perhaps I would."

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Emma lets the days go by leisurely as Killian and her spend more time with each other. They eventually start sharing books, movies, excerpts from history (He loves the Today I learned section of reddit, learning things in leagues) and music. Her selections of rock and classic punk pop seem to genuinely bewitch him - on several occasions she's gone out to the garden to find him smeared with dirt, shirtless, gloves in his back jeans pocket shaking along with his - assets - while 'Welcome to the Jungle' blared from the sound system.

The beginning of want pooled in a well Emma thought had long gone dry, her blush a strawberry stain across her face and chest. Not that Killian knew, or if he did, hid it under his normal self-deprecating cheekiness by teasing her as much as normal. Emma had thoughts at night after a glass of wine that left her feeling like a breathless high schooler who found a note in their locker, except she wasn't a high school student. She hadn't been in far too long for this sort of crush.

Even in the mornings when she tried to beat him outside, he's there. Sometimes just sitting and talking to the plants or pruning, and it's like he's a fixture in her garden. A fixture that notices her arrival or sneaks behind her with a branch to tickle her ear, smiles at her, beams at her really, in a way that makes her heart sing. It's as if he's gently tending to her too, like he knows how hard it has been to lay down roots anywhere since Neal burned away everything she had hoped for a home.

Killian just grows on her, and she feels like the sun has warmed her enough to tentatively take a chance, to bloom.

And she likes it. It scares her more than anything. She likes that he wants to cultivate a friendship, that he is just happy to be near her for whatever reason, and that she can find comfort in his stability. He has set roots, deep into the earth that for so long she has resisted against letting her feet touch.

Maybe Emma Swan was finally tired of flying, and could try falling, just this once, knowing that a safe harbor might lend itself to her landing.

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Emma read the faded ink on dark and crumbling paper, careful to slide it into a protective plastic sleeve. The attic had proven to be a massive undertaking, just like every other aspect of Carterhaugh. She originally planned to do just documents by herself, but Killian had found her and demanded to help, proving to be just as stubborn as her. He also demanded that they wait on the furniture and strange chests in the dusty gloom, warning her that he was not risking her falling through the floor or down a ladder.

"I quite fancy you, when you aren't yelling at me." He smirked, and butterflies erupted in her chest. If only.

The Lord of Carterhaugh had found the Fae portal, and made his way through the shadows to the seat of a great golden throne. He'd changed, heard the whisper of a devil or some dark voice that crawled into his veins, his name the first to go. Rumplestiltskin.

And Rumplestiltskin knew things, things he shouldn't have, and couldn't have. Things to sweeten a deal already suspiciously too good to be true. His wife, the lady of the house, did not love him. He tried many times to use his new found shadows to gain her heart, but they had limits. He tried stranger and more powerful beings in the woods until they fled as far as they could. Nothing worked until he threatened to take their child into the dark without her. She begged him to compromise, and they would split time with their child between their worlds.

For a time, it was good. Rumplestiltskin twisted into something strange, The lady stayed near the same, and no one could tell which way their son might go.

She joined them when her son finally decided to rule beside his Father. It was short-lived, an argument breaking out between the three as they chose whether they would abandon their old home of Carterhaugh to a great war that had begun. The Lady and her son returned, not a day older than when they left, blessing the land so no Fae could cross - as long as a rightful owner held the key.

No one noticed their return, thinking of only the war that held the world in turmoil or that they were distant relatives. When the war ended, no one remembered they had been there far too long.

Especially a soldier trying to return home on foot, lost, hurt, and sick.

The paper was ornate, script flowery and bordered with roses like the ones in her gardens. Emma slid it into a sleeve like the rest. When Killian emerged from the attic with cobwebs in his dark hair, Emma carefully pulled the dust and spider webs away as he huffed in annoyance. Carrying boxes of dust covered books, photo albums, old documents, journals where the ink has bled into the pages making them unintelligible, ledgers and sketches.

Emma was quick to pull out as much as she could, not noticing Killian’s change in posture or how he frowned as he placed albums aside to ‘sort through later’.

Opening a dark leather bound album, she flipped through the pages, as Killian froze behind her, flinching with every turn of the page.

"Look at all the staff here. This place used to run 30 people deep, can you imagine? I'd go crazy trying to organize all that. I guess your family has been doing this for years though."

"My family?" Killian looked confused for a moment before shaking it off. "Oh, yes. We've uh, one of us has always been here." he smiled weakly, and Emma felt an odd twinge in her gut.

"This guy even looks a little like you!" Emma laughed, and Killian frowned deeply, looking over the photo.

"Yeah. He could practically be me." He said in a dry tone, chuckling darkly. Emma felt that sour stone turn in her stomach, and this time she knew there was something behind the offput smile he gave her, more firmly planted than genuine; it took the air completely out of the room. In a sharp and impossibly fast movement, he slammed the book shut with a look of pure frustration, as Emma made a startled noise.

"Killian, what -"

"I'm going to put some of these to the other room. They're later in the period and it will be easier to start at the beginning." Putting the book away, he carried off several to stack in a corner.

"Alright." She gave him a wary glance, but opened up another old book. Several families in Victorian era clothing played croquet on a small lawn, the surrounding forest held back by large stone walls. "Oh, look at those!" Emma exclaimed, fingers pressed to the page. A gargoyle of a vaguely human creature stood at the corners of each side. Killian sat again, leaning over to look, his presence so close. His shoulder fell slightly against hers. She moved slightly away, just enough to feel the warmth of his body but to where he had no weight against her.

"Fae folk," Killian whispered quietly, finger pointing.

"Well. You weren't kidding when you said people here thought less of them than you!" Emma laughed merrily, moving to another album, not noticing Killian’s fingers tracing the large iron spikes that topped the heavy stones. "I guess most people think they're hideous creatures, but I think -"

"There's many, many things in this world. Fae folk happen to be one that, at least here, are known to be dangerous. It's why in lore, you never make deals or supper with strangers on the road, or you count the teeth and fingers of someone who offers you hospitality. Nothing in life comes without a price, and these woods are proof of it. They should have never taken that wall down."

"I agree, it's aesthetically pleasing for sure -"

"Promise me something, love?"

"Uh." Emma looked at him, his jaw clenched as he stared at the photo. "Maybe, it depends -"

"Put that wall back up, please. I'll help whoever lays it brick by bloody brick, but put that wall back up."

"Um. Okay, I will."

"Promise me." His eyes were icy blue as they snapped to stare at her, cold and without any of their normal glimmer of snark. Emma nodded, and he looked back at the photo, tracing the lines of the rock again.

"I promise."

"Thank you, Emma." He sighed, relaxing slightly. Pushing herself against her hatred of touch Emma reached for him. She laid her hand in his, tracing her thumb over his knuckles, and the ghost of a smile returned.

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If there was any advantage of having Killian on the premises of Carterhaugh, it was the cooking. Emma was beyond convinced that the man is the next Gordon Ramsey, showing him videos of the chef's famous temper that made his ears go pink.

"He shouldn't talk to women like that." Killian mumbled, after a particularly bad roasting involving an 'idiot sandwich'.

Emma frowned. "It's something they know going in. They're being respected for their talent, not their gender, or being a woman. They take it just like these men, sometimes - well no, usually, actually - better."

"Women do reserve respect, and to be treated better than this. I don't like this garbage can television you like, Swan."

"Trash TV."

"Semantics."

"Fine, and I guess you would order your kitchen around respectfully?" Emma asked amused. Killian gave a firm nod, washing berries in the sink as Emma sat on the counter top. "Oh captain, my captain! What do you know about bossing around a crew?"

"I was a Captain, Swan. In the Navy. Ranked up after my brother. I'd never speak to my crew like this, and I never did." There was a flat sadness in his tone, and the water ran for a long minute into the sieve that lay in the sink with neither of them moving.

"I didn't - I -"

"I'm thinking pie for this. Have you ever made one?" Killian asked, normalcy returned shakily as he turned off the tap. He flicked water at her with his fingers and she yelped, laughing.

"No. We didn't make pie a whole lot in our foster home." Emma shuddered. "We didn't eat a lot in general, in quite a few of them, really. I guess Neal did get us a pie once when we went out to dinner if you could call it that. He liked artsy food. It was this crazy mushroom tart thing, with all these circular layers. I just wanted - "

"A poptart?" Killian smirked at her, already rolling out dough with small gestures of his wrist on the other side of the sink opposite her. Emma shook off a momentary feeling of hypnotic awe, his movement quick, well practiced and precise mastery, like he had done this forever.

"Actually, I remember wanting of all things, a bologna sandwich."

Killian made a retching noise. "Awful stuff, that. Came out in '57 and they're still using the same cans if it. That and gelatin becoming en vogue is beyond perplexing, and then there were aspics which are a devil's concoction if I've ever seen one. I know bad food Swan, I'm British and was in the navy. Trust me when I say you're better off."

"You like mackerel and pickled herring." Emma giggled.

He looked affronted, giving a faux dramatic gasp. "Well yes, but not gelled, I'm not a savage. I barely put more than 3 tablespoons of vinegar on my food. I'm a purist by my country's standards."

Wrinkling her nose she made a gagging noise, "Gross. Thanks for ruining that for me." He smirked at her unapologetically.

"Hey, before I forget," Emma held up a finger and hopped down off the counter top. Heading to the pantry area, she flicked on the light and pulled down a basket of several apples, bringing them to the counter. Killian continued working methodically, without looking up. "Think we have enough to make a pie out of these?"

She reached down to pull one out, the red skin reflecting her hand like a lacquered surface, but Killian grabbed her wrist roughly. There was a sudden edge to him that made his demeanor feel strange, darker even.

"Where did you get these?" He asked with a hiss. Her eyes widened, and she pulled away briskly.

"The bottom of the hill, where the forest path begins. I hadn't noticed before since we don't walk down that way a lot, but there's an apple tree there -"

"Do not - Never pick those. These apples," he gruffly made a noise between an exasperated sigh and a growl. "These are poisonous. It's leeched into the soil there. Something to do with that New Claire energy. Poison nastiness. Hives of biting, crawling, flying, pests that rot everything they touch. Chemicals."

"Nuclear? Insects? What -"

"Look, just - Never these. Never eat anything from down that hill. Unless it's grown up here, do not eat it."

With flour covered hands he grabbed the basket and stormed out side, throwing the whole thing down the hill, and heading to the back garden. Emma stood open mouthed for a minute, looking around confused. When Killian stormed down the hill from the back garden as a shadowy silhouette in the late afternoon sun with an axe, she slipped on shoes to run after him. By the time she was out the door she could here the swings of the axe in wood. The tree fell as she reached the crest, sliding slightly down the slope.

As soon as the tree hit the ground, the leaves changed to a duller color, and as she came to the even patch of ground, an apple rolled to touch her boot. It was decaying, the lacquered red surface giving way to black beetles and crawling centipedes that fled there safety. Killian panted slightly, before throwing the axe over his shoulder and stalking back toward Carterhaugh.

"What - It wasn't like that when I -"

"Soil is bad, like I said. Just - just don't come down here. It's not safe. There's things left over from the wars, and old wells, mine shafts - there's a reason why all this land is untouched. No one wants it."

"You mean like, fairy circles, those types of old wells?" Emma called after him as he froze, kicking a blackened apple down the hill but away from her path.

Killian tensed, rigid and darkly shadowed by the setting sun. For a moment Emma thought he might yell at her, his stature wound so tight to the point of snapping, and face furious. He took a breath, and let it melt off him, composing himself as Emma watched in confusion.

Mumbling a curse under his breath he walked towards her and in a quiet tone drawled out an emotionless phrase, "Yes. Like those."

They walked back to the kitchen, but Emma felt herself come loose from the strangeness of the black beetles, so much like little black teeth or shiny black tacks, centipedes crawling, circling each other -

Neal loves circles, it's always circles in his art and designs. When Emma first meets him, he is tagging circles on a building, spraying thick lines of black and white that he covers in red to make a ring of what looks like mushrooms. Tucked away, she was fascinated by his fluid movements with the can until he chuckled lowly, turning to stare directly at her with eyes that are brown but somehow glow with tawny humor.

"Well well well." His voice is a whisper, but Emma can hear it all around her, echoing through the concrete, crumbling brick, and metal of the alleyway. "A lost boy has found a lost girl."

It doesn't make sense that he is so wise and young at the same time, but he calls her an old soul, which Emma delights in, especially on his arm in the backroom of a party or club. She is mature for her age, he tells her, nuzzling his nose in her hair. When he waves her past people, he always knows people and they seem to want to please him, his voice is like caramel.

"She's with me. Ems is cool."

It's astounding to her. He has nothing but everything, taking what is and isn't offered with no consequences.

"It's magic, Ems. People will give whatever I ask, because they know better than to ever say no." Holding her tightly, he rubs her arms and her stiffness melts away on whispered words of how happy he is with her. How glad he is to have someone who understands, the only person who gets him, the only person that makes him want to live.

When he asks, Emma does not say no. He is as important to her as she is to him. It does not matter that they've been together a few months, she echoes, they feel as though they have been together for years. It doesn't matter that she does not know what he does to make so much money, to buy her the nicest things even though she does not ask, he holds her hand as they grocery shop.

It does not matter that he asks again and again, more aggressively each time, and when she says no she learns better than to ever deny him again.

They are in love, Neal her first and only love in a long line of loss, the only person who has her full trust after years of betrayal. They are in love, and he holds her heart. It was only once, then twice, then more - but he's doing it for her own good, just correcting her behavior. He always tells her after how sorry he is, and how much he loves her. That he never wants her to hurt again, no more excuses about clumsiness or stealing makeup to cover evidence that fades from purple to yellow. No more late night visits to his doctor, the one across town who won't ask questions about her broken wrist or swollen jaw.

He cares about her enough to make her better. To make her listen and love him the way he needs to be loved; the consequences be damned, because those moments of rage are so fleetingly brief, that it does not matter.

It does matter a little when his time is spent on more trips alone, on business deals that she cannot accompany him to. It does matter when she finds dark plum lipstick on his collar, and it does matter when he storms out when she questions his fidelity.

It does matter when he returns, a silver circle lying in a plush casing, the proposal tainted by his ultimatum :

"Marry me, Ems. Marry me, or lose everything." He asks, and Emma does not say no, there's no way out of this, he's encircled her -

FWOOOM.

Her thoughts are broken by the sound of - something. It's a noise Emma has never heard, followed by Killian’s yelp of panic. He's thrown himself back on the floor away from the old oven when she skids to a stop on her socks to fall into him, his face soot covered and hair slightly charred on the edges.

"Are you alright?" Emma chokes out, but he hits her with a look of absolute frustration that goes so well with the black covering his face and the ember still slightly orange on his eyebrow she brushes away even as it burns her, and it takes seconds for her to dissolve into peals of laughter that make him look even more put out. "Oh, Killian -"

"Don't even start, Swan."

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Killian became a close confidante, the only person Emma had known that she could spend time with just in their presence, enjoying every moment. His presence soothed unlike so many that grated on her, and their routines twisted together until they were inseparable for vast portions of the day.

As it became nicer, they walked the property together and he showed her every plant, bird, animal and bug his work helped cultivate, as if he was completely responsible for the life that flooded where the forest did not touch. Emma could believe he was without trying, especially when fireflies danced around them and lit ginger glints in his hair or cast green and grey specks in his irises.

They sat by the now working fountains listening to mourning doves, or out on the gazebo that looked down the hill towards the wood, and he listened or hummed quietly while they read. There was a sense of calm that came with him that made her feel enveloped in safety. She could just be, and just being meant she could be vulnerable.

"My husband - it's complicated. I just, he was the love of my life and he let me down. No. He did more than that, he - I - I fell so far into myself I thought I would never escape and I can't let someone do that to me again. He was an awful person who was awfully good at pretending he wasn't."

"You don't have to say more, love."

"What about you? A good looking guy like you probably has -"

"You think I'm good looking Swan?"

Emma blushed, fiddling with the flower crown in her hands. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

"I do?" He asked, more amused. "I suppose a dashing rapscallion like m'self -"

Emma groaned, and they both laughed. She smiled at the crown, twisting away a stray petal here and there. Killian broke the silence in a thoughtful voice.

"The love of my life let me down too, so we're quite the pair, you and I."

Emma caught his quick glance in her direction, and the way his face changed from a smile, to carefully polished facade. Walls to never show the world any vulnerability, unsaid things piled up so high on the ramparts, and armor to protect from being hurt again.

"Milah. She was beautiful, smart, so zealous about life and the beauty of everything. She loved flowers, and I was good with them. She said that I was magic with them." Killian sounded wistful, and began to scrub at the back of his neck, talking rapidly, as if he was nervous.

"She was married but so unhappy, her husband had left her to care for their home while he… while he cared for his business elsewhere. It put their son in a difficult position due to it. He was expected to be two places at once, being educated in both worlds. It left Milah alone a lot of the time, and I welcomed her company. We fell in love against better judgment, she was a woman that wanted for nothing and took what she liked - I was something she liked. I don't know if I ever had a choice, really. At first it was wonderful, and everything was perfect. I feared her husband finding out, as he was very powerful in the, er, business world. Surprisingly, I discovered he didn't care. He called me her pet. I hated that, but I wanted her to be happy." He paused, shuddering, and looked over his shoulder. A harsh wind blew from up the forest, and although it had been a warm day, it smelled cloyingly of wet earth.

"She convinced me to run away with her, to join her husband and son in their business. Life had gotten harder and there were other forces at work outside of us, our country involved in a war. She was afraid. I followed her, because I was so in love, I'd follow her anywhere. It was subtle, her mannerisms changed and became more sharp, and we - well, our love changed drastically. She began to enjoy hurting me, and I at first thought that I enjoyed it, just trying to please, but she became worse as if she was trying to break me, bringing others in to torture me. Mind games and intrigues amongst…" His cheeks pinked. "Other things."

"You don't have to tell me this. If you don't want to, if you're not - you don't owe me -" Emma looked away, and he laughed ruefully. She looked back and he was shaking his head with his jaw set.

"I know I don't owe - you're the first person I've talked to about any of this." He sighed, and she picked at her fingernails. "If you don't want to -"

"No. It's okay. I…" Emma bit her lip. "Go on."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Her husband and a long line of others degraded me, tormented me, pulled me apart without care and made me wish I had never been born. Where in the beginning Milah at least provided a soothing touch after, she began to leave me alone to watch me suffer, or ignore my pleas to stop. I have never felt so helpless."

"Killian, I -"

"So I know the feeling of shame, I understand not wanting to be touched, I have boundaries from my escape and extricating from Milah's grip. Leaving her was like…" he laughed again, sad and without any humor. "Banishment. I was left absolutely alone, her son had been my close friend, and I had others that I was close with in their business."

Standing, he brushed off his pant legs and looked out at the sky. Emma stood slowly, chewing her lip to the point of pain before making her decision.

Carefully, Emma tucked her hand into his, his fingers intertwining with her own as they walked in silence. They made occasional light conversation, laughing together, and an easy feeling of belonging came over her so strongly. His thumb traced her own, while his smile traced a path through every barrier and straight to her heart.

Returning to the house Killian made a chicken and rice dish that was phenomenal as usual, and over wine Emma teased him about his absolute refusal to consider adding a chicken coop to the property.

"They're nasty birds, Swan."

"They eat pests, and they would have so much room. I think it would be nice."

"Just because you and they are kin, doesn't mean I want to care for them, Swan."

"Are you… Ch- Ch- Chicken?" Emma smiled at him with uninhibited glee.

"You are absolutely ridiculous."

"You love me for it." Emma stabbed a bite and grinned as she chewed, oblivious to the look of longing that came over him.

"That I do."

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

When Emma opened the door for vulnerability in her life, the breeze that came through pushed every idea of a wall out of the relationship she and Killian had built, their likes and dislikes melding and the strangeness of their lives being alike turning into long stories over spiked cocoa in half finished rooms.

Killian was an orphan, the same caged look in his eye when asked about family. His brother was gone, but both their siblings had fought constantly for a better life for the younger.

Where Emma didn't know her parents, Killian remembered his mother and his drunken father, and they commiserated on which was worse. In the end, it came down to loss and abandonment laying a heavy hand on both of their existences in a way that made Emma see Killian in a different light all together. There was a softness that met the same jagged edge of wildness, the raw and crooked pieces that came together in a clash just like hers. There were scars, mental and physical, that she recognized easily now, and that changed the way they interacted.

Emma had always felt like she was walking the thinnest invisible line, unsure what was above or below or ahead, but in Killian’s presence she felt someone's hand in her own. Emma hoped he felt the same balance, and the same surety she did.

Fear was there too, and it came in the night when she examined the synchronicity that she wanted to cling to like a preserver.

If Neal hadn't ruined her, if she wasn't just slightly more broken and absolutely undesirable, Killian would be everything Neal wasn't.

Her wedding is beautiful, but strange in its own right, a ceremony that is a blur of unfamiliar faces, drinking, food, and meeting who Neal demands her to meet. It feels strange, as if there is something wrong with everything, a piece that is missing among the wreckage, but she cannot grasp it.

Neal is forceful when he introduces a few guests, but Emma is the sun, shining on this day and not noticing the sideways looks people shared. The women are striking, Emma unsure of how they know Neal, and unable to ask for fear of her tangled tongue.

There's so much spinning and dancing, his voice low and sweet, warming her and tracing her nerves with fuzziness. Her friends are there too, and they are happy, so happy as they drink and dance and feast. David is there only briefly, the only one ever disgusted by Neal, but her old roommate from college, Ruby, makes it. They share a silly dance that makes Ruby's bracelets jingle while Neal talks to his friends, so many friends she has never seen. There's so much money in this place, so much she did not plan or choose, ostentatious in your face gaudy things that Neal has chosen for her. Neal will choose for her, because he knows best, and she is in his ring, twirling in a gown that glitters with crystals.

Neal dances with Ruby, and she is charmed immediately. There are other people he dances with that Emma invited, the cake shop owner down the street Tiana, a woman from an sculpting course, Ariel, and their upstairs neighbor, Tamara. Each seem to join her new husband and come away with a blushing grin, the wine strong.

They go to bed and it's not as much as making love, but it isn't as little as just fucking or consummation - there's a frenzied edge that makes her toes curl but scares her. When she wakes up, her body is bruised and bite marks line her skin, dark blossoms that feel tender. He's gone, left a note for her on their honeymoon that something has come up back home. The tears come easily, but the call to the concierge is rough. Neal had left her money to do whatever it is someone does alone on their honeymoon in the Caribbean, and she laughs as the clerk judges her while handing her the bag.

The first two days of Plan B she can't drink, and it takes everything to follow through with that, watching Back to the Future 1 - 4 in the pool while gorging on onion rings. The third day is spent drunk and crying over a grilled cheese, then more onion rings.

Getting home, she finds Neal in their living room, and he surveys her calmly like one might do an over tired child. It hurts her, the coldness in his eyes. He sighs tracing a circle around the rim of a whisky tumbler.

"You've gained weight."

Emma laughs angrily and unbelieving, but it's cut short as the circles on his glass continue faster and faster around, until she fades into a smile, gently saying,

"Sorry, Neal, I'll do better."

He smiles, putting down the glass to his side.

"Good girl. Now come here, I missed you."

Emma walks over and straddles him - surprised how wrong it feels but how right it feels to please him. She does want to make him happy, doesn't she? To repay his good will and good fortune? Or is she an ungrateful girl that can still be left if she displeases, abandonment or adoration the choice is hers - which is it, which is it, which is it - and their kisses turn into something more as he turns out the light in their bedroom.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Malcolm of Malcolm's restoration services was the first person Emma had found anywhere remotely close that was able to properly authenticate the rare safe she found hidden in one of the walls. In the old Master's study, Emma had found a loose panel, and had assumed it to be another thing to fix. Finding the safe, and then Googling the safe to see if could be broken into easily led Emma to discover that not only could it not - it might spray some sort of gas all over.

She called the man and he answered first ring, and she booked him to drive the hour to Carterhaugh. He was entirely unpleasant on the phone, but Emma thought that might be due to the surprise drive to the middle of nowhere.

He was wholly, entirely, and awfully beyond unpleasant in person.

Malcolm had shown up reeking of alcohol, his boots caked in mud that he'd tracked over the newly restored entryway, and had only been eager to get the safe out of the wall - and into his truck.

"Ya'dunno what's innit, so I'll charge ye a bit t'take it off yer hands. Be needing special tools anyway, which I only have at m'shop. Most safes are empty, but you'll know yet home is safe from t'gas at least."

"I'm sorry Mr. Malcolm, but no. I wish you didn't have to come all the way out here but I'll pay you -"

"Fine, fine, I'll open it here, I'll just…" He pulled a hammer out of his pocket, and Emma stopped him again.

"I would just really prefer if you don't? I read about these and I really don't want to risk it, when you say you need specific tools from your shop. If it's most likely empty I'll leave it for another day, and drive out there with you."

Malcolm smiled, greasily, lowering the hammer to his side. He nodded and turned to have Emma follow him towards the entry hall.

"Sounds good miss. It must be tough out here all alone by yourself."

Emma answered before she could think better of it. "Oh no, I'm used to being on my own really, and -"

The crack of the hammer missed her by such a small margin, she felt the breeze hit her forehead. It stuck in the wall as she threw herself back instinctively and stupidly, scrambling as Malcolm pulled the hammer free and swung again.

"Killian! Killian, fuck! Help!" She screamed down the hall towards the solarium, narrowly avoiding getting hit again as Malcolm swung wildly.

"You bitch, I thought you were alone up here!" The lunatic hissed, and Emma heard the sound of running steps as Killian yelled after her.

"Emma, if you've fallen again, I swear -" Killian took a look at Malcolm with his hammer raised above her, and became instantly enraged, running full speed at Malcolm with a roar of anger. The older man threw the hammer at him hitting Killian in the chest, scrambling to throw an entry table and chaise in Killian’s path as they ran for the door.

Emma heard the squealing of tires and shouts, unable to move from her sprawled defensive position on the floor. Killian came back in like a blur, and before Emma could find the air to ask him to call the police or if he was alright, he had wrapped his arms around her holding her head as she burst into tears.

"You're alright. Emma, I've got you. You're alright, love. What - Who was that? Did he hurt you? I would have been faster, I thought - I'm such an idiot I thought, and you could have been - Emma, please tell me you're alright because if he hurt you, I swear I will hunt the bastard down and stuff him." Emma wrapped her arms around him, tightly gripping him and crying inconsolably. Her shoulders shook, and he only whispered soothingly, only pulling away to lock the doors.

Emma called the police, recounting what happened to Killian and the department as they asked questions, Killian pacing by the time they thanked her for her statement.

"We'll keep an eye out for him Miss Swan, and if he should turn up again, give us a ring."

"What do you mean give us a ring, she could have bloody well died! Send someone after him -"

"Miss Swan, who is this?" The officer asked.

"Oh, he's - he's my roommate and helps with restoration. Jones."

The officer made a loud sigh. "Seainns? There's another of you?"

"No, Jones. Only the one." Killian gritted out.

"Alright Mr. Jones, well, we can't just arrest someone, as although they did damage, we don't know where they may be, and we are a small town with limited resources. We'll have someone in a car sit at the bottom of the drive until morning."

"Thanks." Emma mumbled. The sound of a click was followed by Killian’s shouts.

"Bloody useless! We'd have caught him on foot, and dragged him through town by his arms -"

"Hey, Killian?" Emma whispered, and he stopped pacing to look at her. "Will you stay with me tonight? Please?"

His eyes widened, and he moved toward her, although she shrunk back. "Oh, Emma -"

"I just don't want to be alone tonight." She mumbled, voice cracking. Unable to look at him, she felt him gather her hands, squeezing gently. When she yanked away he froze, then moved slightly away from her. Emma regretted it instantly.

"Of course, love. Your room?"

Emma nodded. She let him lead her up the stairs, stopping by his room to grab a few things, before he sat on the edge of her bed. He laid his pillow on the floor, but she grabbed his arm as he set about laying blankets there as well.

"No. If you don't want to I understand, but… Please, I want you close, I don't want to wake up and think I'm alone."

"Are you sure, Swan?" He asked, and she nodded.

Crawling into bed with her as she snuggled into him and let herself cry, he held her tightly.

"I promise Emma, I won't let anyone hurt you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you today -"

"You were." Emma whispered. "You are."

"I won't let harm befall you, in any way I can prevent. I promise."

He held her close, alert for any sounds as she fell asleep.

For the first time in years, she woke with no recollect of nightmares, fully rested, warm and safe. Tracing the scar on his cheek as he slept, the morning light hit his eyelashes and hair revealing auburn glints. They fluttered, and his eyes crinkled at their edges, blue and glints of gold.

"You stayed."

"I told you I wouldn't leave, love. You're safe."

Emma felt words pour out of her, his quiet listening while resting his hands gently in platonic embrace cathartic as she told him everything. Abandonment after abandonment, unending and unrelenting betrayals of trust that she explained as he comforted in the ways he could.

"I know you think that you have to be strong, and I know you think that you can't trust or lean on others. I will do everything that I can to prove myself to you, to prove that you deserve more."

"Why?" Emma asked, more plea than question.

Killian hesitated. Finally he swallowed hard. "It's what friends do."

Emma laughed softly, letting out a hum of contentment when she fell asleep again.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Mary Margaret and David visit once Emma has restored a suite she found suitable for them, her standards on the first place she would invite her adoptive brother ridiculously high. He had been absolutely hell bent on seeing the place, but had finally had enough when Emma had mentioned Killian more times than what was most likely normal for a staff member of the manor.

"I have tickets booked for Christmas. We're coming." He announced on their Skype call. Emma blanched, choking on her wine.

"Christmas?" she squeaked. "But that would mean presents and food, and we -"

Mary Margaret spoke calmly from just off camera. "We will get groceries in London for the week we're there, and ship the gifts straight to your house wrapped. Hell, I'll even buy Christmas crackers. All you need to do is open the doors, put up some semblance of a tree, and have somewhere we can sleep."

"But -"

"Emma. Mary lived with me and my ogre frat brothers on campus for two years. As long as there are no crusted socks on door handles, your place will be as immaculate as the Vatican. We're coming."

Emma tried to argue but couldn't get past either of them, finally conceding when Mary Margaret pointed out that Emma kept saying we when it came to her arguments.

"Did you meet someone? Is there a we now? Tell the gardener to bring a date, I follow him on that GreenThumb app - I want to meet him!"

In her Skype account's chat box, Emma saw her face go red. "No," she snapped, unsure why the thought irritated her. The interrogation probably, that sneaky, bird whispering, cookie pusher of a sister and law. "No, no one for me, but I'm sure Killian will be around. He told me he purchased an ugly sweater for himself."

Emma took a swig of wine while her brother made an irritated noise.

"He's telling you what he's wearing? Emma, is he gay?" Emma flooded her lungs in cabernet, coughing and spraying her laptop screen. "If he is, we know a nice man and can set them up - That Jefferson fellow, the artist at our old complex."

David laughed, both of them not paying attention to Emma hacking and scrubbing at her laptop with her robe. "Oh yeah! The artist that kept getting high and painting rabbits. He had that exhibit he invited us to, what was it called - with all the penises that were 'mushrooms'?"

"'Wünder.' it was called I think." Mary Margaret smacked him on the shoulder from off screen. "I remember because you said it should not have been called that in allusion to Wonderland when it attracted that blonde doctor, and more than a few bears."

"That's right!" David snapped his fingers, smirking at Emma from through the screen.

Now half choking and laughing, Emma gave a hoarse, "Fuck you both."

David smiled sweetly, and replied, "See you at Christmas, sis."

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Mistake number one is completely Killian’s fault.

They have to get a tree, and not just any tree, a fifteen foot goddamn tree that goes in a specific place in the den, where it will lord over them like the undeserving peasants they are. Or, that's what Emma feels about the whole thing. Killian has precariously climbed up one of the big ladders with a long measuring tape to painstakingly make sure the dimensions of the tree are that of some sort of branch trunk ratio, muttering about 'gardener stuff' she wouldn't understand.

"We literally could just get a fake tree. I have one, I brought it, it's 5 feet and prelit -"

"Your brother is coming here, and you have never done Christmas in a real home. I want your first Christmas here to be…" Killian made a gesture and finally scratched behind his ear, and blushed. "I want you to feel at home."

"Oh." Emma blinked. "Okay…? But the thing is, Killian, I don't need a giant ass needle machine to make this place feel at home, my Christmas activities are usually Chinese food and whatever booze is on discount at the local drug store."

"Why are there stores for just drugs in America? You bloody people -"

"Do not change the subject, using my patriotism is not going to work on me this time."

"Fine. Fine! I'll get the tree up and all you need to get are the decorations."

"Fine. I ordered them with all the gifts, they'll arrive in three days. Please get the tree by then, and no shame if it's not that big, seriously. David and Two Ems will be here the day before."

Climbing down the ladder, he shut the measuring tape with a nod. "Then that's the day it will be here. That way we can all decorate it. I'll pull out my gifts when you lot put yours out."

Emma widened her eyes. "Oh, you didn't have to - I didn't know if you wanted to do that with us -"

Killian looked slightly defeated, and then embarrassed. "Oh. If I'm imposing… If no one got me -"

"I mean I did, but -"

His smile relit, his eyes crinkled at the corners. "That's all that matters. I'll get the tree, Swan."

David and Mary Margaret arrived, and the first hour was spent with Two Ems giggling and clapping her hands at the literal fairy tale property she's on, as David's jaw stays open.

"So, once I knew that you were coming up, I designed your suite. It's called the songbird suite, and I modeled it after both of you." Emma smiled shyly. Mary Margaret tackled her with a hug, and Emma laughed delightedly.

David approached the room and it's stained glass door and carved wood door, it's facade made to look like a tree dripping leaves that went from green to yellow and then red and brown. Turning the French handle that was made to look like a copper branch, they stepped inside. The room was wall to wall a mural of a verdant forest, the plaster inlay textured to give the illusion of dimension. A hearth of rustic wood burned merrily near the bathroom archway where a river stone bath and shower peeked out. Through the bathroom and past a rock cut double vanity lay a door out into a small garden courtyard, while past the tub a closet sprawled out with a booth for make up.

"Why is it the songbird room?" Mary Margaret asked.

Emma simply pointed up.

On the ceiling Killian has painted all the song birds that lived in their gardens, each one in detail and vivid coloring. He had draped plants in old bird cages they had found in the attic, growing the long vines to hang from the ceiling with flickering tea lights.

David walked to Emma, and smiled happily. "Can I hug you, Emma?" He asked quietly. She gave a simple nod, and he delicately embraced her, whispering in her ear so that Mary Margaret couldn't hear.

"You totally got me laid tonight, so thanks for that."

Emma burst out laughing, pushing him away while yelling how gross that was, and he started laughing too. Mary Margaret looked confused but hugged Emma again as she tried to breathe.

"I'm glad you like it Two Ems."

"It's perfect Em singular."

Just after that moment, Killian called from the hall.

"Can I draw your attention to the Den, Family Swan." Mary Margaret quirked an eyebrow, but Emma shrugged pushing past to the hallway and into the den. Killian stood next to a massive tree, its branches held by thick red twine. He held a pair of scissors in his hands. Emma simply held her mouth open in shock along with Mary Margaret, the enormity of the massive pine overwhelming. She didn't notice David's pointed glare at Killian. "Madame Swan, M'lady Mary Margaret, and… Er. Dave."

David cracked his knuckles as his hand balled into a fist, with a grunt. Emma was too busy trying to figure out the scale of the tree to acknowledge him.

"I give you, our Christmas tree." Killian gave a bow, and with a quick flourish, cut the twine. The tree sprung open, boughs decorated in soft lights, glitter, some manner of tinsel, and long strings of ribbons, popcorn and cranberries. "All that's left is the star, and ornaments."

"Killian, wow, I -" Emma covered her mouth, trying not to let tears prick her eyes. She walked half dazed, not taking her eyes off the tree as she came to his side. "It's more than I -"

"So you like it?" He asked quietly.

"I love it, you've - I don't even know -"

He looked concerned, and gently swiped at her eyes. "Love don't cry, it's alright," Hugging her, she laughed.

"It's just so pretty, I never imagined having anything like this. Never in my life, I just… Thank you. Thank you so much, thank you."

Killian laughed, giving her a spin as she let out a joyful shriek.

Emma didn't notice David's tension, or the excited tug Mary Margaret gave on his sleeve that went unnoticed as he glared.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

The second mistake comes in the form of Dinner the next day. David had excused himself after decorating the tree, citing exhaustion. Mary Margaret had gone with him and they retired early. Their gifts had been delivered the next day, beautifully propped against the decorated tree, while a team of couriers helped unload the ridiculous amount of food Mary Margaret had ordered.

"So, I am making the pies and cookies, the casserole, and the mashed potatoes. I figure that you," Mary Margaret pointed a bright red spatula at Killian who grinned in delight, "Can do the bird, vegetables, and that rice dish Emma raves about over Skype -"

"I do not rave about it over Skype -" Emma moaned, covering her face. Her stomach gurgled loudly, Mary Margaret and Killian laughing while David glowered.

"And David will do the ham, the lamb, and the holy roast." Mary Margaret laughed, Killian joining in. Emma gave David a bright smile that he did not return, not noticing, animatedly talking to Killian while he cut vegetables, popping cherry tomatoes in her mouth as he pretended to be annoyed. David grunted, pulling out the large roast pans.

Mary Margaret elbowed David, jerking her head at Emma, and David cleared his throat.

"Emma, would you like to help Mary Margaret?" David asked in a strained voice. "I'm sure she will let you add more cinnamon than normal people like in their shortbread."

Rolling her eyes, Emma stuck out her tongue at David, throwing a cranberry at him. "You're lucky I never miss the chance to merge from Em singular into," In unison robot voices, Mary Margaret and her intoned, "Triple M, Femme from Hell."

The broke into giggles before beginning to work. Opening a bottle of champagne and dumping it into a pitcher with cranberry juice, cinnamon sticks and orange slices, Emma poured herself and Mary Margaret a mug.

"My contribution, dear Sister in law." Emma smiled. Mary Margaret clinker her mug against Emma's, glancing over to where the men were working. They were back to back in silence, each stabbing at different ingredients. Mary Margaret gave a quiet sigh. Emma looked between the men and Mary Margaret with a confused look. "What?"

"My husband - your brother - is being a butthead." Mary Margaret whispered. Emma laughed, before realizing that she was serious.

"Wait, what? Who even says butthead anymore, are you eight? What are you even -"

"He's jealous. He's jealous that," She pointed at Killian with a measuring cup as she filled it with flour. "He couldn't do this for you. I mean, I know that he has to know this is because of Nil who he absolutely despised, but now there's another person who you've let in your life that is here because of Neal, and who is showing him up, that you've let in -"

"Fuck, I didn't even, I didn't think -" Emma hissed, and threw back her drink. Hissing in a quiet whisper, she gripped the counter. "Shit shit shit shit. But - but Killian is different, he's not like Neal at all and is just a friend. He's - there's nothing.".

Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow, smirking, before her face fell.

"Wait. Emma, you're serious? You and him aren't -" Emma shook her head, and Mary Margaret's eyes went wide. "But, but, he's - Oh, Emma."

Emma looked at her stupidly, blinking as Mary Margaret grabbed her hand and patted, looking over at Killian. He had moved around to the oven, jockeying for space and showing David how to work the various modes as her brother's hands balled further into fists.

When he caught their gazes, Killian gave a wave her way, smiling at her.

Emma turned back, and Mary Margaret was gulping down her own glass of the champagne mixture, putting up a finger to stop Emma from speaking as she poured another and downed it just as quickly.

"Wha?" Emma managed, but Mary Margaret just shook her head, muttering.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

The dinner was fantastic, even if Mary Margaret got exceedingly drunk and laughed entirely too hard at the dirty jokes in her Christmas cracker, but David loosened up as the night went on and they all wore their silly hats, food being passed and eaten. They were all well drunk as the lamb and roast's smell wafted from the kitchen for the next day, and cookies were happily munched on by the fire.

They played a silly almost game of spades at a low coffee table in the den, trading white elephant gifts of ridiculous pajamas and blanket sets Mary Margaret had picked out, Emma receiving a mustache print blanket and flaming hot cheetos mixed with mistletoe pajamas. Mary Margaret fared much better, a Scooby-Doo onesie with Santa hat, rainbow blanket with poop emojis, and matching poop Emoji pillow. David received a silky mumu in a pepto pink with glittery loafers and a blanket with the repeated words 'Diva' and 'Princess' in cursive on it, but Killian fared worst of all.

"You've bested me, Mary Margaret. I shan't forgive you for this." He raised a fist in fake anger, plinking in his ears as he pulled out the offending garment. They all cackled, Mary Margaret actually falling over in peals of laughter as he glared at her in good humor and sang out mockingly, "Revenge, revenge, revenge will be mine."

A silky black robe with lace trim and black velour booty shorts were held in his hands, the red and white candy cane lettering across the back reading, 'Naughty List'. The blanket print was a black and red velour with Santa wearing devil horns.

David could not stop laughing as they all took a photo together, Killian bright red in embarrassment and drink, the both of them staying late up into the night talking. They all changed or got comfortable, Triple M falling asleep cuddled together in a drunk doze.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Christmas morning marked the third and final mistake, a group of hung over almost thirty somethings waking up to a cold hearth and backs that protested not sleeping on a mattress. Killian was up first as usual, fetching wood and dropping it with a yawn in the grate, stoking the embers. Mary Margaret and David woke up later as Emma dozed in and out, listening to their conversation.

"If you give him any trouble -"

"- How can she not know, I mean -"

"I mean it David, I will give you a new year's resolution of a dry spell if you -"

"That is emotional manipulation, Snow, and I'm only worried for my sister -"

"Don't 'Snow' me, this is the happiest I've seen her in so long, and you could be happy with her, last night you told me he was a good guy -"

"Last night I was drunk! Come on, Snow I -"

"David, if you don't act charming I'll… After we open gifts, go help him in the garden. Please."

Her brother gave a dramatic sigh, grunting out an okay. Falling back asleep until she smelled coffee, Emma led them in devouring ham with toast. They sat around the tree opening gifts, as they felt life returning in the form of caffeine.

They all received socks, some books, and various other gifts tailored to them. Mary Margaret got several kits for her class, a voucher for archery lessons, and several bird feeders that would be delivered to their home. David got free dog training courses for their puppy, wireless headphones, and a new pair of boots he had been eyeing. Emma was surprised to receive a wallpaper book based on period design, several dresses, a wine club subscription, and a beautiful shadowbox frame full of photos of hee adoptive mother. David had squeezed her hand at that, both of them sharing a look.

Emma was beyond grateful that Killian was given gifts by Mary Margaret, who'd given him a National Geographic subscription, Play store card, and to his delight, purchased an actual star for him.

"It's registered, you just go online and name it. They will give you the coordinates, which you can track on the phone app, or a telescope." Mary Margaret explained.

"Which brings me to my gifts to you." Emma smiled. She handed him a small envelope, and he opened it cautiously.

Inside was a voucher for a flower of the month and seed of the month club respectively, but what caught his eye was a scrawled message inside.

'In the Solarium.'

"Swan, I thought about what to get you, and -"

"Aren't you going to look in the Solarium?"

"Well, yes, but -"

"No, you've got to go look! I want to see your face. You probably won't shut up for weeks about it." Emma grinned, standing.

Killian sighed, and they all moved towards the bright sunshine of the glass enclosure. He rounded the bend, and Emma thought his gasp of excitement was worth its weight in gold. The telescope there was gold, designed like an old sextant but completely up to date with the newest technology. Emma watched him trace a finger before looking back at her and trying to find words.

"I know, I know. Your gift won't compare." She groused, and he looked overcome.

"Emma, this is too much -"

"No. It's not." She stated firmly. He shook his head, laughing in disbelief.

Pulling out a velvet box, he opened it and the sun caught green gems. "I guess I don't have to feel bad about this then. I had them restored after that awful man attacked you. They were in the safe, they're emeralds, a set of combs, earbobs, and necklace set in silver."

He handed the box to her, and Emma could not find words, even} rest assured I'd never let harm befall her." Clapping a hand against David's back, he gave a grim look of resolve. "Never."

David sputtered briefly, before breaking into a grin, and clapping Killian on the back as well, Mary Margaret smiling as she watched Emma swipe away tears from her eyes. Emma closed the box, coming back to the moment, no one noticing her quick sleight of hand as she threw the box under a shelf.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

Mary Margaret and David left with Killian feeling like an old friend, their bags heavy and concerned heavily with how they would ever get through customs with the amount of food they had.

Killian had given them a historic tour of the property, fascinating Mary Margaret, who even forgave his refusal to take her through the woods.

"They're just lovely, and so weird too. They should not have leaves, and yes there are some fir and pine in there, but it's just so dense. It doesn't make sense, the branches practically knit together."

Killian just smiled blandly, and shrugged. "That land is strange."

David and Killian were acting as if they were best friends, and Emma was delighted, even beyond her distress over Killian’s gift. When she was sure they were all occupied, Emma had dug earth out of one of the many pots in the solarium garden. Pouring the jewels into the hole, she paused, feeling a pang of regret. Bracing herself, she covered the hole in dirt, knowing that she could not survive with the memory of Neal so close.

Returning to them, they played more games, and Emma showed them plans for the next rooms, they watched a few movies, and overall enjoyed each other's company.

Seeing them off, Emma hugged her brother tightly without him having to ask if it was alrght, his surprise turning into a tight embrace of joy.

Killian and her waved goodbye from the hall, watching the taxi pull away from Carterhaugh, Emma leaning into him when they were out of sight.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

After the house quieted from the holidays, Emma began having night terrors regularly. As this continued into the beginning of Spring, Killian found her several times drooling onto a pile of receipts or restoration samples, wallpaper swatches wet and blurred on the edges. Emma had guiltily proposed that she sleep in the garden while he worked, but he had been horrified by that suggestion.

To combat this and his lack of movie knowledge, Emma came up with what she considered an ingenious solution - using leftover furniture, pillows, and an assortment of old linens, she set up fort pillow-haugh with absolute precision. Falling asleep to Indiana Jones ('Are you sure there's no relation between you two?' she had asked to receive a cheeky grin back) while sated on popcorn and feeling comforted by Killian’s nearby presence was the easiest way to rest. So what if her back protested or in the middle of a thunderstorm she tucked into him so tightly she was afraid he might have bruised - they're friends.

They're friends alone in the middle of nowhere, and he holds her like he can't imagine anyone who wouldn't worship the ground she walked on.

They're friends and he spoons against the back of her softly, without any degree of disrespect or disregard, everything up to her.

They're friends as she is deeply asleep, but without dreams hears his voice like a bell over still water, feeling his nose bury into the hair at the nape of her neck and his lips on her shoulder.

"I love you, Emma. One day, I'll tell you how much with no trickery, and I will win your heart."

Even if it's only pretty words in dreams as he held her, Emma smiled and relaxed further into his touch. It's a dream she wants nothing more than to keep having as her second anniversary of living in Carterhaugh rolls around.

-·=»‡«=·- 🌹🥀🌹🥀🌹 -·=»‡«=·-

The fight is really her fault, but Emma gives stubborn a run for its money on her best days.

The upstairs bath in the all blue guest room had been leaking and making the hall reek of mildew. Fearing that she might have to replace tile that was quite literally irreplaceable, Emma went about getting a plumber, securing an appointment with one but not for two weeks.

So she had taken a wrench to the exposed faucets, carefully moving tiles from the mosaic floor of some red haired mermaid, following YouTube videos on how to turn the water off in the old pipes with a shut off valve. When her wrench slipped on the rusty piping and she cut herself, her chorus of curse words echoed down the halls, but she hadn't expected Killian’s breathless arrival or worried eyes.

"Emma, what did you - Are you alright?" He stared at the red dripping from her hand and her disheveled state.

Emma nodded, trying to push past, but he held fast. "I just - it's just a cut. I'm alright." The worry in his gaze made her feel under spotlight. It had been almost a year of work, but no one in that time span had ever cared about her, except Mary Margaret. Not that she counted; the woman loved everyone.

Killian only shook his head. Pulling a black handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it delicately around the cut, bending low to make sure the knot he made was tight. "I thought you said you were calling a plumber?" he asked quietly, the worry now lacing his voice.

"I did, I just need to turn off this valve and it's stuck -" Emma gestured, and Killian picked up the wrench, bending to look. Before she could protest, he turned the wrench - in the wrong direction. There was a hiss, then a pop, and suddenly there was water shooting at both of them, ice cold, coming from different directions as she wiped at her face and Killian stared up at her in shocked surprise. She stumbled and he caught her, stumbling as well and trying to gain purchase back on the valve, while Emma screamed at him to shut it off, just shut it off -

They slipped together, and his body was on top of hers, chest heavy and dripping but blocking the jets of water as he turned the valve to stop the torrent at last. When he looked down at her prone and underneath him, he was soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead and neck, beads getting stuck in his raised eyebrows.

Emma began to laugh uncontrollably, the urge bubbling up without warning as Killian’s eyes widened and his pupils grew larger. He began to laugh too, his weight on her slight as he tried to hold himself above her while his chest was so close she could feel his heart thundering. His stare leveled at her lips, but when she pushed upwards, he pushed off of her to stand pink all the way across his ears and cheeks. Scratching his ear he mumbled an excuse to leave, but she was soaked and cold, the want heavy from the way everything clung to him like leather.

Pulling on the fabric of his shirt in two rough fistfuls, she kissed him. He reacted in a muffled grunt that slowly turned into a groan matching her own keen, his tongue and hers together moving in languid synchronization. It was only when they parted breathless, and he broke the moment with the roughest voice she had heard from him, that thought returned.

"That was…"

Emma practically threw herself away from him, her body aching for more of whatever that was -

"A one time thing." She heard herself say, too busy trying to flee, to get away from the man she had just desired and obviously desired her, that lived with her, that was her friend, that was her employee - and Oh God Emma what a royal mother of all screw ups.

Hiding away from him as she could hear her phone buzz, hear his footsteps, his quiet pleading from the other side of her door as she hid on the balcony. She could see him pacing in his room, calling out to her where she hid. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this or in any way.

He was relentless, and hurt, which she guessed was to be expected. When his knocking and pleading stopped it was a relief and an absolutely terrifying moment in its own right - the halls of Carterhaugh were silent but for the sound of her door opening. An empty bottle of wine laid a slight ways down the hall, the bottle's neck pointing towards Killian’s room.

He was gone. He had gone and she was alone again like she has been all her life - was before this. The royal fucking mother of screw ups and the granddaddy of absolute stupidity, pushing away the first good thing that has happened to her by kissing him. By letting him chip away at the ice around her soul, only to freeze him out because she - she, not him - kissed him.

She was a lunatic. She's an idiot lunatic. She's an idiot lunatic that just wants to go back to that moment and…

And kiss him again, and again, and feel his heart thump and hear that groan into her mouth, feel the way his hand found her hip and tongue slipped past her lips -

Fuck.

#Courtorderedcake #September 12th 2019 #2019 #CSSNS #CSSNS 2019 #Roses #Tam Lin #captain swan fanfiction #captain swan #cs au #CS FF #captain swan fic #Captain swan fan fiction

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aj-the-satyr · 5 years

Text

Echoes of memory

(Day 9 of @thenightofthelivingwriters series of prompts for October. I have to smile about how many of these are leading to me writing snippets about one of my D&D Characters, a Ratkin Bard. Since the word for today is Music it’s not hard to tell who this will feature is it? :) Onward with the words!)

Maximus huffed as he picked himself up brushing aside yet another daily interaction with fellow students. Why him? He frowned as the answer very easily presented itself. Unlike some of the other odd students like the Dragonborn he was weak, easy to bully. He’d never been strong like his clan mates and was overlooked by the elders so never got to do more than dabble in their arcane teachings. He thought that by going his own way he could find a way to overcome this weakness of body, find a way to gain strength, to overpower others. A smile crept across his rodent features as he remembered his first meeting with Noxwell......

...

The music was there. The snow sought to soften it, hide it almost but it was definitely there. It was a faint plucked instrument of some kind playing a rather lonely melody. The Ratkin brushed snow off his fur and sought out the source. Someone was playing a sad song in the snow and he certainly knew what it was like to be ignored in the cruel world, perhaps he might find a friend in this place.

It took a while but eventually he came across a young girl playing some kind of handheld instrument. She continued to pluck out a rather sad song as he stood nearby. Eventually when the song came to an end she looked up at him. He offered a smile. “That was.....” He paused. “That was a sad song, but it was also beautiful.”

He got a smile in return. “Thank you.” He noticed her teeth were pointed.

He reached into his knapsack and pulled out half a loaf of bread. “Are you hungry?”

A frown creased her features. “Why are you offering me this? You seem to have little yourself.”

“I have enough to share and that is what matters.”

She blinked slowly as if taking this in, before jumping to her feet. “Come!”

“What?”

“Come!” She repeated holding out a hand.

He shrugged and took her hand, entrusting his life to this strange little girl. If this was to be his end then so be it. Life had been nothing but misery since leaving his clan and going back wasn’t an option anymore. She led him through back alleys and darkened streets that the snow hadn’t quite managed to blanket yet. It was strange. He remembered walking past people but none reacted to him and the girl. Where were they headed?

Eventually they stopped at a doorway that looked just like many others they had walked past. The girl knocked a strange pattern and the door swung back revealing a rather warm looking interior. He noticed that none of the light seemed to spill past the threshold. What was going on?

“Come!” The girl said again before skipping inside. He shrugged and followed.

“Ah! A guest. Giselle tells me that you have an ear for music. Play an instrument yourself?”

The Ratkin blinked at the immediate question from someone he couldn’t yet see. “No.... I..... I try and write poetry.”

“Poetry? Interesting. And what inspired this?” The voice was getting closer.

The Ratkin sighed. “Looking at the arcane books I was forbidden from touching. The way things seemed to always be written in odd ways and not straightforward instructions.”

A laugh. “Ah! Some of the old coots never tire of making their books into more riddle than magic. Loosing some wonderful spells and tinctures that way, because they feel more inclined to keeping their secrets than making sure others learn the craft. Name’s Noxwell. And you are most certainly the most interesting person I’ve had enter my little shop in a long while.”

“Er.... Prekk..... that is.... I’m called Prekk, at least in Skritt.”

“Skritt? Not familiar, but unlike some of those old coots I mentioned I never bother to pretend I know it all. A fine name for a fine gentleman.”

“I....”

“Nonsense. Giselle excels at reading people Prekk, no denying your heart or the fact that a great capability for malice lies within you also.”

Prekk slumped a little. “I’m sorry...... I...”

More laughter. “Nonsense. You are who you are. You did not need to offer Giselle your food yet you did so. I sense the Malice will only be turned against those that truly deserve it.” The voice finally came into the light and Prekk could see a rotund man, balding but with a long white beard. “Well? Do I look like I sound?”

Prekk considered this. “With what you have told me I think you and Giselle can look like whatever you wish. Plus I’m a giant rat trying to make my way as a poet. Nothing in this world is what it seems.”

More laughter. “Good, good. Now here’s the thing would you gift us with one of your poems and in return we shall grant you something that will help you.”

“Do I get to know what it is beforehand?”

Noxwell seemed to consider this. “Worried about making deals with strangers?”

Prekk smiled. “You have basically confirmed yourselves to be shapeshifters, Fae I would suspect at this point, and that would make you notorious for offering deals with unexpected downsides.”

“Well. Aren’t you quite the clever mortal? Why follow Giselle then?”

Prekk shrugged. “Curiosity, a lack of care for what happens to me, some mad urge? Who knows? I am just glad to be out of the snow, if only for a little while.”

“You are most curious.”

“Thank you. Guess with what I’ve said it makes my questioning the deal all the more..... moot. I will trade my art for yours.”

“Art?”

“Is that not what was offered?”

Noxwell smiled broadly, his teeth were just as pointed as the girl’s. “Art thou sure of this mortal?”

Prekk nodded. “Yes.”

“Then by all means. Show us your art.”

“There are those that while away, In shadows and in between, The very threads that Fate tries to weave, And would rather be unseen.

Beauty have they that live this way, But far beyond the norm. Cold as Ice, cruel as fate, Yet somehow remaining warm.

Deals they make, trades they like, But be wary for they try, To catch you while you’re unaware, But they never lie.

Power lies within those hands, And if you are nice, It will be granted to thee, But for a terrible price.

So wary be of deals you make, With those that hide this way For lives will change when you doth meet, A member of the Fae.”

Prekk bowed a little after finishing and looked at Noxwell trying to gauge his reaction. The old man’s grin seemed to grow wider.

“Splendid. Well remembered.”

“Not remembered. Written, well spoken. I suppose I should write that down.”

Noxwell frowned. “I thought for sure......” He waved a hand and a book leapt into it. He flipped through its pages. “Well.....” He lowered the book. “Master Prekk.” He bowed low. “That is indeed a fine example of your art. I’m afraid that you will never be able to write that down, part of the deal I’m afraid.”

Prekk nodded. “Well I am glad that you are happy.”

“Indubitably. That was wonderful and not rehearsed. No, it is true art that thou hast given us this day. You have earned yourself a boon today. What do you seek?”

“To be successful with my poetry and be strong enough that no one will be more powerful that I.”

“Interesting. The first is easy, I shall merely give you a starting point. As for the second Giselle has something for you.”

Prekk spotted the girl again and she had in her hands a box. She offered it to him. He took it. Inside was a bracelet made to look like a coiling snake. “What is this?” He asked.

Giselle smiled. “A tool to teach you about power.”

“Ok. How do I put it on?”

“It’s magic. It will fit you.”

“Ok.” he looked a little unsure but plucked it from the box with his right hand, it immediately slithered around his wrist and grew tight. “AHH!” He dropped the box and collapsed to his knees as the snake seemingly tried to squeeze his hand off his arm. His breath came in gasps but eventually the pain subsided and the bracelet settled into a better fit. “How......?” he began.

The girl just smiled. “You will learn in time.”

Prekk just nodded. He had just made a deal with the Fae. Who knew where his life would lead next.

Noxwell helped him back to his feet and gave him a sealed letter. “Take this to the Bard college in Weirvas this will get you started on the path you seek, but be warned this path is hard and will try to break you.”

“Nothing is ever easy is it?”

Noxwell laughed. “No it is not. Beware though you have entertained me and thus I may well call upon you again.”

“More art trades?”

“Perhaps, we shall see. For now you need rest and food. That we shall provide, free of any bargains or plays for power. There will be much time for that later in your life.”

...

He reached out and touched the snake bracelet on his right wrist. It had indeed taught him a great deal, it may prevent him from getting physically stronger but that merely taught him to rely on his other strengths. He smiled as the memories faded away slowly, an old life complete with an old name. He was Prekk no longer. Now he was Maximus Delapore and no amount of idiotic bullying would prevent him from achieving his goals.

(Right..... that took an interesting turn and made me write a brief poem. Cool. I am definitely liking writing for Maximus a lot. Thanks again to @thenightofthelivingwriters for the prompts and the usual tags for Maximus of @the-bearded-hylian and @jaimistoryteller and a big thanks to all the writers out there creating worlds and characters. Keep on kicking words and taking adjectives!)

#TNLW #the night of the living writers #D&D Character #Maximus Delapore #My Writing #Yay Writing #what will be next?

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punkbirdwitch · 5 years

Text

Sweet Mother Sappho

A longer poem about learning through history, self-discovery, etc. It’s a rough draft-- I’m not 100% satisfied with the storyline-- but, eh, here ya go.

---

Oh, Mother Sappho, though I’m not sure who you are,

I just found you in the trunk of my dad’s old beat-up car,

In a pile full of other stuff he used to want but doesn’t,

So I figured now would be the time to give myself a present.

I must admit that I’m not well-versed with verses,

Haven’t seen stanzas since Kwanzaa, and my rhymes could use work-- but!

Your face is on the cover and you look like you’re nice, so

I think I’ll come and read you-- only once or twice, I swear!--

And only when I’m curious about Aphrodite’s weaving,

Or carpenters and roofbeams or Gods who like deceiving!

I’d hate to be a bother with all of my incessant reading,

There’s just something ‘bout your passages I can’t help but find intriguing--

But maybe it’s just that my curiosity took

When I noticed finely scrawled within the tiny nook

Between the front cover and the page--

Faded some with age--

In graphite on the page, it reads, “Steph…

...

I hope you like the book.”

… My name’s Chris, by the way.

Oh, Mother Sappho, I know it’s only been one day,

But after our first meeting I can’t tear myself away!

And on top of that I realized that I’ve been a little flippant.

Dad always says that when I talk, my brain gets sorta distant.

My name is Chris, as I surely said before,

I’m 15 years old, born in the year Two Thousand and Four,

Which to you must seem like, I dunno, a billion years away--

If only you could see all of the stuff we have today!

My dad’s a docent-- uh, which means he works in a museum,

And I remind him he’s a nerd just about every time I see ‘im.

He takes folks ‘round to see the history, the time when you lived--

And money can be tight, so sometimes he works the graveyard shift.

I guess they save some headache by keeping the same guy

To glide across the floors by day and scrub ‘em by night.

But hey! I’m not complaining, and neither is he,

‘Cuz Empty Halls + Father/Son = Happy Memories.

I spent a lot of nights playing next to history,

Though how I (almost) never broke stuff still remains a mystery.

I played tag with the Huns, roshambo with Tommie Smith,

(A game I always won since he would always raise his fist).

My father told me tales from ancient times-- (Never quite PG)--

Then quizzed me on Mythology ‘til my mind was at its apogee!--

I’d hunt with Davy Crockett and paint with Vince van Gogh--

Might explain why a dead poet makes the second-best friend that I know. Ha!

But my favorite-- yes, the best-and-kindest figures of all

Were the warriors whispered about in the Women’s History Hall.

This was before they spread the female figures throughout the exhibits,

But in that hallway you could sense there was rebellious spirit.

Wollstonecraft and Curie, Shelley, Earhart and d’Arc,

I danced with Josie Baker, had some chats with Rosa Parks--

I fought entire wars with them as a tactician of sorts,

Then settled it with kindness, like you read about in books--

And it’s true that my childhood would have been less sleep-deprived

If I stayed at home while daddy made the money to survive,

But I’m a night owl through and through, a real child of Nyx-- (Still got it!)--

Which is why I’m sitting here with you at, like… 3:06.

… A.M. Yikes-- Mother Sappho! I’ve got to get to bed,

But thank you oh-so-kindly for the poetry I’ve read.

I hope that you don’t mind if this becomes a regular thing,

Like when I used to read soliloquies to Dr. Martin Luther King (‘s statue)--

God, with all that museum time, it’s weird I never met you.

But without further ado,

I’ll say good night to you.

… But Mother Sappho-- one thing keeps me awake,

A little shred of curiosity that I have yet to slake.

It pulls me in like the aroma from the master dish of a chef,

Oh, Mother Sappho…

… Who’s Steph?

Oh, Mother Sappho! Julie’s coming by tonight,

And whenever she comes over she just has to steal the spotlight!

Not that I mind-- I’m cool with being quiet at the table

While my childhood friend fills my open head with fables.

Our Hellish Elementary formed our crucible as friends,

And though it sucked, we only came out stronger in the end.

A nerdy girl, a “cissy” guy, playing sci-fi with dolls--

Didn’t really resonate within those tiny halls.

And of course I’d be remiss to not show her my new find--

I always try to have a new conversation topic each time

That she comes over-- Which she’s done quite regularly

Since she became my friend when no one else

Would hang out with me.

… But anyway-- She says she loves you, which is not a surprise,

It’s always been dead-dramatic ladies for whom she’s had eyes--

Not saying you’re dramatic, Sappho, I’m just trying to say,

That I’ve recently been wondering if you might’ve been gay?

I’m just saying! that’s the conclusion that I came to next

When the subtextual did floweth over into the text.

(O it makes my panicked heart go fluttering in my chest,

for the moment I catch sight of you there is no speech left

in me--) You see? You can’t blame me for thinking

That it was rainbow-colored nectar you and your friends were drinking.

And while Julie’s father has a chat with my dad,

I tell my lifelong friend about the conversations we’ve had--

And I can’t help but hear our fathers talking in the afternoon air,

Two strong voices rising through wood and laughing as a pair…

Though what they talk about’s a mystery-- dad says it’s “Nothing much--”

It’s rare for friends to have their dads like each other this much,

Aaaand I just rhymed “much” with “much”-- I told you I’m rusty!

But I think I’m getting better, you’ll-- just have to… Trust me?

Ugh.

Oh, Mother Sappho, I’m addling my brain--

If I don’t find out who this “Steph” is, I might just go insane--

Short for Stephanie, I’m sure, but why is it in my father’s hands?

And why would he discard in the back of our sedan?

Is there some pain within my father’s past he’d rather I not know?

...

You know-- I never had a mother, Mother Sappho.

Oh, Mother Sappho.

I spoke with Julie today, Oh, Mother Sappho.

Sweet Mother Sappho.

I had something to say, “Oh--

“You know,” I said, “I think that I would like to be a girl,

Even if not for forever, I’d still give it a whirl.

I’m unversed in verses-- It’s hard

To explain in the wrong key

But I get the feeling that not everything

Is quite all right with me.”

And she turned to me and smiled and said “Silly-- you can be.”

Oh, Mother, Sappho.

I’m addling my brain.

There’s something here inside my heart that I just cannot contain.

It doesn’t feel right--

And yet

It doesn’t feel wrong.

It just feels like I’ve

Never quite

Belonged.

And now I’m not sure where I’m at or what to do.

Mother Sappho, I don’t know what to do.

Oh, Mother Sappho…

…

Sweet Mother Sappho…

(Oh, darling daughter, I hope you know that you are strong

And that as you sat there rambling, I was listening all along.

Please pardon my language-- I’m afraid I’ve not rehearsed.

In this meter, I’m afraid that I’m the one unversed.

(You’re green and dainty, child-- what better thing to be?

And though your heart is violet, you’re as sturdy as the tree.

I hope you know I love you, no matter who you are,

For your soul is far more radiant than all the highest stars--

Now show them who you are--

My child, show them you are.

...

(And know

That you have nothing to fear.

You’ll know

When you understand how near you were

And are

To people just like you.

To people who love you.)

Oh, Mother Sappho, I hope you know you haven’t been misread,

And I think I found the meaning in that thing that you last said.

I realized what before I would not have believed in, ‘cuz--

“Steph” is short for Stephanie-- but is also short for “Stephen.”

I think my dad and I might need to have a talk--

In the morning. It’s 2:04, and I’m still sort of in shock.

Maybe once I tell ‘im, I can help him get a date.

Ha! Maybe…

It’s late.

Thank you, Mother Sappho, and just to set things straight-- (Which I guess I’m not, now, huh, Ms. Sapphic?)

You can still call me Chris-- it’s gender-neutral, yeah? It almost feels like fate.

Oh, Mother Sappho, I think that this feels right.

Thanks, and-- good night, Mother Sappho.

(Good night.)

#my stuff #my poetry #sapphic stuff #ocs

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because-tomatoes · 5 years

Note

novella and backstory

You are a pretty neat person to be asking me this… Thank you. I will be sure to do the same to you. I never thought anyone would care to ask me…

Novella: Do you prefer to write short stories, one-shots, or entire novels?

I prefer writing entire novels, though I have not written a novel I feel like I couldn’t just write a short story. I would want to write more about the story and explore my characters. I feel like novels can be as long as you need it to be!

Though perhaps I do like writing one-shots… I’m at the point in my ‘research’ phase of my WIP where I am introducing my characters. I don’t want to reveal the story but I do love giving their back stories. At least then… people can wonder what their purpose will be in my book. Are they good? Are they bad? Regardless people can get to know them than seeing who they are.

Backstory: How did you come to love writing?

I can’t remember when I fell inlove with writing… writing was always my safe place. It was a way of me expressing myself. But I just looked through some things from my tickle trunk (a trunk full of things from my childhood) and there are all kind of stories and little poems in there. I had to be in kindergarden when I really started going on about stories. As a child I was going from foster home to foster home and the only way I could cope was writing stories. My favourite was writing about white tigers and cats. I was asked once what my favorite story was and I came up with my own story and my own title and said ..that was my favorite story. (I was a smart ass.)

When I got adopted, I would constantly think of my own little stories. I remember my first character - her name was Iraleen (I loved the name Iris and started coming up with different names for it). The basics of the story was there was a mother and a daughter. The mother got remarried and after sometime she died. (I don’t remember if she had cancer or what…) but any ways.. the step dad ended up having to step up and father the girl. I had to have been eight or nine at the time. I never had a dad so that was my way of having a dad I guess.

Regardless, I never exactly started writing till I found the Ancient Magus Bride. Which is an amazing Anime and Manga series. I found myself relating to the main character Chise. The way her mother died is the same way my mother died. The way her father and brother left was very similar how my brother and father left. The way she valued her life is how I valued my life. I was always made fun of my red hair as a kid and I imagined that because she grew up in Japan she was also made fun of for her red hair.

That was December 2017. I remember being so inspired that I wanted to start writing and wanted to create my own world. I wrote a fanfiction dedicated to Ancient Magus Bride… I honestly had no idea how to write a story.. It was so hard to read because I didn’t know I had to seperate different topics into paragraphs. My readers liked the idea of my story but they were the ones that taught me that I needed to have paragraphs, I needed to seperate my lines when characters where speaking to one another and so on.

Here are some of their corrections.. and I am quoting them..

“But, yeah, as the other comments say, sometimes the grammar is off and the structure is a little long at times. But it didn’t bother me reading it. I think you’re doing a very good job writing this. Please do continue sometime.”

“Mmm, the grammar is tiny bit awkward at times, but the premise and technical writing is beyond that, as well as the details and characerization, are delightful.”

You know? Things like that really really helped me become aware of my writing.I found people on AO3 were more honest than people on FanFiction.. and I really loved that. They didn’t bring me down, they simply helped me know what I needed to work on. I would always tell people that I was very new to writing and encouraged people to correct me. I think that is how people can grow! But at the same time I don’t like anyone that I know…reading my stories. Because I know I’m pretty bad at it.

I want to go to college and take writing courses so that I can learn how to be a better writer. I paid for a writing program that points out my flaws and helps me become aware of my grammar or my puntuation. I even made this Writeblr so that you guys can teach me, correct me, and show me how to become a better writer. Not that I expect people to write me that but I am trying to become a better writer by all the advice that people spill. It’s like golden little nuggets for me to be a better writer… I aspire to be just that.. Even if I just write for myself. I love writing because it takes me places. It takes me away from my reality. I recently got diagnosed with PTSD and am on short term disabilty because of it. Until November I began having these visions or dreams of a story. And I became absolutel memorized of my character and I began creating a world for her. I loved writing poetry but I felt like I needed to use the characters as a way to help me heal from my trauma..to help me overcome my past. I have weaved myself in my SIP (Story in Progress) and it has helped me face a lot of my own demons. I cry when I write my characters. I pace my house as I think of my characters. I laugh out of nowhere when thinking of random plots. I am an absolute crazy person. My husband calls this my story box. XD

At the time being I am writing another fanfic (I have put my Ancient Magus Bride on a shelf at the moment) and I am using a world that has already been created as a way for me to write till I have my own world figured out.

So.. how did I come to love writing.. I may have taken a few bunny trails since you asked the question but.. I came to love writing the moment I felt like I could be taken away from my reality. As I said in a poetry once (Sticks and Stones)

“To killing off reality with fermenting thoughts

I’m intoxicated with this fascination of this imagination”

If writing can pull me away from my pain or if it can help me leap over mountains..than I think I have found my place.

#ancient magus bride #chise #fanfiction #personal #writeblr #questions

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ohlovelywar · 6 years

Text

Raise a Little Hell Part Two

Series Masterlist

warnings: mentions of infinity war spoilers, swearing, mentions of death

Summary: A familiar face suddenly appears in Peter’s life as he tries to deal with the after math of what happened on Titian.

Queens, New York Wednesday 7:00am

An obnoxious beeping sound broke through Peter’s dream, jolting him awake. He hissed as a sharp pain ripped through out his body, reminding him of the rough beating he endured just hours before. He stumbled out of bed, attempting not to cause any further harm to his already sore body. He gave his injuries a quick glance in the mirror; numerous purple bruises adorned his pale skin. Nothing too major. Thank god for being enhanced. He grabbed his light grey sweatshirt and denim jeans, dressing himself before hesitantly opening the door.

He knew May was going to kill him for the current state his body is in. She hated anything that had to do with danger, fearing that she might lose the only family that she has left. Peter’s pastime was no secret to her. Not since the one afternoon where she opened his bedroom door to find Spider-man.

“What. The. FUCK?!” May’s questioning voice pierced Peter’s ears once his head was freed from his mask. His eyes bulged out of their sockets as he tried to come up with something, anything to say to his aunt.

“Heeeeyyyy Mayyy. Didn’t see you there,” Peter slowly turned around to face her, nervously chewing on his lip and messing with his hair. A nervous laughed made its way out of Peter’s mouth as he tried to read his aunt’s expression.

Hurt. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Rage. Panic.

“You have some explaining to do mister.”

“I know. I know. Just, please, don’t freak out.”

She scoffed at the young boy. “‘Don’t freak out’? ‘Don’t freak out’! Peter, you have been RISKING your life for MONTHS now. And you’ve kept me in the dark for all of it!”

“May..”

“No, do not ‘May’ me! Peter, the minute you came into my life and stayed with Ben and I, I swore to keep you safe. And this,” she gestured at the Spider-man costume on his back, “this is EXACTLY the opposite of what I swore.”

“I know May, I know. I just...I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Peter...”

“No, hey. I listened to you so you listen to me, okay? What if...what if something bad happens to you? What if someone tried to hurt you? What if you ended up in Uncle Ben’s shoes?” his voice cracked at the mention of his late uncle. May’s eyes began to tear up.

“I’ve lost everyone May. My mom, my dad, Uncle Ben. I’m not losing you too. I can’t lose you too,” he broke down. May instantly wrapped her arms around the boy she loved and raised as her own, crying with him.

“You won’t ever lose me Pete...I’m always going to be here, okay?” She rocked them back and forth, just as she had done when he was little and the nightmare would cause him to wake up screaming, when he would cry for his dead parents, when the bullies at school would get too much, just as she did the night that Uncle Ben died in front of his very eyes.

“I just don’t want anyone to go through what we have gone through,” he snuffled, his voice muffled by May’s shoulder. She sighed, knowing that he was right. The two have survived some very hard times. And, if there was someone with Peter's abilities that was able to help the two of them when they needed it most, she would have been begging on her hands and knees to them, pleading for help.

“You’re too good for this world Peter.” Fear radiated off of her. She knew people wanted to hurt the masked web-slinger, her nephew, her son, her Spider-man. She hugged him tighter, afraid that someone or something would rip him away from her at any second.

“I love you May.”

“And I love you too Peter. Please, be careful. I only have one of you.”

“I will. I promise you.” And Peter always was. Until Titan.

Peter really didn’t want May to see him like this. Sure, there have been worse fights with worse injures. But, ever since Titan, even the smallest scratch on Peter would have May spiraling. He knew it was just as hard on her as it was on him. But he also knew that he couldn’t just ditch Spider-man. There were people out there who needed him. And he was going to help them. He took a deep breath before entering the kitchen, mentally preparing himself for the long scolding May was sure to give him.

"Morning May," he greeted, trying to play it cool.

Maybe if I don't draw her attention she won't notice.

"Morning Peter...Oh my god!" She dropped the glass of orange in her hand. The plastic cup hit the hardwood floor of their two-bedroom apartment a loud clink. Peter winced; the loud sound setting off the pounding in his head. "What the hell happened to you?!"

"Just some big guys tried to steal some money it's fine," he tried to convince her.

"No, it's not fine. You have a black eye, a busted lip, you look like you haven't slept... And that's just what I can see!"

"May seriously. I'm okay. I-I had some help."

"Oh," she straightened up. Peter was very stubborn and hard-headed. It was rare that he asked for help, but she sure was glad. "Did Tony send somebody?"

"No, actually. Maybe? I don't, I don't really know." He racked his brain, trying to remember what little he saw of platinum haired girl.

"You got lucky. Those guys aren't so easy to take down."

"Well, I'm glad you got help. Just, please be careful Peter. You're my kid."

"I will May. I have to get to school."

"Here," she tossed a granola bar and brown paper bag that contained his lunch at him, "say hi to Ned and Mj for me."

"I will. Bye, love you!"

"Love you too!"

And with that, Peter took off for his regular school day.

The entire subway ride to Midtown, Peter tried to remember the black figure that saved his skin last night: platinum blonde hair, almost white. Bright blue eyes. Pale skin, maybe even paler than his own. Her voice held power, you could tell she means business. And yet, it was kind, and welcoming. It held concern and genuine care. It all seemed so familiar. Peter knows he's met this girl before. But who is she.

The subway came to a stop, pulling Peter out of his thoughts. Here goes another day.

Peter weaved his way through the crowd of rambunishous teenangers, trying not to bumpd into anyone. He let out a sigh of relief once he made it to his locker and exchanged the items in his backpack.

"You're NEVER going to guess what I got!" Ned's excited voice suddenly appeared next to Peter's ears, making him jump slightly.

"Oh really?" He smirked at his friend. "Not another Star Wars Lego set?" The girls next to them snickered, causing Peter to roll his eyes. What's wrong with having a little fun?

"So close yet so far. It's an Avengers Lego set," he smiled with pride at his friend. "And it happens to include our favorite masked hero." Peter looked at his friend.

"No way," a small smile tugged at his lips.

"Uh-huh," Ned held up the tiny Lego Spider-man, proving to his friend that the world thinks he's an Avenger now. Peter tried to hide his excitement as best as he could.

"I'm a Lego now?!" he whispered to his friend, a smile completely taking over his features.

"Yup!" Peter laughed, a sense of pride took over. The world thought he was a hero.

"Man, life is crazy when you're a super hero."

"It sure is. Oh! May says hi."

"Aw! I love May. She's like my second mother. You know? Of course you know, shit wait. I mean.. damn." Peter just laughed at his friend. Instead of feeling hurt, he found it funny.

"Come on," he closed his locker. "we have chemistry."

Over in the principal's office, a rather intimidating man sat across the principal, his bored teenage girl seated next to him. She tapped her black converse on the ground, trying to distract herself from the scene in front of her.

"I just want her to be safe, you know? After all, some pretty messed up shit happens in New York," he leaned back, taking a drag of his cigar. The principal gulped.

"Yes yes of course Mr.."

"Tsk, that's 'Sir' to you."

"Yes...sir. Safety is our top priority." The teen rolled her eyes. Her dad always intimated everyone. She was rather tired of it. She mentally cursed herself for pulling her hair up into two space buns, leaving her nothing to fiddle with as the man in front of her squirmed under her father's stare. She picked at her long, cat like nails. Why couldn't her dad just...be normal?

"Well the paperwork is all signed. Miss, if you'll come with me, I'll take you to your first class."

The three stood up. Her dad giving a slight nod to his men in the back of the office. She grabbed her messenger bag from the floor and swung it over her shoulders. Her white long sleeved shirt wrinkled underneath the strap of her school bag. She straightened out her black dress that laid on top of her long sleeve before following her principal out the door. Her father and his two men began to walk towards the exist of the school while the girl walked further into the building. The principal was confused; he had never met a father and daughter more disconnected. He shrugged it off as he walked the girl to her class.

Peter and Ned sat next to each other in chemistry, bored out of their minds. Their friend, Mj, sat in the table next to them, without a partner, reading her poetry book instead of paying attention to the board. Not like she needed to anyways; chemistry always came easy to her. A knock on the door suddenly interrupted the lesson as everyone in the classroom looked at the door.

"So sorry to interrupt," The principal stepped through, a girl followed him, looking around the room with a sense of wonder. "Class, I just wanted to introduce the newest member of Midtown School of Science and Tech.: Felicia Hardy."

Peter froze. He knew that name, and all the memories that came with it.

send me an ask if you want to join the tag list!

tags: @waywardskychaser

#raise a little hell #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x felicia hardy #peter parker x reader #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman x reader #spiderman x black cat #marvel #fanfiction #black cat #felicia hardy #felicia hardy fanfiction #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x reader

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sunflowerspectre · 6 years

Text

Mistletoe Strangers

Commission Snippet for KiwiToast

Fandom: DND Request: In the midst of the Winter Solstice, Desire finds herself playing the role of a representative. Neronvain would be proud if he could see just how polite she’s being. But then she finds herself underneath the mistletoe waiting for the right someone - the right person does come along, even if it’s not the one she’s expecting. Requested Word Count: 4000 Final Word Count: 4000

Read Part II

Mistletoe Strangers

The Winter Solstice Masquerade Ball, something Desire should be over-the-moon excited about being invited too, is the two forbidden E’s in Desire’s book- Exclusive and Expensive. Not every single man (elf?) in the kingdom can make it to the doors of the prestigious castle. A bit too prestigious if you ask her - and crowded.

It didn’t exactly occur to her that even though not everyone can get in, it still draws a large crowd that can. She should’ve assumed that every single able-bodied elf and other that could afford it or was personally invited would come in the blink of an eye. Yet the thought doesn’t occur to her until she’s already in the middle of a much-too large crowd. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that mask or no, she is still there as a representative. Probably best to keep my potty mouth to myself.

Every step is careful and strategic as she holds up the ends of her dress in a delicate manner.She can feel eyes stare her down, almost daring her to make one wrong move as if they’re just waiting for her to fuck up. Even the expensive dress and the mask can’t hide the way her horns curl up toward the heaven. Most politely excuse themselves out of conversation the moment they hear her accent. She’s thankful for the few that only glance her way before turning back to their own conversation.

The music of the ball dances its way through her mind and she stands up straight, holding her head up high as she reminds herself to hold in her lunch. A lot is expected of her tonight and it’s up to her to rise up to those expectations. She’s a representative for fuck’s sake. She’s here to keep The Order of the Gauntlet in a good light - and what a fucking choice they made sending her. She nearly gags, I might as well be a politician. Yuck.

She really hopes that there are plenty of drinks here.

Neronvain sighs, sticking to the wall to the best of his ability as his brother prattles on to the people around him. Alagarthais speaks with charisma, his hands moving animatedly as he weaves the same tale that Neronvain has heard over a hundred times tonight. The tale that no, my brother isn’t that bad at all, and that my brother is actually a very good man. My brother this and my brother that.

Honestly, Neronvain rubs his temples as he feels an upcoming headache, he is trying much too hard. He’s nearly given up trying to tell his brother how much he, frankly, doesn’t care what the others think for they’re not his people. Not now, likely not ever. So why waste so much breath trying to change their minds about him? His brother is too innocent for his own good - most of the time.

He wonders how far the gardens are from here and if there’s even a small chance of him slipping away to just lose himself in nature that’s perfectly contained. It’s better than how confining the ball is beginning to feel as it seems that people never seem to stop arriving.

He glances around the ball with curious eyes. There are some, he notices, that despite the masks they wear, are fairly obvious about their true identities. Some, like his brother, are open about who they are and whom they arrived with. Well, that’s only partially true. His brother seems convinced that he has the best disguise in the entire ball and spends the first ten minutes of every one of his conversations playing a game of guess who I am. He honestly cannot believe the way that everyone plays along with his brother’s fantasy.

However, there are some that have features that are too well spot to miss - skin with a color that doesn’t quite blend in easily into the crowd or crashes against the color of their suit or dress. He has to take a longer look at one woman who speaks easily to a diplomat with her head held high - her horns and gray skin make her stand out even more against the politicians, yet she speaks gracefully as if she were one herself.

He wishes that he could make out what she’s saying over the music.

He tries to move on from her, truly he does, but no matter how hard he tries, his eyes drift back toward her. His eyes narrow as his brows crease on his forehead. There’s a stirring beneath his breast. He blinks and a tiefling flashes in his mind - hair black as night with eyes to match, both deceiving of her good nature and brilliant smile. He can hear his voice ringing in the back of his mind, telling him not to worry that she can handle herself, and he can feel the phantom pain on his shoulder from when she playfully punched him goodbye. He blinks and she is gone - just like before.

The stirring in his chest grows.

He swallows down that feeling of longing, as if he really misses her, and tells himself that it just isn’t possible. He begins to wonder if he even saw that woman in the first place or if it was his mind playing tricks on him.

He tells himself that he just needs to figure out which to determine if he really has gone insane.

“-and I tell you, Neronvain has the best -”

He takes advantage of his opening, his brother enthralled by his own conversation. His eyes still firmly on the woman with horns, afraid that if he looks away that she will vanish again, he slips into the crowd.

Alagarthais turns to speak to Neronvain and stops mid-sentence, his mouth still open as he realizes that his brother is not there. His brows furrow as he glances around him frantically, but trying to spot him proves harder than he thought due to everyone’s masks. It’s just like Neronvain to disappear so easily. He should have kept a closer eye on him.

Cursing himself, and hoping that his brother just didn’t leave all together, Alagarthais barely begins to make his way through the crowd. It may be impossible to find him, with his brother’s talent of blending in, but he has to remain hopeful. He has many minds that he wants to change tonight and that will hardly be possible if Neronvain isn’t there to at least give them something akin to a smile.

Besides, he loves his brother and worries about him always being alone.

Neronvain spots her again. Amidst the crowd with her head high and the closer he gets to her, the more and more he begins to believe that she is exactly who he thinks she is, no matter how impossible it is. Despite the fact that he cannot, for the life of him, even begin to find an explanation as to why she would be here beyond party crashing, she’s actually speaking peacefully, respectfully. There’s not even a single curse word in her breath.

Maybe more has changed in the time that they’ve been apart than he wanted to believe. He swallows a knot in his throat and a part of him wishes that he’s wrong, but the idea that there is someone else out there that looks (and sounds) exactly like her is even more ridiculous than her standing mere feet away from him.

Their eyes meet and it’s then, looking into the dark pools that threaten to sink him, that he knows that it’s really her. There’s no denying it now and he’s not sure what he wants to do with this information. Does he confront her? Talk to her?

For a brief moment, he feels a tightening in his chest as she turns away from him, his lips thinning. It only lasts a second, however, before the reality of the situation dawns on him. He snorts, a small smile on his lips, I suppose she hasn’t changed much after all, still too dense to notice what is right in front of her face as always.

This is when Alagarthais finally catches his brother, in the midst of the remaining smile that makes him pause. His brows furrow at the mere sight of his brother smiling again. He hasn’t seen the smile in months - not since…. His eyes follow his brother’s gaze toward the woman with horns, talking politely to another masked guest.

Maybe it takes longer than it should, but the puzzle pieces slowly come together. There’s no mistaking who that is, her features too defined to miss. Desire. His eyes glance from her to his brother. Neronvain. Neronvain smiling. He goes back and forth between the two until it clicks together smoothly. A mischievous grin forms on his lips. Oh dear brother of mine, I should have known.

These past months, on the few times Neronvain has actually engaged in a fuller conversation, it has always been Desire and I this, Desire and that, one time Desire actually - It had been obvious. How could he have possibly missed something as big as this? Something as big, and rare, as his brother actually having desires for Desire.

A light goes off in his mind, an idea forming that is too perfect to miss. After all, this is the Winter Solstice.

But first, he needs to get Neronvain far enough from Desire to have a little ‘private’ talk with her. Judging from Neronvain’s ‘smile’ - and the fact that he does not smile for just anyone - he needs to see just how she feels about his brother first. He needs to make sure that he won’t be setting his brother up for a heartbreak.

“I thought I lost you dear brother,” his voice carries even louder than before during the brief pause between music and poetry as he makes his way to Neronvain, who sees him immediately and takes every precious moment to scurry away.

Perfect.

Desire turns over her shoulder for a moment, a familiar voice reaching her ears. Alagarthais? Her heart beats loudly against her chest. Her eyes scan over the nearby guests eagerly. He mentioned his brother, is Neronvain here too? She has to admit that as of late, she has found herself missing him. It surprised her at first at just how much she has and often she would turn to say something, some quip that may make him snort or roll his eyes, and find him gone. If she can find him in the crowd, then it wouldn’t hurt to catch up on the months they’ve been apart. Or if she can find Alagarthais, she could accomplish a different type of goal.

When it’s not obvious who spoke, she can’t place him among the crowd and the hopes of spotting either brother diminish quickly. Her eyes become a bit more hooded behind her mask, but as she turns to continue her conversation, she finds that another person has taken their place.

At first glance, he’s hard to place from the mask, but it’s smile that gives him away.The smile makes her stomach flutter and she finds herself returning it easily. A weight lifts from her shoulders at the idea of having a conversation with someone whose costume is the only mask they wear. Another weight, however, forms just in the pit of her gut at who it is. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself to be fucking cool, don’t blow it.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, madame,” he bows deeply to her with a cheeky grin.

Her eyes twinkle in amusement as she returns with a small curtsey, “No, sir, I do not believe we have.”

He looks up at her and lifts the corner of his mask up with a wink, “It’s me.”

If she had any doubts about who it was, she certainly does not have any now. She lets out a flustered laugh, “I know, Alagarthais.”

His shoulders go slack with a small pout on his lips, “How’d you know it was me?”

She rolls her eyes in good faith, nudging him slightly, “I know you too well to not know.”

She glances around him briefly, “Is Neronvain with you or did he manage to escape?”

He waves off her concern for Neronvain with ease and a carefree ‘nah’ noise.

“Nonsense, I’ll catch him like I always do. There’s only so long you can hide from your own brother.”

“If Neronvain really wants to get away, not even his own shadow could find him,” she crosses her arms against her chest with an amused snort.

“You know, it’s quite funny,” Alagarthais hums, eying her with a deeper look shining in his eyes, “When two people spend a lot of time together, how well they get to know each other. Their habits, personality, everything. Even knowing them immediately within a crowd of masked strangers, for example.”

Alagarthais means no harm when he references something only he particularly noticed. Neronvain picked her out easily, even when they were far across the room. Yes, at a close distance, if you knew her, you could pick her out too, but she must’ve been the reason Neronvain took off away from her - not to escape something, but to go toward something else.

Desire, however, takes a different meaning to his words. She blames the warm sensation on her cheeks on the fabric of her mask and the flush on her breast on the corset.

“More often than not, the more time you spend with someone,” he continues, “the more likely you are to develop feelings for them.”

“I - I don’t know what the hell you mean.”

Her throat tightens and it takes all she has to not say fuck where too many influential people could hear her. Considering that Alagarthais, of all people, knew exactly who she was so quickly, she’s pretty sure that everyone will know exactly who it was that swore so vulgularly. Hell, she’s already getting enough sour looks just from saying hell.

She’s not sure where Neronvain is, but she really hopes that isn’t close enough to overhear them. She could see his reaction now - disgust, him stating just how absolutely ridiculous them being anything more than friends is. But damn does she want that charismatic grin to be against more than just one pair of lips.

She has to admit though, the forwardness of Alagarthais, while nothing new, is a bit surprising. Attractive and charming, he may be, the brains typically went to Neronvain. Still, she isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I think there’s a certain someone who would love to meet you in the hall beneath the stairway.”

He gives her a wink and he’s off like a flash, leaving her flustered and hot. She glances toward the hallway he mentioned and notices the brightly wrapped mistletoe strung above it. She swallows thickly and takes a hesitant step forward, then another, before she damn near bursts into a sprint.

Neronvain leaves toward the bar the moment he sees his brother, hoping that it would be less obvious than the garden. He could, honestly, use another drink or two. Perhaps it would help with clearing his head so he doesn’t feel too frustrated about his brother or about the fact that he has yet to confront Desire to speak to her.

Maybe he’s worried about what he’ll hear, about all the adventures she went on without him, the people she bedded while he was away, or that he’ll find that she has indeed changed into someone else so that she is no longer the Desire he knows. Knows and cares for, a small voice whispers in the back of his mind and he decides that the sooner, rather than later, that he gets a drink the better.

This isn’t like him. He knows this as his grip tightens on the bottle the bartender hands him - and it is a full bottle, he won’t settle for some small glass poured only half the way full. Not on a night like this. Not when she’s right there and he can’t bring himself to go to her. And not when he’s trying to avoid his brother at the same time.

Perhaps he should be thankful though. At least this Winter Solstice is proving to be at least interesting. And while he has yet to talk to her, he is certainly not regretting the fact that he allowed his brother to drag him along otherwise he would have missed her. He isn’t sure if he would have forgiven himself if he let himself miss the chance to see her again.

His eyes harden as he sets down the empty bottle as a realization dawns on him. He’s right. He will regret it if he misses his chance to see her again and he will miss it if he doesn’t even let her know that he’s here. He can already hear her laughter as she would punch him lightly, making some comment on how she’d figure he’d be deep in the garden instead of in the middle of the ballroom, or whisper something (something with more than one vulgar word in it) about a politician or two that she’s spoken to.

He nearly doesn’t feel the hand on his shoulder before he finds himself face to face with his brother.

“I believe there’s someone waiting for you,” Alagarthais nods his head toward the stairway.

He looks over his brother’s shoulder. Like an angel, glowing beneath the dim lights of the hall, he sees her.The lights reflect the red bow of a mistletoe above her, highlighting her like a halo. She’s glancing around, as if she’s trying to find someone in the crowd that does it’s best to move around her as if no one wants to be caught beneath the kissing plant with her. The thought makes his gut twist.

He gently, or not so gently, pushes his brother aside as he easily glides through the crowd, maneuvering his way to her.

Desire is beginning to lose hope when she turns and finds someone caught within the hall’s arch with her. For moment that lasts as long as it takes her to blink, she thinks it’s who exactly she expected, but the second passes quickly as she realizes that it’s someone else. She can’t place who, the mask is too well made and he doesn’t say a word to her.

All she sees is emerald eyes before she can feel lips press against hers.

The kiss lasts longer than the peck of two flustered teens caught beneath a mistletoe. It’s not as hungry as two lovers desperate to be strung together. It’s not the charming kiss of a gentleman hoping to charm the stranger. Oddly enough, the kiss feels like familiar, but she can’t even begin to think as to why. It’s as if she knows who’s kissing her or at the very least, the person kissing her knows exactly who it is that he’s engtangling himself with. As if they’ve been waiting to do this for a long time and this is the moment that they claim themselves to her, that they let open themselves to her to tell her I’m right here, why can’t you see me?

But that’s ridiculous and she tells that to herself over and over again as she finds herself enjoying the flavor of a stranger.

She closes her eyes into the kiss, it’s instinct, but at the same time, it feels right. She leans into it and then, when she opens her eyes, she’s leaning against empty air. She can see him retreat back into the crowd and her hopes of knowing him are dashed.

But damn what a kiss.

A month later, the winter season slowly beginning to pass, Desire stares into the fire of a camp. The kiss still lingers on her lips and on the back of her tongue. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t get it off of her mind. It’s not like her to get caught up in something so simple, not when she’s not even sure who it is that’s kissed her. It’s silly to pin after someone she doesn’t know, she should be focusing on pining after someone she does. But the idea of fawning over Alagarthais’ kind heart is starting to feel more and more foreign to her.

“Here.”

She looks up and sees Neronvain sitting beside her, staring in the fire, a bottle raised toward her in offering. She takes it with a grin and happily takes a large sip from it, desperate for some relief of her troubles.

“You looked troubled,” Neronvain comments plainly.

“Just thinking about the Winter Solstice,” Desire finds herself telling the truth too easily and quickly. She shrugs and tries to ignore the flush on her face.as she coughs, “-I mean, I haven’t heard from many of the people I talked to and I’m starting to wonder if it was all for nothing.”

She turns and sees Neronvain gazing at her with an interested look in his eyes, as if he knows something she doesn’t but he’s waiting for her to find it out.

“‘All for nothing’,” he questions.

She wonders when their faces got so close. She stares into his eyes, hoping she can find her answers and as she finds herself thinking about how beautiful they are, she finds the one answer she wasn’t expecting as emerald eyes gaze back at her.

She yelps and stumbles back, causing Neronvain to look at her in amusement.

“Ah - excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

Neronvain, in a rare moment, is nice enough to not question what it is that she has to attend to in the middle of the forest, in what appears to be a good distance away from their camp.

#kiwitoast #mycommissions #commissions #myworks #mywritings #fics #dnd

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pinelife3 · 4 years

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Music I Can’t Understand

Getting into hip hop in my late teens was like learning a new language: slang, cars, food, drugs, brands, gangs, locations. For example:

What does it mean to be sitting on 44s?

44 inch rims on your car - highly coveted, a desirable rim size.

What about coming from the 504?

The area code of Hollygrove, New Orleans: the neighbourhood Lil Wayne grew up in.

Please double cup me?

Kindly serve me lean in two double stacked Styrofoam cups.

Ice cream paint job?

Cars again - clean exterior with creamy white leather interior.

Finna hit a lick?

Fixing (intending) to rob a liquor store.

Wavy Brazilian?

Human hair grown from the scalps of the fine people of Brazil, harvested, treated and then sold to be used in wigs and weaves. The hair has a natural wavy texture and is typically long and dark.

Cop dome?

Receive a blow job. Confusingly, I’ve also heard ‘domed’ to mean shooting someone in the head.

Chopper?

You might be thinking of a helicopter or a motorcycle, but in hip hop a chopper is almost always a fully automatic weapon - I guess because it cuts people down?

A bird?

A kilo of drugs, typically cocaine.

Beyond the slang, I also found some of the accents difficult to understand. Lil Wayne speaks in a hoarse, treacly voice, he’s usually fucked up, his word association is crazy, he loves puns, and he rapidly jumps from topic to topic. So, initially, listening to Wayne was like trying to speed read Shakespeare. It took me a while to be able to properly tune in and listen to the lyrics - but when I did, I found hip hop so rewarding and fun. This is all from one song:

‘Cause I’ll serve anyone like a blind waiter

I work out in my office, guess I’m fit for business

Your flow never wet, like grandma pussy/ I’m always good, like grandma cookies

You niggas best not slip, Ice Road Truckers

I also appreciate the trite but appealing throwaways:

felt like rockstar, might die later idk

(Music critics under the misapprehension that rappers didn’t glorify hard drugs and depresso partying before Future need to go back to school.)

I have memories of rapturous repeat listens of Good Kid, Maad City, trying to decode the story. Falling in love with the mythology of Kanye. Digging through forums. Listening to famous classics and thinking I was the first to uncover an unknown treasure, like an oblivious archaeologist. The golden age of Big Ghost’s blog. MF DOOM super fandom. Discovering old artists online and stuffing my ears with their back catalogs. Visiting country towns and thinking ‘I bet no one here has even heard of Aesop Rock’ like a smug fuck. Pouring over lyrics on genius.com. Sweating profusely at gigs. Hoarding mixtapes from DatPiff. Weirdly, I associate a lot of my fondest hip hop memories with being by myself on my laptop.

The interface hasn’t changed one bit:

Over time, though, I’ve gotten bored with hip hop. I feel like I haven’t really fallen in love with anything released since ~2014. Piñata might be the last hip hop album that really worked on me (exception: the Hamburger Helper album Watch the Stove from 2016). Even To Pimp A Butterfly has serious issues: listen to “Mortal Man” and tell me it’s not the corniest shit ever. The extended butterfly/chrysalis/caterpillar metaphor throughout the album is like bad high school poetry. For a while, I thought my cynical outlook on modern hip hop was just a product of getting older and being wistful for the music I liked when I was younger. But now I’ve decided that this is a problem solely between me and hip hop, because I still find music that I get obsessed with. But that music is exclusively Celtic.

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I would timebox my Celtic music obsession to the past year or so, but Spotify went to great pains to inform me that Enya was my artist of the decade, so this must have been latent within me for some time.

When initially dipping my toe in the Celtic genre, I started with instrumentals and songs sung in English, but I’m waist deep now and have started listening to Gaelic music. It’s like birdsong: I don’t know what they’re saying, but I like the way it sounds. Throaty, clear. Choking, sweet. Windswept, warm. Profound, unknowable. Ancient, important. Echoing, intimate. They could be singing about stale muesli bars and stubbed toes for all I know.

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(If you don’t listen to these songs - especially the one below - I don’t think this blog post will work on you. See please listen.)

Take the song “Thig An Smeòrach As t-Earrach” (above). Obviously ‘Thig An Smeòrach As t-Earrach’ sounds like something Gollum would hiss under his breath, but I find the song itself practically spiritual. Gaelic is so foreign - the words bear no similarity to words I’ve ever heard before - but I feel like I still understand what’s being said. It’s like a fiery angel has appeared at the foot of your bed and is telling you something important: but the angel is so beautiful and bright, your eyes are watering. You can hardly look. And you certainly can’t listen. But the message is burned in your brain. You didn’t understand a word, and wouldn’t know how to repeat what the angel said - but you understand their meaning perfectly.

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Do you think the past or the future is more important? And not in terms of your own life (e.g. will your retirement be better than your time in high school) - that’s chickenshit, that’s two turns in early game Civ V, that’s low stakes table. No, I mean in terms of the whole timeline of the planet: neolithic magic in stone circles, valleys where no human has ever walked, unturned stones beneath deep water, dead languages. Should we protect the physical remnants of history or privilege the possibilities of the future? Would we crush Grecian pottery if it unlocked clean, sustainable power which allowed us to create AirPod batteries which never lose their charge? Without even asking, I will tell you that anyone making Celtic music thinks the past is more important than the future. And while you listen to Celtic music, you will agree.

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Celtic music is humanist, but ancient humanist. It is not interested in what Elon Musk is doing, it doesn’t care what shirt you’re wearing, or whether you’re an Episcopalian vegan, or if you can finish The New Yorker crossword puzzle, or really any modern concerns - at least, I don’t think it cares. In a way, I don’t care what they’re saying, because I like the way it makes me feel: peaceful and romantic and connected to something eternal and profound. Like when a huge rock is warm to the touch. These are underrated feelings.

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#lil wayne #enya #kendrick lamar #to pimp a butterfly #mf doom #julie fowlis #celtic #folk #solas

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witchychangeling-blog · 7 years

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For those who need it.

I've been a witch for 12 years just about. It's taken me a long time to get to where I am now, many struggles of not being able to practice and having to hide, or simply just not having resources to continue learning. But over the years I've picked up a few things that honestly have made my practice so much better and I'm finally after all these years, really where I want to be.

Now as some may know, I'm going through a shift in beliefs. I followed strictly the Norse pantheon for about 5 years now, and was afraid of having that change because I felt I wouldn't be taken seriously. It was thanks to the community of spooniewitches on amino that I figured out rather quickly: that this is ok.

With some "soul searching" that I've been doing sense the beginning of this year, and more heavily in the past few months, I've found that I didn't actually know what I believed. Literally. I had no idea what /I/ believed. It was a jumbled mess of what /others/ believed and wanted others to believe with them.

Upon this realization, I had to take a step back. I'd been practicing for 12 years! How did I not know what I believed?! For a moment, this was rather distressing.

But, I've been doing shadow work all year. And with that, I have learned a few things about myself.

One being, I can literally believe whatever I want, and no one can take that from me. Seriously. If you want to believe: believe. Sounds simple right?

Staying true to ones self is probably the hardest thing ive ever learned. I still struggle with it, as it's a very new concept to me. I know, how is staying true to myself so hard? Well, with my background, it's actually pretty easy to see why that is.

I won't go into much detail, but I spent a good majority of my life abused and neglected. My reaction to it was to shove myself in someone else's box of what is "right and wrong" and hope that the pain would stop and I'd be accepted. This year, that changed.

I said fuck it, and started the process of moving on. And it's a long fucking process let me tell you. And it's painful, I've cried, screamed, and had to drag myself through the mud. But it's worth every moment.

Now, here's where my advice is for any new witches or those struggling, and this is beyond the posts that tell you to research and all that. (And those posts are very important and you should seriously take them into consideration!)

1. Learn to know yourself. Know your weaknesses. Know your strengths. Take the time to sit alone and talk to yourself. Don't worry about how crazy you might feel at first. For me this means journaling, for you this may mean just thinking, or talking out loud. Do what suits you.

2. Learn to accept yourself. I'm not saying you have to love yourself right away, but acceptance. That goes farther, and is a huge part of the healing process.

3. Start to ask yourself, what is it that you enjoy most about your beliefs, your practices. What have you picked up along the way that's made you seriously love what you're doing. Write it down, sing it, write poetry, just make sure it's somewhere where you can look back on it. Put a date on it, and keep it somewhere you can look back in times of struggle.

4. Then ask, what don't you believe. What about the community makes you uncomfortable. This helps you determine where you stand. And, through this too you will learn more about yourself than you might think. Record this as well, and date it.

5. Go deeper. No this isn't an innuendo. Go into the darkest part of your mind. What is it that you fear. It could be anything. What makes you uncomfortable, afraid, etc. record and date.

6. Now, what do you want? Seriously, what is your goal in your craft? Record and date.

7. Work through any problems. This is a hard step. You may have to go back to previous steps. And that's ok. Time isn't linear. You can always go back, go forward, so long as your moving. And taking more time on one step than the other steps is fine. That's part of the process.

8. Continue. Keep going. Keep learning, not just about your practice, but about yourself. Keep going back, forward, in circles, and record your process in whatever manner you see fit. Just keep it flowing, don't stop unless you need too.

9. Stay healthy. No no, this isn't a "you should do x y and z and you'll be suddenly cured!" This is, if you need to take a step back and let things soak in, do it. You're still progressing.

10. Go back to step one. See what you've done, learn from it some more. Go through all the steps.

This is shadow work, or a form of it anyway. And you should (for the most part) do it your whole life. Time is in flux. Everything moves and weaves and gets wobbly. That's ok. Keep going. Keep getting to know yourself. Keep learning to accept yourself.

You're going to question, and you should. You're going to think you're nuts, and guess what? Everyone is. It's ok. Breath. Keep going.

And above all, know you're not alone. You may be uniquely you, (and you are) but you're not alone. The universe is huge, there are over 7 billion people on this planet. You're not alone. Even if only a few of these billions are close to you, you are not alone. And if you truly feel that you are? Reach out. Witchblr is huge. Find a blog and msg them. If you find that you need to move past them, find someone else. Keep going.

#witchy #shadow work #pagan #Wiccan #witchcraft #secular witchcraft

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sr116-blog · 7 years

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Mental Health Month : Writing to Take care of Me

So, the first week of mental health month on Tumblr is meant to be about POST FOR YOU, meaning post about self care. In the spirit of my overall blog theme of writing original stories and Fanfiction, I’m going to tell you how my writing helps with my self care.

First, I should probably tell you a bit about my mental illness:

I am diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). Depression is a diagnosis I have lived with since I was 13, I am now 31 (and will be 32 in August). I think it’s important to understand this isn’t a condition that develops overnight, it builds over time and can be triggered by various things. There are varying degrees of depression as well. It can be a more temporary situational depression (often treatable with therapy alone) or a more long term even lifelong chemical depression (which may require medication).

By the time one is diagnosed, particularly in their “angsty teen” years, it’s usually been festering a while. At 13, I got help because a friend told her mother (who called and told my mother) that I had revealed to my classmates a suicide attempt. I credit that friend to this day with saving my life (but those sort of stories are for another day). Below are some MDD symptom adult display. Almost every single one of these applies to me when my illness is untreated. And to a lesser degree even when treated.

While MDD is my only official diagnosis, professional counselors have also suggested I show signs of borderline personality disorder (BPD) and I am very codependent/dependent (it varies by who I’m dealing with, I suppose). See the graphic below? I do have several of those symptoms. The thing is, BPD is easily confused for other diagnoses who have similar symptoms, and it can be hard to nail down. On this list I often experience: 1, 3, 5, 6, 7; and more recently i have begun to notice 8 popping up. That's a lot of them, actually...

So, now that I’ve talked a bit about my diagnosis, I can talk a bit about writing and how it helps.

Using words and characters can be a very powerful coping tool. When I’m lost in my depression, if I can manage to dig myself near enough to the surface to focus on stringing things together, I often find it’s easiest to express that pain in poetry. In fact, in a world where I so often felt like so much talentless carp in a skilled family, writing was the earliest niche I found.

My middle school (I guess that’s the equivalent…K - 8 all attended the same school in the Parochial system I attended) English teacher encouraged it, as did my late uncle. So, though I still had little faith in my own value, it was a skill I eagerly developed, and it quickly became a safe way to vent my anger, sorrow and self loathing.

I had always enjoyed trying to weave together original stories, too. My skill there, in my opinion, wasn’t as great. Then again, I have confidence issues. It’s part of the depression and dependency. I had a good mind for fanciful concepts, I suppose, but it hadn’t been fine tuned.

That’s part of where the Fanfiction comes in. The other part is the entire notion of why we write fanfiction, or why I do. I write Fanfiction because I love the stories…and to love the stories, I need to love the characters. I love the characters, because they are a mirror. I will try to write a post on that in and of itself later.

Now, my Fanfiction usually do some amount of character exploration. It’s one of my favorite things; and that has helped me to be able to write original works much more thoroughly. Granted, I tend to get more caught up in creating than writing these original stories…I’m working on that.

The brilliant thing about original stories is that you poor your own self into them. Every character is a piece of you; the plot reflects some moral standard, dilemma, or concern you may have; or the plot may be an fantasy you’ve held to help escape from reality for ages; the plot could be based very much even on that own internal battle with those dark thoughts in your own mind.

Every word you put on paper is some part of you. Who you are, wish to be, or fear you may become; what you’ve faced, wish to find, or fear is yet to come. It is born from somewhere, and letting it flow through the pen, if you are willing, will set it free.

For me. The willingness has been the problem. I want to get better. I pour myself onto pages, trying to help. The problem becomes, I am so used to feeling this, I am afraid to release it completely. So I keep letting it drag me back.

I’m finally getting there, I think. I have a great therapy team working with me now. A new treatment called EMDR I’ve been working with (it’s great, and I recommend it to anyone whose counselors think they are ready. Like anything mental health related, it’s not for everyone) has helped me really open up about the heart of things. I can post about it later and try to find a video.

The main point of this post boils down to this: whatever I end up writing about, I am actually writing about myself. That’s very therapeutic if I let it be.

#postitforward #mental health in writing #Fandom and mental health #mental health awareness month #mental health month #Mental health may #mental illness #mental health #Major Depressive disorder #MDD #BPD #Coping

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tonguetiedmag · 7 years

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Anger in Female Literature

When you think of a woman consumed by fury, what do you think of? Is it the classical Greco-Roman representation of a woman scorned: Medea, Electra, and Medusa – tales of anger and revenge; or is it the modern-day stories of hard-bodied feminism and black widows – North Country (2005), If These Walls Could Talk (1996), Gone Girl (2014), or A Woman Scorned (2000)? It seems, historically, that if a man is furious, it is righteous fury, or biblical fury. Its violence is synonymous with justice and honesty, and if not at all times justifiable, it is always forgivable. The story of the angry man is not one of destruction, but one of rebirth. Women’s anger bears an entirely different image: the picture of the screaming woman, her anger neither acceptable nor forgivable. It is not a story of redemption, but a story of self-destruction; a story of women who choose a darker path, and never recover themselves. They, in a way, become less stories about angry women than they do about women stricken by madness – so unspeakable to society was the idea that women could be angry that they found it more acceptable that women simply sink into depression or insanity, such as the stories of Calypso and Ophelia. Today, society’s acceptance of women’s anger is slowly growing, but it is an agonizingly slow process. The image of the Victorian woman is a hard one to break free of, it seems – the soft woman sitting at home, accepting of what is given to her and taken from her, pliable and subservient. This is not a question of individual choice, but of social freedom. Even when accepted by popular society, it is an even smaller margin that accepts ugly female anger – the kind that cannot be fixed by a gentle word, or a man’s touch, the kind of emotion that almost transcends anger and moves to rage, a scream that refuses to be quieted. When we read of anger like this, we find it ugly and unpalatable – which bears the question: why do we accept it out of men, and not out of women? A passage by Ana Božičević, from her poem “Casual Elegy for Luka Skračić,” puts this in clearer words than I ever could with only two lines:

“I want to be the kind of monster you / don’t want to fuck—”

Alice Sebold put this a slightly different way, in her novel Lucky:

“I’ve always hated it in movies and plays, the woman who is ripped open by violence and then asked to parcel out redemption for the rest of her life.”

Today, three prolific female poets have agreed to share their viewpoints on the idea of female anger in literature – their own acceptance of it, other peoples return of it, and how it has helped to shape their work. The idea of this article is to disavow the idea of anger-versus-femininity, the reclaiming (or, in some instances, claiming for the first time) of female individuality and power through their anger, and to make anger acceptable simply because it is felt. When asked whether she personally believed that anger had a place in that reclaiming of power, especially in regards to her poems (THE SERPENT NEVER ASKED TO BE BORN A SERPENT; GIRL says: I AM MY OWN TRAGEDY; and TELL EVERYONE, OR ARE YOU TOO AFRAID TO?), poet Laetitia Keok replied:

“I guess anger has always had a place in my writing, especially in those pieces. I’ve felt very strongly about the powerlessness of women, and how we are often rendered helpless. The idea of women reclaiming what should be theirs, comes from anger, it comes from a deep-rooted tiredness of having settled for less, and still that is not enough, but we have had enough. These pieces are about fighting back. Anger definitely has a place in all of that.”

One of Laetitia’s most heart-wrenching pieces of writing comes from her poem “I AM MEANT FOR MORE”:

“WHY CAN’T YOU BE A LITTLE MORE

POETIC AND SOUND

A LITTLE LESS LIKE YOU’RE SCREAMING?

POETRY IS MEANT TO BE

SACRED GROUND AND NOT A

SLAUGHTERHOUSE.”

When asked if her feelings had changed in the years since she wrote that piece, she replied:

“It has definitely changed. I wrote this poem at a point where I absolutely hated my writing. I was very angry about a lot of things and I hated how that showed through in my writing. So I tried to hide the anger in corners only to have it lunge and claw at me from the shadows. I wrote this piece while I was struggling between who I was and who I wanted to be, what my writing was about and what I wanted it to be about. I felt that anger in poetry was inappropriate. A lot has changed since then, I’ve learned that poetry is anything we want it to be, however angry and however fist clenching. And I’ve learned to weave my anger into my work and that has healed wounds I never thought would heal. So I’d like to make an amendment to this piece: POETRY IS BOTH SACRED GROUND AND SLAUGHTERHOUSE.

Laetitia Keok is both a brilliant poet and a talented writer – author of her poetry collection titled Eleven Twelve. Her poetry is savage and authentic. It isn’t until you speak to her that you understand that all that anger exists beside a wonderful kindness. When asked “If you could speak out to young, female writers that are afraid to channel their anger into their own writing, what would you say?” she said:

“Please don’t ever be afraid, and everyone looks at anger like its a wild animal on the loose, and it’s not, it’s a feeling and it is as valid and as important as any other. You are allowed to be angry, and you are allowed to make art about it, so make art. Make messy, angry art. Write like it’s reopening new wounds, write in capitals, write like you're screaming, be loud about it. Anger is so so powerful, embrace it and let it be your voice. Use that anger, use your rage and make something raw and real and honest out of it. It’ll heal whatever needs healing, bare your fangs, take heart, and keep writing.

Emily Palmero is another incredibly accomplished poet, and author of three chapbooks: 2015, NOVEMBER, and From Between Lyre Strings. Many of her poems (such as Persephone; The Stare Down, The Stone Cold Stuff; and I Wanted to Tell You That I Hate You, But I Wrote This Poem Instead), deal with anger and redemption as it has to do with women. Asked whether she believes anger is important for the reclaiming of female individuality and power, she replied:

“I think anger absolutely has a place in that. The fact that individuality and power has become something that women must reclaim because they are not granted these things in the world [we live in] is infuriating. On a personal level, many of [my] poems, especially lately have been dealing with the fact that I was sexually assaulted when I was 18, and I went from feeling invincible and safe to helpless, and that loss—of safety, of always feeling like someone is hanging over my shoulder, of fearing anything that draws attention to myself—is a massive source of anger for me, and when I consider that so many women have it so much worse than I do and have been treated in the most inhumane ways, I can only deal with that fury by writing it down and hope that other people can relate and share in these feelings and feel like they’re not alone.”

Despite the anger with which Emily Palmero writes, her initial and resounding message to female poets is one of hope. Not only hope, but of strength, resolution, ambition, and pride:

“For me, at least, writing is a coping mechanism, a way to take apart these things that have happened to me and turn the individual parts of them over and over in my hands. And so often, this process includes this anger that I cannot express all the time, anger that gets denounced as hysteria or irrationality—anger that I am not allowed to own. As a woman, my anger is not allowed to exist as a pure emotion; it is rewritten and invalidated by a world that refuses to take my pain seriously. In poetry, however, I get to put that anger into words without any interference; I can write about everything in a pure, unadulterated way, in a way that allows me to experience the entire spectrum of emotions that weaves itself into the very core of our humanity.”

After reading this message, I was drawn to ask the question: Why do you feel it is that so many people are quick to invalidate female anger? Do you have any thoughts on how to change this? To which she explained:

“Such a long history exists that associates women’s emotions with a hysteria that is so easily invalidated, and I think those that dominate society fear above all things the loss of control. And female anger has the power to destabilize, to revolutionize, to change, and by writing it off as something excessive, this change can be delayed. Because of the history, because of this invalidating of female anger that’s occurred for centuries, the only way to change this [is] through rewriting the world that we live in, and it will be difficult and it will require all of us and it will be worth it.

Breanna Schurr was the author of a collection of poetry titled Stone Woman, Stone Bird which was self-published in 2014, but quickly retracted from the internet. She stated that “The amount of backlash I received for my poetry was overwhelming for me at the time. I am certain I will be publishing again, but my mental state comes before anything.” Breanna wrote primarily about the anger she felt toward the men in her life – mostly their refusal to stand up for what they knew to be right – and her deep-rooted distrust of kindness from men. This is an excerpt from her poem “Sex Appeal”:

“I go now from the harbor of a strangers arms,

still anchored to the docks,

when I leave - he tears parts off of me,

when I speak: I speak through the splinters,

YOU THINK you will silence me?

I have tamed worse waters than these,

YOU THINK a man is ready to part the ocean,

I am a salt-water woman,

and if you choose to enter me without

my permission: you choose to be drowned.”

Unfortunately, not all people agree with women allowing anger into their writing. All three of the poets above were asked, if they could say anything to the people who attempt to hinder and undermine the movement, who do not want women to be outspoken, who do not believe anger is appropriate in female literature – what would they say? These were their replies:

“It takes so much courage to channel anger into our art, to bare our wounds to the world. We have had so much taken from us. You are not to reduce us to whispers and curtsies, you are not to take our anger away from us. It is the only way we know how to survive.”

- Laetitia Keok

“Honestly, fuck those people. Or in more polite terms, I would hope that they could find the humanity to stop treating women as one-sided dolls that are meant for their pleasure and therefore, incapable of experiencing anything beyond a sense of apathetic placidity. Women are so goddamn creative and powerful, and the attempts to stunt that do more harm to our world as a whole in the long run.”

- Emily Palmero

“I want them to know that I will remain standing. Men have been trying my entire life not to allow me off of my knees, and it took me years to find my feet. Now that I have, there is not a single person on earth that can bring me back down. To the women, and men, who helped lift me up: thank you, thank you, thank you. To the people who have told me to “back to my place”, and “speak more carefully”

... fuck you. My uprising is not your downfall. Your ignorance is.”

- Breanna Schurr

This article, though is remains at the base about anger, is also about change. Much like the female poets featured in it, though the words may speak angrily, they have hope. They carry a message of amendment, of apology, and of optimism. Speaking to female poets about this project, I have personally seen so much passion and excitement – not only from the poets interviewed, but by women around me. I want, above all, this to be a message of support; of validation, comfort, and encouragement. Write with anger, write in a way that touches people, write in a way that is uniquely you – with all of your fire, and all of your rage. Mary Elizabeth Williams, staff writer for Salon and the author of A Series of Catastrophes & Miracles, stated: “... writers need to talk to each other.” Not just writers. All of us. Men, women, dark, light, gay, straight. We need to talk to each other. We have so much to say. [...] your struggle may not be my struggle. But your dignity is my concern.”

And every word of what she said is true – this is a women’s issue, but it is not a burden for women to work through alone. Hugo Schwyzer, Pasadena City College professor and active feminist, said: “Men are afraid of women’s anger. It’s very hard for men to stand up to women’s anger.” - but we should not be afraid of it any more than we are afraid of our own anger. Men should not be standing up against women’s anger, but standing up for it. Now, more than ever, is when female poets and writers need our support. We are working toward something great, and together, our greatness is boundless.

I would like to give one last thanks to Laetitia Keok, Emily Palmero, and Breanna Schurr for their insight and openness with me while I was writing this article. Each one is an incredible poet in their own right. Their words forever change those who read them – thank you. If you would like to view their full works, they can be found at:

Laetitia Keok: softstained.tumblr.com

Emily Palmero: starredsoul.tumblr.com

Breanna Schurr: Not Currently Online

Article by: Isaak Frank

#Isaak Frank #interview #Laetitia Keok #Emily Palmero #Breanna Schurr #lit #Anger in Female Literature #female poets

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dezsasdfghjkl · 7 years

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**You never got to finish reading my letter. I know it’s a long shot, you’ve been trying to stay away from social media, but I hope you get to read this. I’m sorry if I’m too much of a coward to send this to you or even want to see you again. I’ve grown tired of your inconsistencies. It took me a long time and a lot of strength to say no to you. As much as I still want to be the person you call when you couldn’t sleep at night or when you’re wasted, I have realized that I deserve a better friendship from you. With everything you have put me through this year, I am exhausted and finally empty. I don’t regret knowing you but I think I have played my part in your life and you have done your part in mine. I hope you find happiness, contentment and love, one that wouldn’t give up on you. I’m sorry if I did.

You asked me how I was through a message in facebook.

Seeing our chatbox cleared of our past; the flirting, our inside jokes, date plans and arguments replaced with a “Hey, how’re you?” now felt like it was the first time all over again. I felt giddy opening a message from you, which I haven’t done in a month. But this time anxiety has crept in.

I stared at the grey bubble for five solid minutes, going back and forth with: “I’m great!”, “ I’m not doing so good.” Or “I don’t know, how do you think I should feel after you cut me off?”. I stuck with “I’m great” because I think it was what you needed to hear.

Maybe you needed to know that I was doing better than you expected, that I can do well without you, that I have moved on and what you did hasn’t affected me at all, that I can barely feel your absence because you weren’t really present in my life for the past six months.

Maybe you needed to be assured; to clear your conscience or maybe you genuinely cared for me. But the last one is too far fetched, that’s what I keep telling myself. I just don’t want to hope anymore.

For a few hours I was content in giving you that answer. It was true to some extent, I was doing a better job at moving on than most girls are. But there are days when I am unable to go forward.

Out of all the trial and errors of relationships I’ve been in, I was proudest of ours the most. Although it doesn’t fall into the category of relationship norms society deems acceptable, I have come to love you and what we were. It was unconventional, yes, but for me it was the simplest and most genuine of all.

I have never been as honest with the guys I dated as I was with you. And I have come to believe the truth that you were honest with me too. Looking at my reply now disgusted me. Lying to you would be a disservice to the trust you have put in me and our friendship.

Honestly, I am okay but some days trying to be okay exhaust the crap out of me.

When you told me you were ready to love again just not with me, you broke my heart the second time that night. The moment I read your message, my tears just wouldn’t stop flowing. I cried on the way to the mall, I sobbed while waiting in the cinema and even more when my friends and I were watching a movie. I cried for four hours until there were no more tears left to shed. Fortunately, I haven’t cried since then.

I couldn’t understand why I was crying, what I was sobbing over. I know you didn’t feel the same way or if you did it was short lived, in the first few weeks we dated. I have accepted that my feelings for you can never be reciprocated or if you actually do love me back, it will be far too complicated to pursue a relationship with me. I knew all these even before I told you I love you.

I was contented with what we were, understood what we are not and knew what we can never be. I was happy enough to have you in my life as a friend and even felt blessed to able to do so. But you said things and for a little while I let myself entertain the possibility of us, again.

I guess I placed you on a pedestal when I sent those drunk messages thanking you for letting me love you. It took two days for you to reply, it was probably hard for you to send your reply knowing it might break me. (Or maybe not?)

A day after the drama, you cut me off. You told me once you can never cut me off unlike other girls you dated. I believed that. I felt stupid for doing so.

That day I was mad at you. I have never been mad at you, frustrated, yes but never angry. I hated that you made me look like a foolish girl who trusted you not to do the one thing you said you never could do to me. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. All the truths I came to know about you seemed made up. I kept thinking about the times we spent together and tried to pin point at which time I became blinded by the fictitious conversations we’ve had. I couldn’t.

It turns out I was never blinded by your words, I just chose to forgive you and give you another chance because I saw the good in you that others couldn’t. You went against your words the first time, what the hell made me think you wouldn’t do it again, I don’t know. I just had faith in you.

By the end of the day, I was over it. I had to take responsibility of my pain too. You pushed me away countless of times before but I remained obstinate and stayed, waited for you to need me again. I could have walked away anytime but I did not. I knew what I was getting myself into and I chose to be momentarily happy with you, to be there for you even if I predicted the fall out to be much harder than the first time. Depressing, right?

The next days have been easier. I have someone to distract me. I admit it isn’t healthy but it’s a distraction nonetheless and I am eager to think about anything else. But there are days when distractions don’t work and pretending takes a toll on me. There are times that I couldn’t focus on work and I become unproductive, mostly just staring into space.

My professor in literature once said, “No one writes when they’re happy, they write when they’re sad.”. It was true. Before you, I could write poetry just by focusing on a poignant day I got to spend with a person. Even if it was just an uneventful one, lying around and talking, I can weave a heartbreaking story out of that memory. But I was naive back then; writing was too easy for me, I did not know real heartbreak from romance yet.

They say that writing is a curse and a gift, a curse because you relive every pain when you write and gift because it eventually frees you from that pain. Writing this letter took me a long time to compose and a harder time to organize, in fact the memories I’ve written down are jumbled but are consistent with one thing, truth. I do hope you finish reading this no matter how long it would take you. It took me three days to write this, unable to finish in one sitting because the memories can be too much for me or I just want to hold on to them longer. I write this in hopes that I can make sense of what happened that you’d take time to understand why I felt the things I felt.

December happened and it wrecked me. I opened up to you. I let my guard down and showed you how screwed up I was underneath the charades I perform for people who’d prefer the spontaneous me sans the drama. That was the first time I truly let anyone in on my shit. Sure, my friends have an idea about what I go through but I couldn’t let them see me break like that. I’ve always been the stronger one, the person they can call anytime and lean on to, the cheerleader who pushes them to go on. I was surprised with myself that within less than a week of knowing you I told you things about me more than some of my friends know. There was something about you that made it easy for me to be honest. You allowed me to be weak and vulnerable around you. And despite everything I told you, you asked me what I wanted. I told you I wanted you to stay, you promised you would and you did. For that, I’m thankful.

Everything that followed happened so fast. It was a blur of lunches, doubts, promises, extreme joy and fights. I couldn’t understand why we were moving past the speed limit, it was dates then sex, I love yous and a sudden “We’re too different, I don’t think we’ll workout.” in less than a month. It was a roller coaster of emotions for me, that was the craziest ride in my entire life and I would do it all over again.

So that was what they meant by freefalling. There weren’t any of the calculated guesses, precautionary measures or exit plans I was used to. It was just like floating in the ocean, one minute you trust the waves to lull you softly, then without warning, big waves drown you and the currents take you further away. There is no escape in the ocean, no land to swim to safety. One can only learn to trust that its ebb and flow will take them home someday. I may have been left gasping for air in the end but I have never felt more alive. Thank you.

When you decided to end things with me last year, I half expected you to communicate with me again. You wanted to have me once more but this time it was different. The lunches we used to have were replaced with midnight rendezvous and takeouts. Gone were the sweet messages, now when you call me it’s past 11 pm on a party-less Friday night. There were no good morning texts that ever followed.

I promised myself I would never be the kind of girl who will settle for less just to have the guy that I love for a few hours every two weeks, but I became exactly that: a booty call. The movies made it sound sexy and exciting but it wasn’t at all fun. I always woke up tired the next day and I would sleep through all my classes. There were times that I would pity myself and question my principles. Where was the strong woman that I worked hard to become? She got tired of being tough. She found safety behind the red flags and she succumbed to her heart’s desires.

It was stupid and reckless but I stuck with you for another five months but I needed a way to detach myself somehow. There were other guys who wanted to date me when they found out we stopped seeing each other. So I went out with them in the hopes that their attention and efforts were enough to sway my heart. But not one of them felt like home

Yes they listened to me, tried to fathom my wreckage but the only things they could see was my brilliance, charm and wit û all but the bad things I have become. As romantic as those compliments sounded, I needed someone who knows the hell I’ve been through and the horrible person I have become but is still willing to give me another chance.

Back then, during the first week we dated, you found out I slept with your friend before and that I was still texting him, hell broke lose. You drove back to my house, returned my phone and wanted to forget everything that happened between us (which were 5 consecutive dates that week). But there was something holding you back from totally leaving. You asked me why I lied to you. I am not fond of confrontations and I know you saw that when I told you why. --- All of it; why I became what I am today, why I didn’t trust you enough that I still wanted to see other guys and why I was so guarded. You patiently listened, not once did you interrupt me. I finished my monologue tearing up and repeatedly telling you that I was tired of everything about dating: the lies, the games, boys and sex. Despite what you heard, you decided that I was worth another shot. You even promised me that you were “all-in”. Thank you for taking a chance on me, I hope I didn’t fail you.

There is just something beautiful about being with someone who has seen all your cracks and flaws without needing to cover them up with this perfect idea they have of you. But knowing that your imperfections, choices in the past and the mistakes you have to live with will always be a part of who you are. And when you find someone who embraces your true self, without question or any justification, you are blessed. I was blessed to have you for a while.

They say that nothing good ever happens past 2am, but man they were wrong. The nights and early mornings we spent together from January till May were the best memories I have of you. True, I may have lost track of who I was but I gained something in return, you.

I remember the first night we saw each other in January. I was drunk from drinking tequila with my date that night and I was too tired to even get up but my phone buzzed at almost 12 am, it was you. You haven’t contacted me in days and I was ecstatic to hear from you again. Despite the intoxicated and sleepy state I was in, I told you that you can come over. Within 20 minutes, you arrived blasting your hiphop music in your car. Every night since that night, you would always ask me how I was first. I told you a short recap of what happened in the past two weeks we haven’t seen each other. I told you that I came from a date, that we walked from Lahug to SM and that I really had a great time with the guy. You got pissed at him. “Fuck that guy.: you said. And you didn’t meant for me to screw him, you were just annoyed. I found it funny and sweet that you would get irritated by another guy you barely even knew just because he and I went out a couple of times. I asked why you reacted the way you did, you just said “samok”.

I didn’t probe any further. We proceeded to talk about what was going on in your life. You gave me your normal spiel about how everything is okay with school and friends. But you were tired. You were exhausted of the city and partying, of the fact that you had to follow your Dad’s footsteps in politics and business and that the future was all mapped out for you. You were suffocated with everything about your life that you wanted to escape. I stared at you in awe. I thought to myself; “Here beside me is a guy who was handed down everything in a silver platter but wanted none of it”. I wanted to fly us out of the city, far away where none of your problems can reach you but at that moment all I could do was hold you and tell you “You know that I’m always here for you right?” You thanked me. Until now, it still stands true. From that night onwards, I have grown to love you a little more each time we saw each other.

Our midnight rendezvous wasn’t a regular thing. We would sometimes go on for two weeks or a month at most without seeing each other. I’d see you around sometimes, always in the same street where students from our university and yours would converge. In those moments, there is a clarity in those scenes which would surprise me no matter how mundane it has become in our lives. See, we were like two parallel lines in a sphere, coexisting in the same space yet rarely do we intersect. Looking at you from afar in broad daylight made me realize how much of an outsider I was despite knowing you intimately. You’d ask me sometimes why I never say hi when I see you, the truth is it never felt right to be with you again during the day.

I got used to seeing you in the shadows the same way I got used to you calling me only when you need me. On the nights that we did, either you would come over to my place or I would go to yours, my heart always pumps a faster and my nerves would not calm down from the excitement of seeing you. Despite the adrenaline rush, I found solace in the dark knowing I’ll find you there. There was more to it than sex. You said it yourself: “It’s not just the sex.”We can never pinpoint the ‘more’. You couldn’t even believe yourself when you started telling me your secrets, heartbreaks, hopes and dreams that were unknown to some of your friends. And I liked that I made you feel that way. I took pride in the trust you’ve given me. Slowly, I got to unravel the real you underneath your collector’s caps and expensive shoes. Every time you shared me something precious to you, I felt like I was unwrapping a gift on Christmas Eve. Little by little, I saw snippets of your life that I could never witness up close.

I got to know so many versions of you and fell for each one. I got to know the kind you who was polite to every person you meet on the streets. I met the humble you who would never say no to eating proven or giving back. I argued with the smart version of you who talks about business and politics., I found it cute every time the impatient you couldn’t wait for me to listen to your favorite songs despite our bad internet connection at home. I became frightened of the scary you who cusses a lot and says the most hurtful (but true) things. But most of all I adored you when you showed me how broken you were when you lost the love of your life because you were living in a hazy dream for the past three years. And I have loved every version, even the worst one.

My friends would always ask me what I saw in you. Everything! But they would have just gotten more mad at me had I said that which will just lead to me saying “Okay, okay I won’t see him na lagi.” I love your beautiful mess and I loved you more when you were trying to fix it. You told me once that I inspire you. I melted right away. Thank you, but I can’t take credit for your progress, it was all you: your determination to be the best version of yourself and your ambition to reach your dreams. I don’t know what made you say that but I am very grateful you saw me in that light. All I did was just listen and be there for you. I didn’t even try to change your mind but I’m glad that you have appreciated the things that I did.

Recently, my senior at work asked me what the difference of Love and Infatuation is. I replied proudly that unlike infatuation which selfishly wants the person to be his or hers only, Love is an unconditional selfless act that would want the other person to be happy and free even if that means you won’t be together. Loving you made me realize that romantic love isn’t far from the love I have for my friends and family. Again, thank you for letting me love you.

All I have said before and all I have written now will always be true. Life may take us farther from each other, me (hopefully) in books and magazines and you to the skies, but know that I’ll always be there for you whenever you need me. Journeying through life will not be easy, but know that you have your family and friends who without hesitations or judgment will always support you. Openly show the world who you really are, I saw a beautiful soul in you and I’m sure they’ll see it too. No matter what people say and how you think of yourself: gwapo jod lagi ka! You are a whole universe babe, let people in and explore every planet.

Wishing you the best, always.

#for al john lim #para ni niño #siops pa rin

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