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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Fact or Fiction

Warnings: non-consent (fingering, toys, anal, vaginal, somniphilia)

This is dark!Ransom and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your publisher has died and now you must deal with new management

Note: This came to me out of no where but it was a ride yall. I wanted to write some somniphilia so get ready for some sleep action. Remember to read the warnings my guys and enjoy yourselves. Another double dick fic day.

Sidenote: it is a bit odd to write smut when your bf is listening to barenaked ladies lol

Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

It was funny how things could change in such a short time. More often, it was tragic. Deep in your gut, you had the feeling this change would be the latter.

You stood in the elevator, counting the floors in dread. A month ago, you felt much differently on your ascent. That was a day full of hope. A young writer on your way to meet THE Harlan Thrombey, manuscript in hand. You’d left even more jubilant than you arrived. He loved it and hadn’t shied away from saying so.

Now he was dead and you feared so too were your hopes of a published book. This day you were to meet with another Thrombey. Ransom Drysdale, his grandson, had inherited the company to the surprise and chagrin of many, including his very own uncle.

You couldn’t disagree with Walt. Everyone, especially him, expected him to take Harlan’s place. But he didn’t and he was gone now, buried in resent and jealousy. None had seen him since the funeral. Or so you heard. The publishing business could be almost as dramatic as its fictions.

Top floor, you stepped out and were surprised to find that Deb, the former grey-haired receptionist, had been replaced with another. Younger, blonder, and more concerned with her cellphone than the ding of the elevator. You walked up to her round desk and waited for her to look up. She didn’t.

You cleared your throat.

“Hello, I have a one o’clock with Mr. Drysdale,” You said. She nodded and giggled at her phone. “Excuse me…” You looked around and found a rose gold name placard. “...Selina.”

“Fine, go on,” She shrugged. “No one’s in there. Knock first.”

You sighed and glanced around. There were a few editors you recognized from before and they peered over at the receptionist with open detest. You passed her perch and wove between the desks. You assumed, knowing you wouldn’t get an answer from the oblivious blonde, that Ransom had claimed his grandfather’s former office. The letters printed across the clear glass door assured you. That was new too.

You knocked on the frame, afraid to shatter the door. Ransom was squinting at his monitor and didn’t even look over as he waved you on and called to you.

“Come in.” He shook his head as he huffed at the screen. You entered nervously. “What is it this time?”

“Mr. Drysdale,” You greeted, “I’m here for our appointment.”

His brows drew together as he looked up. He hit a key and turned to you. He sat back in his leather chair as he leaned on the arm.

“Uh, yeah,” He blinked as he lazily reached over and grabbed a manuscript from the pile atop his desk. “Laura?”

You corrected him and he fished out the proper print and sat up. He opened it but didn’t even pretend to read a single word on the page. He smiled as he shifted closer to his desk.

“Close the door,” He said. “Sit. This shouldn’t take long.”

That didn’t sound good. You did as he said and took the stiff seat across from him. The former cozy leather had been replaced with cold acrylic. He tapped his fingers on the pages and ran his tongue beneath his bottom lip.

“Well, seeing as we’re doing a bit of redecorating around here, we decided to do the same with our writers. Streamline, prioritize,” He began. “My grandfather was a smart man, talented author, but he valued ‘style’ too much over ‘marketability’.”

Your chest tightened and you tried not to show your discomfort.

“Of course,” You said. “It makes sense. New owner, new directions. I understand.”

“Oh, great,” He smirked. “Then you also understand that the contract my grandfather, god rest his soul, promised you, must be reviewed before we go through with the signing?”

“Review?” You frowned.

“It’s the same for all our new writers,” He assured you. “My editors are combing over every word of your manuscript before we throw the ledger across the table.”

“He already read my manuscript, your editors too. I don’t--”

“He’s dead and most of his editors are gone or have taken on new responsibilities,” He interjected. “As you said, new directions.”

“Alright.” You sighed. “And so when will I be informed of the results of this review?”

He tilted his head, amused by your tone as he leaned back once more. He grabbed a pen and tapped it on his lip as he thought.

“Couple weeks.” He said.

“A couple weeks? I’ve already waited over a month for a contract. Now I get the circumstances required it, as tragic as they were, but with all due respect, your offer isn’t the only one I have on this manuscript.” You argued.

“Lesser publishers, no doubt, but you understand that under our submissions guidelines, you cannot accept an exterior deal until we have made an official decision.” He countered. “So, you can wait the three weeks before you march down to Penguin or whatever lowbrow manufacturer you’ve been talking with.”

You stared at him. He was very much unlike his grandfather. Harlan, for all his accomplishments, had an air of humility. Ransom, for all he hadn’t achieved, was entirely arrogant.

“So, you’re holding my book hostage?” You asked.

“I’m allowing you an opportunity provided you have patience,” He returned. “I could say no right now and send you out without a hope of ever signing with us.”

The curve of his lips irked you, along with the loose weave of his sweater. He didn’t dress like the owner of a publishing house; he dressed like a spoiled frat boy. You were quiet as you thought about the much lower offer from Charter books. Modest but respectable. And there were many companies who you had yet to approach.

You stood suddenly and marched over to his desk. You reached over and slid your manuscript across the desk and closed it. You gathered it up and tucked it under your arm.

“I’ll take the no over your games, Mr. Drysdale.” You said as your heart beat wildly. This was either a moment you’d deeply regret or gloriously relive. “I hardly see how sitting on a stack of books will help your profitability.”

He blinked and his smirk fell. Then he scoffed and tossed his pen down.

“Well, you sure are saving me a lot of work,” He mused. “One less pile of kindling hanging around will save my editors hours.”

“Mr. Drysdale,” You said as you backed away from him “I may not have inherited an empire but I think I can see as clear as any that you are out of your depth behind that desk.”

A glimmer of anger broke through his facade and his jaw ticked. He was quick to reclaim his maddening smirk and he shrugged.

“You’re right,” He remarked. “You’re just a writer. Unpublished, at that.”

You nodded and swallowed the insult. You spun and swept back through the door, certain to leave it open. You strode past the reception as she watched some Insta story on a new eye shadow palette. Even Harlan’s name couldn’t atone for buffoonery.

🖊️

Charter Books wasn’t far from Blood Like Wine Publishing. For the second time that week, you were in the heart of the business district. You were tired of waiting. If Charter wanted to publish your work without fanfare, you would take it over waiting on a whim.

Charles Halford was expecting you and as was your habit, you were early. The building didn’t bring you the same joy as Blood Like Wine had, though now that you thought of it, any such optimism had disappeared. You would settle and hope that this was a back road to a mighty second book. If your luck was to take an upturn, it might even be a sleeper hit.

You were directed to sit along the small line of chairs outside Halford’s office. You balanced your manuscript on your knee as you waited. You fidgeted impatiently and hoped the offer was still open. The email had seemed hopeful and that a meeting was scheduled on such short notice was heartening.

You looked up as the door finally opened. Your heart dropped at the man who stepped out. Ransom’s eyes caught yours as he turned back to Halford and tossed some quip at him. His forced laughter turned your stomach. The men were chummy; too chummy. Was this foreshadowing?

“Anyway, I should get back to it,” Ransom announced. “Figured I’d swing by. Get a few pointers.”

“I’m sure you’ll be back for more,” Charles boomed. “Remember, left to right.”

Ransom rolled his eyes and shook Halford’s hand. He turned and winked at you as he left, a cheery farewell to the receptionist. Halford perked up as he noticed you and distracted you from the unease that bubbled in your stomach.

“Early as always,” He said. “Come on in. We’ll get started.”

“Thanks,” You stood and he gestured you ahead of him.

You entered his office and waited for him to sit before you did. He dug around for his copy of your manuscript and turned back to you. He didn’t open it as he plopped it on his desk.

“So, you’re still looking for a buyer, huh?” He asked.

“Well, you know there’s so many options,” You said. “I wanted to go somewhere my book fits.”

“Of course, and it’s a great concept,” He replied. “Really… but…”

“But…” You took a breath.

“Well, you know, we’ve had time to think too and we’re more akin to easy reads. Our clientele, they want something simple, straightforward. You have clever prose and intricate devices but… well, that’s not really who we’re selling to.”

“I don’t understand,” You said. “What changed? You made an offer and suddenly it’s just… gone?”

“Look, there’s lot of publishers out there who would be a better match I’m sure and in this era, self-publishing is growing.”

“A publishing house suggesting self-publishing?” You shook your head and stood. You were numb. “I can read between the lines as well as you can, Mr. Halford. Thank you for considering me. I won’t waste your time if you’ve made up your mind.”

“Hey,” He rose and reached across the desk. “There’s always the next book. Maybe one day, we’ll have a chance to work together.”

“I hope so,” You said as you swallowed the bitterness. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out this time,” He said.

“It’s… business.” You sniffed. “I get it.”

🖊️

Charter, Storey, Hackett. Every no made the prospect of a yes even less likely. Your future stared back at you with paid online articles and ridiculous blurbs. It was a living, a meagre one, but it wasn’t your dream. It was starting to seem like a nightmare.

Another rejection and you were ready to burn the damn manuscript. You marched into the lobby that fronted Lucian LLC. You just wanted to go home but if you did that, you’d just sit and sulk as you had for days before. So instead you followed the scent of roasted beans into the coffee shop along the east side of the lobby.

You ordered a skinny latte and found a table in the corner. You dropped the heavy print on the table before you set down your stemmed mug and flopped onto the chair. You leaned your elbows on the table and rubbed your forehead. A cup clinked across from yours and you sat up, startled by the figure before you.

“Long day?” Ransom asked.

You looked around confused.

“What?” You replied. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was walking by actually and I saw you through the window. Almost didn’t recognize you but… you look… tired.” He smirked and you rolled your eyes. “And I saw that manuscript in front of you and thought maybe we could have another chat.”

“I don’t want to talk about you reviewing my book until you decide you don’t want it,” You hissed.

“Okay, well, what if I told you we could have a yes or no by the end of our discussion, hmm?”

You squinted at him and ran your fingertips down the side of the hot mug.

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeated coyly.

“What changed your mind?”

“Look, can I help it that I feel a little bad about how it all turned out? Seeing you here, sulking, it really got to me.” He feigned pity.

“I wasn’t sulking,” You insisted. “I was taking a breather between all my meetings. There’s a lot of interest over my book.”

“Is there?” He pulled out the chair opposite you and sat. “Because I made a few calls and I’m pretty sure there isn’t.”

“You what?”

“A lot of people don’t wanna snatch a book out from under the Thrombey stamp,” He explained. “And as far as I’m concerned, we didn’t finish our negotiations.”

You chewed the inside of your lip and considered him. There was a twinkle in his eye. This man would make himself the bane of your existence until he could declare himself the victor. As it was, he might actually be the only prospect you had left.

“Fine. I guess I’m here already. If you want to talk, let’s talk,” You said.

His eyes sparked as they had back in his office.

“Alright,” He began tersely, “May I?”

He pointed to your manuscript and you slowly slid it over to him. He turned it and opened it. He bent over it dramatically as he read. You waited as he glossed over a few pages and sat up.

“Promising. I said so to the editors but you understand that it’s not all up to me.” He said. “It’s not that I don’t wanna publish you, I’m just being cautious. This company is my legacy.”

“It’s your grandfather’s legacy,” You affirmed.

He bit his tongue and blinked. He took a breath before he continued.

“Whatever,” He said. “It is my company now and I have to keep it alive. That means making smart decisions. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m just a writer.” You shrugged.

He sighed and reached for his mug. He dribbled a little down his chin and onto his blazer. He swore as he looked down and set his cup back on the table.

“Could you grab some napkins?” He asked. “Shit.”

“Napkins?” You repeated. You knew he was the type to have help but you were not looking to be his nanny.

“Please,” He said sharply as he held up his wet hand. “If you don’t mind.”

You slid out of your chair and grumbled as you crossed the cafe. You pulled out a dozen serviettes from the dispenser and returned to him. You dropped them on the manuscript and he grabbed them impatiently. He wiped up the coffee and left the napkins crumpled beside his cup.

You lifted your own, the foam entirely flat now, and took a sip. The espresso was strong and your cheek twitched. You set it down as you tried not to cough. The caffeine further addled your nerves.

“So what exactly are you offering?” You asked.

“I went over my grandfather’s notes and spoke with my team. It wasn’t all impractical. We can honour the printing terms but may have to tinker with the numbers…” He began and you nodded.

You listened intently as he went over his points and referred to your manuscript several times, flipping pages back and forth. He suggested a sex scene to liven it up but that didn’t really fit the motif of a medieval mystery set in a monastery. That disagreement didn’t last long as he plowed through his terms.

As you listened, you sipped and your head began to ache from the excess of caffeine. Three coffees a day would do that to you. Your stomach flurried as well and you found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. You left the dregs of your latte untouched and touched your stomach.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Drysdale…”

“Ransom,” He corrected.

“Sorry but… uh, I don’t feel very well.” You said. “I think… I hate to do this but I think maybe we should reschedule.”

“Well, there’s not much else to say. I’m sure you could give me an answer before you race off.” He stood as you did.

You leaned heavily on the table and grabbed your manuscript. You took your bag and groaned.

“Really, I feel… sick.” You said. “I gotta go.”

“Wait, wait,” He followed as you stumbled past him. You weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was the leftovers you ate for dinner last night. “You okay?”

“F-fine,” You shook your head to ward off the haze at the edge of your vision. You checked your phone. “Look, I gotta catch the bus.”

“You sure you can handle that?” He was overly concerned for a man who had as good as laughed you out of your office. “I can drive you.”

“Why would you do that?” You stopped just outside the building.

“Because you’re sweating a lot and I think it’d be a lot quicker to drive than to wait around for transit,” He said. “But hey, your call.”

You stared at him and your head pulsed. You touched your forehead and nodded. “S-sure,” You accepted. “Thanks.”

“Hey, we’ll just take it out of your final offer,” He kidded.

🖊️

Ransom

She barely buckled her seat belt before she was out. She slumped in the seat and thumped against the door at the first corner. Ransom hadn’t expected it to take effect so soon but she had downed her latte quickly.

When she got up to grab the napkins, he sprinkled the foam with the powder and quickly sat back. The idea hadn’t occurred to him until he spotted her through the glass. The drugging, that was. The thought of what he would do to her had played over in his mind since their first meeting. He couldn’t just let a writer walk all over him like that. He was in charge now.

He glanced over at her as he pulled up his long drive. She was still out like a light. He had to admit, she wasn’t a great beauty but she had a charm about her. And she was perfect to test out his toys on.

He got out and rounded the car. He opened her door and undid her seatbelt. Her bag and manuscript flopped onto the floor as he lifted her. He closed the door with his foot and carried her up the short walk. She was entirely limp. Completely helpless. He smiled.

He took her to the basement. It had taken more than a year but it was finally ready. Oh and what timing. It was like she was sent to him, just asking for punishment. Her trite little mouth had earned her more than a place on the scholarly blacklist. He had to make sure she paid.

He set her down on the velvet couch and undressed her a piece at a time. He fondled her chest as he bared it and sucked on her nipples just a little. She didn’t move at all. He checked her breathing and carried on.

When she was naked, he played with her cunt. Spread her legs and poked his fingers inside as he looked her over. She was so tight his cock throbbed at the thought of her walls around him.

He lifted her from the couch and carried her to the special contraption he’d designed himself. He laid her over it on her stomach. The angled board had her ass raised and her legs dangling off the end. He secured her wrists and ankles with the straps to keep her from slipping. He wasn’t worried about resistance.

He moved her hips just slightly and reached under her to spread her pussy. He positioned her clit against the little bump beneath the leather. He took the remote in hand and turned the vibe on. The buzz filled the room and he watched her cunt quiver. He dragged his fingers along it and felt her arousal. She came within minutes.

He walked around her as he thought of what to do to her next. He wheeled over the machine in the corner. He carefully lined up the dildo with her pussy. He pushed it inside of her an inch at a time. He made her take all of it; a whole eight inches of rubber. She didn’t flinch though her breath shuddered.

He neared her side and lifted her eyelid. He only saw the white as she remained entirely unaware. He rubbed himself through his jeans and turned the vibe up and hit the button for the machine. The dildo moved in and out of her as the device whirred quietly. Her cunt made wet sounds as she was fucked helplessly.

He went behind her and watched it go in and out. He dialed it up just a little, her body jolting a little from each thrust. He tucked the remote in his pocket and strolled close to her head. He undid his pants and pulled his throbbing dick out. He rubbed it against her lips and smeared his pre-cum around her mouth.

He delved inside as he glanced back to the dildo. He held her head in one hand as his other dove into his pocket and increased the speed yet again. He began to rock his hips and soon kept time with the rubber. He sank so deep into her throat that she choked and her body spasmed. Still she didn’t wake and he could barely stop himself from cumming.

He pulled his cock out of her mouth and a trail of spit dribbled from her lips. He went to the machine and removed it from her glistening cunt. The leather-bound board was soaked with her cum already. It sent a thrill through him and his cock twitched. He growled and turned away as he resisted the urge to fuck her right away.

He went to the chest of drawers and opened it. He pulled out a bottle of lube and clear glass plug. He should start small, he told himself, but he wanted to see her stretch for him. He wanted her to feel him tomorrow.

He crossed to her and squirted the lube between her cheeks. He massaged it over her hole and mixed it with her natural juices. She was so wet he wasn’t sure he even needed the lube. He dipped his fingers inside her pussy a few times before he returned his attention to her ass.

He poked his index finger inside of her. She definitely was unused. He played with her and added another finger and then a third. She quivered as the vibe had her cumming yet again. He peeked up at her to make sure once more that she was still asleep. He didn’t need to be so paranoid. The pills would even have him out for the count.

He pulled his fingers from her ass and positioned the plug against her tight ring. He began slowly, pressing it just until she began to open and then retreating. He paused as he reached to stroke himself. He was so hard it hurt.

He kept on, each time her hole gaped just a little more around the plug. At its widest breadth, he heard a sleepy grumble escape her. He pushed it just a little more and it slipped in all the way. Her ring closed around its stem and he thought he would cum just at that sight.

He shuddered and calmed himself. He grabbed his cock and tapped the tip against the flat end of the plug. He guided it down along her folds and felt the vibration ripple through him as he brushed against the hidden vibe. He angled himself up to her entrance and held himself there.

He wiggled the plug and slammed into her as hard as he could. Her legs jolted and he thrust again with just as much force. He wanted her to feel it, even in her subconscious. He wanted her to suffer. He picked up a rhythm, violent and frantic as her cunt clung to him. She came and he grunted as he fought to restrain his own climax.

He gripped the plug and pulled it out slowly only to press it back in. He did it again and again as he fucked her. His heavy breaths swirled around him as he watched her asshole gape. He was on fire, desperate for release.

He stopped and removed the plug entirely. He held it by the stem and held it against her back as he slipped his cock out of her cunt. He eagerly entered her ass with a rumble. She was still so fucking tight. He lost it. He fucked her so hard, his special toy shook beneath her.

His voice got louder and louder as he every thrust sent a ripple through him. He snarled and pulled out suddenly. He stroked his cock as he rubbed the tip along her ass and spilled himself down her thigh. He would have to wait to cum inside her.

He let out a shaky breath as he let go of his cock. He pushed the plug into her ass again and backed away. He left the vibe on as he paced around the room and cracked his neck. A couple minutes and he’d be ready for another go. Maybe he could cum in her mouth this time. That was easy enough to clean up.

🖊️

You awoke with a start. You sat up on your couch and looked around your empty apartment. You winced as you felt an ache in your ass; your cunt too. You hissed and touched yourself gingerly. You glanced down; you wore the same clothes and there was nothing amiss but the thrum in your core.

You shook your head and rubbed your eyes. You could barely remember leaving the cafe but how had you ended up back here? You only remembered the headache and the horrible stomach ache.

You reached for your phone and found several notifications across the lock screen. Foremost was the email from Blood Like Wine Publishing. You opened it and quickly read through it.

‘...I am excited to work with you on your first novel and the company is eager to see this through to its greatest potential.

Hope you feel better and look forward to our meeting next Wednesday,

Ransom Drysdale Editor-in-Chief Blood and Wine Publishing’

You stare at the email in confusion. Had you said yes? Ransom offered you a drive home… then it was all black but you must’ve come to some agreement. You must have found your way into your apartment and passed out on the couch. So why didn’t you remember any of that?

#ransom drysdale #dark!ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale #dark!ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x reader #knives out #dark fic #dark!fic #au #fic #one shot

2K notes · View notes

proselys · 3 years

Note

Soft Prosely when they've finished with a mission and they have a slow relaxing morning, taking care of each other, before reports

The sun peaked through the curtains of the balcony doors and rested on the two sleeping women where were tangled up in one another. They had hardly moved from each others embrace; even in sleep needing to feel the others touch and know they were safely next to them.

Another mission finished, another moment of peace and clarity that they were both alive still and out of danger. They didn't need to be anywhere or do anything until that afternoon where they would debrief. For now however they could stay in bed and relax. It was hard with this job to completely relax, what with the ever present terrorist threat, but they seized the chance whenever they could.

Tsia woke first as she always did, shifting slightly so not to wake Emily. She looked over at her and the way the sun danced across her skin. She traced her fingers over Emily's arm, simply watching her slow and even breathing and the way her eyelids flickered slightly. Tsia would always be blown away by how beautiful she was, especially when she looked so serene in sleep.

With a gentle kiss to her forehead, Tsia made to move from the bed and quietly made her way to the small kitchenette the hotel room had. Sean had splashed out on them this time and she wasn't going to complain. She went to put on the coffee machine, getting out two mugs and going about what had become a daily (or as daily as it could be) morning routine. She would make the coffee and put in Emily's ridiculous amount of sugar in her mug before carrying them back to the bed and putting both mugs on the bedside tables.

Sliding back into bed behind her, Tsia wrapped her arm around her and began to press kisses against her shoulder as Emily started to slowly shift under her.

''Coffee?'' She mumbled sleepily, turning to look over at Tsia with only one eye open, squinting in the sunlight.

''Good morning to you too mon amour.'' Tsia hummed, smiling. ''But yes, there's coffee.''

Emily smiled back up at her and pulled her down into a kiss, which Tsia gladly accepted. Moments like this were always worth the danger and uncertainty they went through.

''Thank you.'' Emily murmured against her lips. ''What would I do without you?''

''Complain about not having coffee probably.''

Emily laughed and kissed her again. ''You're probably right about that.''

''Oh, you know I am, Ya Amar.'' Tsia hummed and pulled Emily closer, noticing the blush on her cheeks from the term of endearment.

Emily would never get tired of having Tsia close to her or kissing her and she wanted to stay like this forever. ''What do you plan we do this morning?''

''Well, I was thinking we could stay in bed for a while longer and then we can shower together before going out to get some breakfast, how does that sound?'' Tsia tucked a strand of Emily's hair out of her face.

''As long as I'm with you, whatever we do will be perfect.''

Note: Ya Amar means 'my moon' in Arabic.

#romeys writing #ficlet #emily prentiss #tsia mosely #prosely #they're so cute im crying #they're so in love #just relaxing

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sabraeal · 3 years

Text

All That Remains, Chapter 7: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @claudeng80′s birthday! I’m only a week and change late this time, but everyone knows what they’re getting into when they request this fic for gifts-- aka, me dithering for weeks on if a chapter needs to be cut and where it inevitably needs to happen. But here is an almost 5K labor of love...and a little bit of hope... :3c

It would easy to speak of good and evil, would it not? To condemn a sorceress for her conjuring, to pity a girl and her deception. That is the way such tales are crafted: for simplicity, moral lines drawn in the sand.

But life does not fit so easily into the pages made to contain it. A line of prose may distill it to its essence, but a word spoken, an act done by a living creature-- these contain multitudes.

“Well.” Lady Mihoko fixes a shrewd glance over the rim of her teacup, pinning Shirayuki to her chair. Bombazine may creak with her every breath, but when Mihoko sets her demitasse upon its saucer, it is silent. “You are much improved.

The words alone would make a compliment, but with the way her ladyship threads them through her teeth, it is an accusation. Her eyes narrow even now, a proctor determined to catch her pupil filching answers from across the aisle.

Still, it’s the kindest words Mihoko has ever managed to spare, and Shirayuki seizes them with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Mihoko.”

All her ladyship’s fine graces do not restrain her from a humorless grunt. “Do not think it so fine a feat. You could hardly have gotten much worse.” With another contemplative sip, she adds, “But your progress is at least...heartening. You might not be entirely hopeless.”

Polite, tea-appropriate smile firmly in place, Shirayuki casts her eyes down at her plate. How fortunate she is to be able to experience such a fine example of being damned by faint praise.

He mouth does not twitch; by now, she knows better than to allow any of her facial muscles free reign in the presence of the lady-- but it does waver. It was not her own voice lilting those words.

A toe nudges her ankle; the consort’s countenance is carefully composed of bland inquiry across from her.

“You are too kind,” Shirayuki manages, smile polished back to its original brilliance.

“I am.” She settles back in her chair, spine straight as a rod, conveying that her enjoyment of the meal now resides firmly in the past. “You are lucky indeed that Her Majesty deigned to take a girl like you under her wing. How fitting it is that my best student is responsible for righting my worst.”

“It is only because I had such a good tutor that I could even attempt to teach.” The consort sets her own cup onto its saucer, mouth rounded in a pleasant curve. Shirayuki’s never mastered the art of it, to smile to brightly with so little teeth or crinkling around the eyes, but on Haki the effect seems natural, right. “But I must say that Lady Shirayuki is a pleasure as a student. A quick mind and a dedicated learner.”

“What she lack in aptitude she certainly makes up with vigor,” Mihoko allows grudgingly. “In my day, that would not be near enough to make a lady.”

It would be easy to condemn the sorceress, would it not? To raise the roses from their bed and cast the bright light of truth upon them, to drag her into the village square and expose her as a deceiver, a most vile villainess to lead this stray girl astray. We would stretch our hands through the pages if we could but shake our girl awake, if we could put our hands around the throat of the conjuress and see she never bent another illusion--

But that would miss the point entirely. You were told, so long ago now, that life does not fit into the narrow confines fiction demands. Surely you have not forgot?

There is a reason for every action. Unfortunately.

“That is true enough.”

The consort speaks in honeyed tones, mouth composed in a thoughtful pout. But that, Shirayuki knows, is merely an inoffensive mask she wears, one that may be discarded at a moment’s notice. It is always her eyes betray her, burning with an intelligence she can never fully quench.

“But was that not also the era of the former Viscount Yuris? Or the Counts of Sui and Lido?” It should be an accusation, a condemnation, but from the consort’s mouth, it is little more than a polite conversation, small talk between two peers. “So many traitors in so few years.”

Shirayuki may have gained some dominion over her face, but not near enough to keep from glancing at Lady Mihoko.

“That is the nature of the peerage,” her ladyship says after a long moment, mouth pursed in a moue of discomfort. “There are always some that choose to overreach their bounds. It is up to every lord to manage his lands in his own way. Though I know Your Majesties have...newer ideas about such things.”

“Better ideas,” the consort reminds her, both silk and steel entwined. “Under the late king, the court grew indolent, as did the crown. If he had not passed when he did, Clarines might have become another Tanbarun.”

Shirayuki’s teeth grit down, stemming the tide of protest that crashes against them. She had fled her home with little pride or trust in its royals, and it’s not as if she cares for the institution, but-- Raj was no longer the embarrassment he’d once been. It’d be a long time before he’d earn as lofty a reputation as Izana or Zen, but, well, he was trying. And as long as his father remained on the throne, that was enough.

She doubts either of them would appreciate the opinion. It’s not as if any of this is about Tanbarun after all.

Mihoko clucks her tongue. “I would not venture to say we had fallen so far as that.”

“No,” Haki agrees, so pleasant. “But I would.”

A silver spoon clatters to a dish, Mihoko’s aged fingers trembling above it. “That would be your prerogative, Your Majesty.”

“It is my prerogative to see to the quality of my husband’s court, my lady. While once this may have referred to the breeding of its members, I believe we have come beyond that. After all, Lord Zakura was hardly born with silver in hand, or Lord Sui, or Countess Yuris.” The consort hums, delicately setting aside her demitasse. “There would be worse things than to see one of the finest minds of our time raised to a position which suited it.”

Her ladyship does not smile-- a terrible business, nowadays, she would cluck, spoon chiming against the rim of her cup, men should know that every smile returns tenfold in ten years’ time-- but there is a softening in her face. Not of agreement, but allowance.

“We shall see,” she sniffs, waving away another tray of sandwiches. “In time. But none of that removes what a wonders you have wrought with this one, and in less than a month’s time.”

Haki dips her head, the barest bow. “Imagine what a lifetime might bring.”

“Yes.” Mihoko narrows her eyes above the rim of her cup. “Quite unforeseeable.”

What does it mean to conjure, to summon something from nothingness, to breathe life where there once was none? It is no mere illusion; not smoke and mirrors and lies shined until gleaming. Not just a lady’s magic, no substance nor thought, made of wishes and air alone.

No, it is creation; the act of sinking one’s hands into clay and forming something utterly unlike its origin, to take one’s will and give it form. It is any surprise that it is the provenance of women?

But that is the thing, is it not? For every creation, there must be a will, must be a spark. For man to be made flesh, there must first be clay. For illusion to be made real, there first must be a wish.

“One, two-- a sprightly pace if it pleases you, my lady! Lift your feet--”

Sweat spirals down her spine, but Shirayuki picks her heels up of the floor, her sashay the barest whisper of slipper sliding across wood. Far from the ethereal wood nymphs cavorting across the palace’s walls, but it carries her across the floor with far more grace than she’s ever managed before. Like flying, provided it was a hen across the chicken yard.

Shirayuki careens more than glides to the next sequence-- the turn, three, four, return, one, two-- and her heart lodges firmly in the vicinity of her throat. She’s never managed this one before, not without stomping on Arundo’s toes or gravity ruthlessly asserting it dominion over her, dragging her to the earth where she belonged, but--

Haki’s hand squeezes tight around hers before lightening into a lift, pulling right over her head. She curls under it, up-up-down, before swinging back, far less measured, but a thousand times more triumphant.

So many of these story children start with nothing-- unloved and unmissed, abandoned by their parents, scorned by those meant to replace them. But this girl--

This girl was loved. She did not have the mother and father that so many other had, one taken by fate and the other duty; but her grandparents tended her in their place. While other little girls were scrubbing floors, or chopping wood, or being chased into the forest with only the bread in their pockets, she was adored; a treasure on her home’s hearth.

And then, in a breath, it was gone. No time for tears, for contemplation. No time for grief.

She does what all bold little girls do: she moves forward, she adapts. All those fears and grief she locks away; a little drawer inside her mind that only opens in the dead of night, when sleep won’t come to her. How worn those memories are by now, frayed about the edges, folded and thin from neglect.

Strange how it is always children who bear the heaviest burdens. Stranger still that they can grow to used to them, that they can bear them even unto adulthood and hardly realizing they are carrying them at all.

That is, of course, until they are lifted.

“You did it!” Haki catches her arms, stopping Shirayuki’s body from crashing into hers, a smile stretched wide across her face. “With not a step missed.”

“I did,” she bursts breathlessly, nearly sagging in relief. “I did!”

A clap cracks in the cavernous room, but it is only Arundo, his own mouth parted in delight. “Brava, my lady! I am most impressed.”

“As well you should be!” The consort steps back, letting her stand on her own two feet. “There are plenty young ladies I have seen on a dance floor that have not done half so well as Lady Shirayuki.”

Even flushed with victory, Shirayuki knows that for an exaggeration; a thick bit of flattery to bolster her confidence. But it hardly matters, not when she traveled the whole floor without a single misstep.

“I truly despaired of ever teaching Lady Shirayuki much more than swaying in place.” Arundo glances at her partner shyly, color high in his cheeks. “I see it merely took a deft lead.”

“Ah, Master Arundo, it takes a woman to understand how difficult a lady’s part may be.” Haki huffs out a laugh that is far less dainty than one she uses in front of courtiers, sweeping long strands of gold from the frame of her face. “If I knew which place to help, it is only because I remember where I most needed it. As my dancing instructor used to say, we all start at the same place.”

“Still,” Arundo insists, “for you to be able to dance the man and the woman’s part-- a most impressive feat!”

“Not at all!” Haki loops the last of her wisps around her ears, and just like that, the consort’s smiling mask slips into place. “This is but a simple waltz. You yourself must know a hundred or more, and dance both parts with skill besides.”

The dance master waggles a finger at her, playful. “Ah, but in the realm of grace and elegance, Your Majesty has far outstripped my paltry skill.”

With the high drama for which the Viandese were known, Arundo swept into a deep bow, bending near in half. Over his back, Haki glanced at her wide-eyed, mouth twitching, though any proof of it was gone before he rose.

“Please, Master Arundo, I am merely well-practiced.” The consort’s mouth tilts, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Izana and I often switch when we...”

Haki’s eyes pulse wide, her cheeks blossoming with a delicate pink. “In any case, I would not have done so well had Lady Shirayuki not already been through the best instruction.”

You see, Miss? Obi’s laugh is bright in her ears, as if he were only right beside her. Anyone can do it. And if you stumble, only stand on my feet and I’ll guide us both through it--

An arm slips through hers, the consort leaning close. “Won’t my brother be surprised to see such progress?”

Shirayuki cannot fathom why Makiri might care about her dancing. He’s seen it before, both of them often pressed into the same endless dinner parties at Lilias, the sort that always seemed to turn into dancing and awkward moonlight professions. He’d been light on his feet when any of the girls dared to approach, not a born dancer like Haki, but a competent one; when she’d clomped past him, dragged by regretful partners, he’d only raised an eyebrow-- an improvement upon the usual sneers she garnered from fellow revelers. He’d never been forced onto her dance card, but still--

Haki slips her a wink, and oh, it’s not her brother she means, but Zen.

You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all. Even in memory, Obi’s smile cuts like a knife’s edge. No wife dances with any man besides her husband.

Shirayuki’s palms sting where her nails cut crescent into them. This room, it’s-- it’s far, far too small. Too tight. So confining, little more than a cage--

“Shall we break for a moment?” Arundo’s jovial lilt crashes through her thoughts like a bird to a window. “And then we shall start the next!”

“A perfect idea, Master Arundo.” Haki smiles down at her, so bright that the shadows of her thoughts burn away. “I dare say my sister has earned a break.”

It was always just enough for this little girl: a grandfather, a grandmother, a loving home and hearth. There had been no dreams of another there, not even when she lost them, not even when she pruned her roses and found another set of hands to take hers. Not even when those hands became a home in themselves.

But with a single word, uttered so casually, a drawer springs open.

Sister. The word echoes through Shirayuki’s head as they walk. There’s an itch of irritation beneath her skin, a pebble in her metaphorical shoe, but still--

Sister. She’s damp, not gently dewed like Haki, so drenched in sweat that her dress clings to her. Fatigued too, every muscle aching, including a few that hadn’t been in her textbooks. She has every reason to want to bury herself in her covers, to try to find the reason her skin feels too tight.

But that’s not what her attention’s caught on, not in the slightest.

“I’m not your sister,” she says, wishing she hadn’t at all. It would be so easy for it to be taken away, for that soft glow in her chest to be snuffed out.

“No,” Haki agrees, looping her arm through hers as if it belongs there, as if she belongs. “But you will be.”

In the morning the girl rose, the cottage empty save for the scent of honeysuckle and forsythia. Her small feet padded across the floor, right to the window latched tight against the night. She pushed up to tip-toe, fingers flicking against metal, and--

And her first sight was a garden, piled high with blooms; a paradise that belonged on a canvas in oils, not at her fingertips.

Do you see? the sorceress asks, rising from where she tends her beds. I awake to this glory every morning. You could as well, if you wanted.

I can’t, the girl says, certain.

The sorceress blinks. And why not?

I... The girl stares out over all this beauty, its scent surrounding her. I do not remember.

Ah, well then. The sorceress smiles, the way she always thought her mother would, had she known her. Then stay a while, and perhaps we will help you remember together.

“May I...” Shirayuki hesitates, biting her lip as they take another winding curve through the halls. The longer she stays within the palace, the more she’s certain: she could live a lifetime here and never knows all the twists and turns it takes. “My I ask you a question?”

The consort peers down at her, both eyebrows lifted in gentle question. “You may.”

“How do you do this all day?” Shirayuki restrains herself from sagging in her stays, whalebone the spine that keeps her upright. “It’s hardly evening and if I hold my shoulder back a moment longer, I think I’ll...”

Collapse, she means to say, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, too sweet, too untrue. Scream is close, rend this dress to pieces closer still, but closest--

Her mind snaps tight around the thought, a steel trap with a wolf’s paw between its teeth. From the murmurings she’s heard since she first came to Clarines, Wistal has seen enough madness for a lifetime.

“Ah, you see, the secret is--” Haki leans in, looping her arm through hers-- “I don’t.”

Shirayuki blinks.

“You are still learning,” the consort continues, setting herself upright, setting their arms into the proper form ladies strolling. “And thus, you must memorize protocol every day, eat your meals under supervision, and practice the mazurka. I, however, have mastered all this, and thus, I cannot remember the last time I waltzed outside a ball.”

“But the etiquette--” the poise, the presence, the elocution-- “surely..?”

“Well, of course.” She shrugs, jostling their elbows. “But those lessons were a part of my childhood, much like how you probably learned to cook and clean and pick herbs instead of poison. It all becomes second nature to you, in time.”

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell her how easy it was to mistake mushrooms, but her point-- well, it’s a good one. “I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.”

“Perhaps not,” the consort allows mildly. “Certainly they will never seem as natural to you as they might to a lady born to manors and castles. And had you continued to try to learn manners from a book, than you would have had no hope at all. But--” Haki pulls her closer to her side, mouth curled with satisfaction-- “you are not alone, you have me.”

Her cheeks flush with heat; the very same as the flame that warms her chest. “Do I?”

“You do.” The consort nods, the sort that says she expects her will to be followed to the letter. “I have always wanted to share these things with someone. Alas, I was given but a single brother, and he my elder. But now I have you.”

What was it we said? A human heart has four chambers, beating in concert. A complex thing, a puzzle box of wants and desires, one buried beneath the other, a dangerous tower of longing crushed inside a container too small to hold it. And all of us live our lives never knowing its depths, not until a drawer springs open, and oh--

Oh how easy it is for our longing to sneak up on us, all unknowing. How easy it is to be blinded by it.

When the consort smiles-- really, truly smiles-- it’s too bright, like looking into the sun, and Shirayuki has to duck her head or be blinded. She’s light-headed from only a moment of basking in its radiance; she can’t imagine what might happen if she dared to look more.

“Besides,” Haki continues blithely, skirts brushing their slippers as they walk. “You could drop an entire tureen on my brother and I think he would adore you just the same. Maybe even more, if you dropped it on the right person.”

A laugh bubbles up from her, and oh, oh, it has been far too long-- it leaves her, a cage thing finally freed from its chains, and rampages through the hall.

Haki stares down at her, pale eyes wide and almost wary. For a moment her mouth works, rounding as if she might say, a lady laughs like a bell, not a gong, just like Mihoko--

And then she joins in, just as wild.

But how can she forget about her precious boy, you might ask? How can she forget about her home?

The answer is easy enough: one must only provide a new one. Oh, how easily a heart may be fooled when the illusion is so pleasant, when it is so wanted. Men on the verge of death imagine entire cities in the desert, oases just over the horizon, luring them yet another step to their doom. When there is no relief, no hope, when only doubts encompass us--

That is when we are most in need of fiction. Of an escape, of respite. How simple it can be to close ones eyes to harsh reality when it is paradise that lays before them.

But take heart-- such things never last. They cannot. It is folly to suggest there is no life without suffering-- an excuse to give breath to all kinds of evil-- but for plenty to have meaning, there must be a lack. To know joy there must be sadness, to know wisdom there must be ignorance, and when all one’s days are filled with a mindless, monotonous bliss--

Well, there is no paradise from which man does not escape, and no garden that will keep a little girl from what she seeks.

“Ah!” Haki’s jolts ahead, a filly at the end of her lead. Shirayuki nearly is dragged with her, her feet stumbling over the hem of her gown, but the consort extricates herself just in time, setting her to rights.

“Just-- just wait here a moment, if you would,” the consort tells her, fingers wound tight over the rounds of her shoulders. “It seems as though there is, ah, someone waiting for me at the door. I’ll only be-- a moment.”

Shirayuki blinks as the consort scurries away, skirts sweeping against the carpet in a rhythm and pace too hurried for Clarines’ stately queen. “But, your room is...”

Around the corner, she almost says, a better shorthand for not yet visible, which is what she means. Both points are moot; the consort springs away long before she can speak, the only part of her that remains the lagging lace of her train. And then even that is gone, all disappeared down the hall.

Perhaps it is the angle, Shirayuki allows. With her on the inside of the turn and the consort on the outside...?

Well, it hardly matters. She huffs out a breath, straightening her shoulders, and comes to stand in the intersection. This is a safe enough place to wait; the consort’s chambers are the first door on this hall, and--

And there is someone waiting. Or was, since all she catches of them the flash of a white coat.

The girl knows every inch of this garden in time, every undying bloom. For that is what they must be, at least for them to be so many, for so long. There are daffodils and daisies, dahlias and tulips, marigolds and gardenias, lilacs and lilies of the valley. A hundred flowers and more, too many to ever name crawling up lattice and sprawling over the bounds of their beds.

And yet, there is something missing. It sits at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said, but she cannot find the word, no matter how long she thinks on it. The only thing that comes to her is the memory of loam, and the warmth of hands brushing hers.

Don’t ever leave me, the sorceress would say, a smile on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

How could I, the girl would laugh, an inexplicable knot of dread tightening in her belly, when everything is so beautiful here?

“Shirayuki!”

Haki approaches her, smile wide and warm but also-- strain lingers at the corners. Maybe even displeasure. “I thought you were going to wait.”

“I was,” she says, wide-eyed. “I mean, I am. Who was...”

“No one.” The consort waves her off. “Just a delivery. A tisane. For my migraines. I ran out just the other day.”

“Oh.” Her mouth works, grasping for the words that had come so easily no so long ago, but now were like grinding glass. “From the pharm--?”

“Come!” Haki sweeps her arm up into her own, pulling her firmly against her side. “It’s time for dinner, isn’t it? We must see that you’re ready.”

It ends like this: she finds a petal.

It is no crimson red, no passionate pink, but instead a simple and clean white, not so unlike the gardenia. But it is too small for such a flower, too rounded, too plush. She presses it between her fingers and it is familiar as her own skin, as the scent of vanilla on the air, and yet she cannot find the name, nor envision the bloom from whence it fell. Surely it is nothing in this garden.

What it that you have? the sorceress asks, her voice suddenly sharp, like a blade placed between skin and bloated tick. Give it here.

The little girl has not reason not to. It must have blown in from elsewhere.

The sorceress takes it in her hand, slender fingers curling into a fist around it. When they unfurl it is gone, merely dust in the wind.

We need none of that world here, the sorceress says, kinder but firm. You will never leave me, after all.

Of course, the girl says, turning to her with a wide smile. The sorceress has a new hat on, black and covered in flowers, even finer than the ones she’s worn before. Why would I, when--?

Her teeth snap down, words stuck between them. It’s the only way to be safe, the only way to stop herself from saying now what she knows she cannot. Right there, painted on the cloth, next to a blood red dahlia--

--There is a rose. The sorceress’s hat has roses, and this garden does not.

Of course, she says again, stilted. This is where I belong.

Shirayuki stands frozen in the hall, mind churning like a mill’s wheel in the storm of her thoughts. The summer months mean whites and creams and ivories are in season, a playful palette that the consort’s court adorns with floral embroidery. But she did not see a floating train of silk, or the fluttering layers of linen, but instead--

A white coat. A brown paper package done up with twine and ink scrawled illegibly on the outside, passed so quickly from one hand to the next. The scent of herbs is fresh on the air, valerian among them.

She misses it. Almost as much as she misses...

“Shirayuki?” The consort tugs at her, a question writ across her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Haki...” Her hands clench at her side. “Has there been any news of Obi?”

That is the thing about magic: it is easy to weave wishes into illusion, but to maintain it-- a different matter entirely. A woman may send all her roses underground, never to be seen again, but to remember to remove them from every vase, from the back of a brush, from a hat--

Impossible.

“Obi?” The consort’s grip tightens, even as her smile spread wide. “No, none at all.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #All That Remains #snow queen AU #ans #i really and truly thought i'd get to finish out this section #but NO #it is not to be #to be fair it's one of the longest in the story #and it has the most like...plot movement in one piece #so i guess it makes sense #but SIGH #soon guys #soon we'll get to the turn on this #NEXT CHAPTER FOR SURE

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catalists · 4 years

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fjorclay fic recs, vol. 1

If the influx of people into the Fjorclay server is any indication, a number of people have been boarding this good good ship lately, and I wanted to put together a little rec list of (some of) my favorite Fjorclay fics for anyone who might be looking.

Your disclaimer: this is not a full literature review, and although I crowd-sourced a little, this is definitely mostly my personal favorites. Caveat lector!

* = fic is rated M or E

Ideation by starkraving

Fjord admires Caduceus, you know, in a totally normal and not at all weird way. Beauregard notices.

An earlier Fjorclay fic and not any less powerful for it. The language here is incredibly precise and the take on Fjord is incredible.

through the trance* by starstrung

Once he’s communed with the Wildmother, Fjord keeps wanting to do it again.

This fic. This fic. One of my favorites, not just for the absolute pitch-perfect Fjord and Caduceus, but for nailing every last one of the Mighty Nein’s voices. Not to mention it manages to be hilarious and heartrending sometimes in the same line.

for I will hold them for you by constanted

Wanting is difficult, like Caduceus had said, and Fjord is used to wanting, but he’s not used to wanting things that are… like Caduceus. Soft and like-sunsets. Things that are bleeding out before him. Etcetera.

(or: The party's split, and a difficult battle leaves Melora's boys fresh out of magic and Caduceus severely damaged. Fjord tries his best to take care of him. Blood loss makes clerics say the darnedest things.)

This is my personal favorite of Bee’s fics, because, well, it’s hurt/comfort and it’s amazing hurt/comfort with a side of perfect dialogue. But she has many other excellent fics as well and they’re very worth reading too.

the morning calls your name by MithrilWren

It’s not so much that Fjord stops sleeping. It’s more that it’s begun to taper down: the number of hours he spends with his eyes closed.

Fjord wages a losing war against insomnia. Caduceus notices.

You may have noticed a theme to these recs: excellent, thoughtful characterization, dialogue where you can really hear their voices, and hurt/comfort. This checks all the boxes and is beautifully written besides.

no man is an island (but we sure are on one) by kaeda

Fjord takes advantage of the Mighty Nein's island getaway to romance Caduceus. It takes Caduceus some time to notice.

Speaking of pitch-perfect Mighty Nein: this fic has it. Also, excellent blend of emotion and plot, the perfect getting-together fic in a way that feels believable for the show.

gardens full of aching trees by galacticdrift

Just...kicking around some ideas about how little Cad heals himself, mainly, and why that might be, and how Fjord might react upon finding out (spoilers: they kiss). I meant for this to get spicy with the Lay On Hands but Fjord really just had his heart set on yearning instead.

Title from Murder By Death's "Solitary One."

It’s all about that yearning! And lovely prose, and the sort of care I long to see the Mighty Nein exhibit towards Caduceus a little more often in canon. It’s soft. This fic is soft.

you’re scared to die alone, i know by moonbeatblues

Caduceus Clay is a strange one.

He could say that— has, actually, said that— about everyone else here, but with Caduceus he really means it. He says he’s from somewhere up north, out of Empire territory, and he flies like it, too.

That is to say, Caduceus Clay kinda flies like shit.

(expanding the mech au on a request)

Now we take a step into AU territory! This little mech au is so vivid and my only complaint is that there isn’t more of it. The mythology created in such a short piece is incredible.

gonna build you up, gonna help you believe by patchworkgirlofoz

Listen. Have you ever looked at the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, maybe at a tender and impressionable young age and deeply imprinted on it, but wanted so badly to change 95% of what happens in that story? Cool, me too.

An AU based on an old medieval poem--this description does it zero justice. If you like the story Gawain and the Green Knight, read this immediately. If you don’t know it but like fairytales, read this immediately. If that doesn’t apply to you, still read this immediately, it’s an incredibly clever adaptation that gets right into the heart of Fjord as a character and it’s beautiful.

your dust from mine by MithrilWren

Fjord was born to more than a servant’s life, but doesn’t know it. Prince Caduceus is betrothed to a man, but the wrong one.

A tale of mistaken identities, fairytale foolery, and the power of true love’s kiss.

(Or. a loose retelling of ‘The Goose Girl’, with some decidedly CR twists.)

A still ongoing fairy tale AU! Updates every week or two and kicks my ass every time. Absolutely incredible. (I made a rule that each author could only go on this list once, but for MithrilWren I have broken it.)

***

And, if you’re still looking for fic, I have a few, but most recently:

guide me to where we restart by Chrome

Grief in general is a difficult thing for Fjord to wrap his head around. He hasn’t truly grieved a terrible loss before; never had anything he couldn’t bear losing before. Now—he can’t imagine losing Caduceus. Can hardly imagine a day without him. “Do you think it gets easier?”

“Oh,” Caduceus says, “Everything gets easier, I think.”

---

After everything, Caduceus and Fjord find a little house on a cliff by the sea, and a life follows.

#fjorclay #teahaw #caduceus clay #fjord #critical role #cr fic #cr fic recs

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bentforkent · 4 years

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to the moon and to saturn - chapter three

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary

there is a version of this story featuring my sweet oc on my wattpad and ao3!

word count: 1,446

content warnings: very brief smut mention, lots of hickeys, cursing because i have a limited vocabulary

previous chapter | next chapter

don’t look up the translation to the russian in this chapter! a.) it’s a plot point that requires some mystery, and b.) google translate translates it poorly.

illicit affairs

“so you speak how many languages?”

“a lot.”

y/n hums, and crawls into spencer’s lap. they’re sat on the floor of his apartment, the party from earlier in the night long forgotten, the footsteps of spencer’s teammates long receded. they’re surrounded by pillows and blankets that y/n had shamelessly tornado’d around spencer’s apartment to find. she’s hung them over the couch, over the tv. it’s a fort.

the only light source is the flickering of a nature documentary playing in the background, volume turned all the way down. a lion meets a gazelle onscreen.

y/n presses her lips to spencer’s neck for what feels like the hundredth time that night. “teach me,” she mumbles, sinking her teeth into his supple skin in a gentle bite.

spencer shakes his head. “Я вас любил: любовь ещё, быть может,” he says softly.

“ooh, russian,” y/n replies, taking her complete lack of understanding in stride. “what does that mean?” she kisses down to his exposed clavicle, sucking a tiny mark against it. it’s miniscule compared to the other crimson spots littering his neck and chest.

again, spencer shakes his head. “i’m not telling you,” he says, stifling a moan. y/n lays her head against his shoulder and looks up at him with a bat of her thick eyelashes, totally teasing him. when he looks down at her, completely immune to her tricks, she purses her lips into a joking scowl and pokes one of his hickeys with her index finger. he winces and jerks away from her touch.

they’re both silent, soaking in the romantic moment. with her head against spencer’s bare chest, and his hands in her hair, y/n focuses her attention on the interaction between the gazelle and the lion. spencer’s breathing is steady under her, and she knows he’s got his eyes trained on her, just as content as she is. the lion should eat the gazelle, she thinks. why isn’t the lion eating the gazelle?

“y/n,” spencer says to get her attention. she looks up at him and her mouth forms an involuntary grin at the sight of him. his lips are swollen, his eyes are glazed over, his hair is messy. she’s ruined his perfect little pretty boy face, and she all she had to do was kiss him.

a lot.

she kissed him a lot.

spencer is tender, completely vulnerable to her. he’s the gazelle, she realizes, and her face falls a bit. does that make her the lion? will she inevitably eat him?

“you can spend the night,” he says quietly, like he’d been pondering it for a while. “if you want,” he adds quickly. “no pressure.”

“i’ll stay,” y/n replies immediately, then holds a finger up in warning. “but i never put out on the first date.”

spencer shifts uncomfortably, and y/n’s suddenly aware of her position perched on his lap. she scrambles to get off of him, and he stretches his legs out next to her. “this was a date?” he asks with a shy smile, leaning back on his hands.

“of course it was, dr. reid,” she says, using the honorific in jest. amidst their prolonged make-out session, the pair had found some time to catch up on the past twenty years (and to catch their breath). spencer had asked y/n many questions about her job, how she met penelope and how the hell she ended up in dc, but y/n thought spencer’s life had been far more interesting. she knew spencer was smart. he’d been teaching her complex prose before she could hardly even read silently in her head, for crying out loud. but three phds? sounds impossible to y/n. she wanted to listen to him talk about everything, all day.

she’s endeared by the way he drops facts in conversation, just as he did when he was a child. she’s endeared by the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, but she doesn’t think she’d ever noticed that before. she’s endeared by the way his hands run all over her, like he missed her, even though she knows that he probably hardly remembered her after twenty years. she knows she hardly remembered him.

more than just wanting to catch up with an old friend, y/n had found herself utterly entranced by spencer. and that was going to be a problem, y/n knows, because neither one of them had spoken about their childhood yet, and she isn’t quite keen to divulge the information that she knows. god, spencer’s dad fucking sucks.

y/n doesn’t want to be the lion, and she doesn’t want to be closed off to spencer...but that seems like the only option for her right now. but she’s getting ahead of herself. it’s her first night with spencer. and while she thinks it’s going well, he could just be a really good actor. but the adoration in his eyes when he looks at her....

spencer seems to notice the wheels turning in y/n’s head, and lifts her chin into a gentle kiss. “i’m really glad you’re here,” he says sincerely, and y/n melts, every worry and insecurity on her mind floating out of her brain and into the vents of his apartment, where the AC unit carries them away.

when they finally decide to migrate from spencer’s living room floor to his bed, they lay on their sides, facing each other. y/n’s wearing spencer’s old caltech t-shirt and nothing else, yet she’s never felt less exposed. she’s safe with him, she knows.

spencer lets his eyes trace her features, from the curve of her nose across her cheeks. he meant it wholeheartedly, that he’s glad she’s here in his typically lonely apartment. this was better than anything he could have fabricated in his mind. y/n is better than anything he could have fabricated in his mind. he senses some hesitation in her, but he knows he’s all in. he hopes she feels the same. is that naive of him? sure, he thinks, but there is just something so alluring about the girl in front of him that he throws all caution to the wind.

they had talked and kissed and been generally giddy around each other so much that the pair was exhausted. spencer’s eyes are heavy, but he desperately wants to make his feelings even clearer to y/n. “if you stayed every night like this, i wouldn’t mind,” he murmurs, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

y/n turns to snuggle against his chest, pulling his arms around her. spencer’s heart grows three sizes. “mm, you’re cute, baby,” she replies, hardly loud enough to be heard over the hum of the ceiling fan whirring. but he hears her. baby, she said. baby, baby, baby. he presses his lips to the top of her head, and drifts to sleep before he can internalize the pure sweetness of the nickname.

--------------

“dr. reid, you’re a fucking vampire,” y/n says plainly.

“i am? you are!” he exclaims in response.

they’re standing side by side in spencer’s bathroom, fluorescent light highlighting the patterned bruising littering each of their necks. spencer makes eye contact with y/n through the mirror, and they laugh.

“i’m gonna get picked on at work so much today,” spencer remarks with a pout, and y/n traces her finger along the curve of his spine.

“just tell them you got attacked by a spider, or something,” she says.

“they wouldn’t buy it. did you know that most humans never even have a reaction to a spider bite? the amount of venom a spider has is miniscule compared to the size of our bodies.”

“well…you could just tell them the truth? that i spent the night?” y/n swings herself up onto the counter, perching herself next to the sink. she kicks her legs out and wraps them around spencer’s hips, pulling him toward her.

“mmm,” he replies skeptically, and y/n captures his lips in a kiss before he can say anything else.

when they pull apart, y/n presses her forehead against his. “i know you don’t want to mix work and play, spence, but i’m definitely telling penelope.” she punctuates her words with a goofy grin and a kiss against the tip of his nose.

spencer saunters into work an hour later, purple scarf wrapped around his neck, beat-up satchel gripped tightly in his hands. he feels like everyone is looking at him, but there’s only one set of intent eyes on him. penelope. he catches her gaze, and feeling emboldened by his past night and morning, he shoots her an exaggerated wink. penelope bursts into shrieking laughter that fills him with warmth and rings in his ears for the rest of the day.

----

unofficial tags: @differentkettleoffishalltogether

#this is a filler-ish chapter but there's still like 13 chapters planned so BEAR with me #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfiction #to the moon and to saturn #to the moon and to saturn chapter three #spencer reid x y/n

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the-original-b · 3 years

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Archangel Chapter 11: Talent Scouting

Format: Prose / Fiction, multi-entry

Part in Series: 3 of 9 (Previous Chapter | The Beginning)

Word Count: c. 2,600

Summary: Khai pressures Krueger to contain a rapidly deteriorating state of affairs.

Krueger stepped through the glass doors of the Sixth Avenue office—dressed in a commando sweater and dark jeans with classy shoes under his pea coat—and headed towards the conference room.

Danielle straightened up behind her desk as she noticed him walk past her. “They’re waiting for you inside, Mr. Krueger,” she said.

He thanked her with a nod and proceeded down the hallway, past Khai’s old office which CJ Silvio now worked out of, and entered the conference room to join her and Everett to discuss their next steps after the events at Pharaohs a few days ago. Visible on a computer monitor at the end of the table was Hayden.

“Gentlemen, Miss Khai.” he greeted them. “Is Mr. Desmoulins joining us?”

“We’re ironing out the connection now,” Khai noted. She wore a dark suit with a white blouse and black peep toe pumps. “It’s one thing to set up a video call, but another entirely to set one up with him.”

“The man lives in military grade encryption,” Everett added. Today he wore a conservative blue suit with a pale gray shirt underneath.

“It’s how he’s stayed invisible for so long…” she added sotto voce. She tapped a few more keys on the laptop Hayden’s face was on. “Got it,” she said, turning the device toward the other men in the room. “Brandon, can you hear us now?”

“Loud and clear,” Brandon voice confirmed through the speakers.

“Perfect. In the room you can see I’m here with Mr. Krueger and Henry Everett. Also joining us via teleconference is Mr. Hayden.”

“Hey, everyone.”

“Greetings,” Hayden said. “Good to see you’re all well.” He folded his arms atop the desk he sat behind.

“Same to you, sir.” Khai said, sitting down and facing the laptop. Krueger and Everett took their places standing behind her. “Have you heard any updates from Dana and Charles?”

“No, and that’s what concerns me. Karin’s seen a steady increase in the Dragon Tears’ popularity in her territory, but she and I have been in regular contact; and Herman’s reported no problems in his area. The others have had their hands full for months, and now that I haven’t heard from them since last week the rest of us are more than a little concerned.”

“That bad?”

“It isn’t just the drugs, it’s the problems they invite. Police budgets have been slashed nationwide, and the hardest-hit cities have turned to the private sector to compensate.”

“Castle Security Solutions,” Krueger noted. “I’ve seen a news story on them the other day.”

“It’s no coincidence they’re expanding while the Dragon Tears become more popular,” Khai noted.

“Are you suggesting they’re connected, Miss Khai?” Hayden queried.

“I’m saying there may be a causality, sir; that somebody stands to profit from the expanse of one or both of the two forces choking the Partners today.”

“I agree,” Everett added. “And thanks to Krueger, I think we know who.” He looked at the monitor. “Mr. Desmoulins?”

“Special Agent Peter Cross,” Brandon said. “Born August 14th 1966, UT San Antonio class of ’88. Eight years with the FBI, then transferred to the DEA in ’96. He spent three years there, then moved to ATF. He changed hats a third time and joined the CIA in 2002, after which the records stop.”

Krueger arched his brow. “The United States Government?” He crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one foot.

“We don’t know that for sure, but it does make sense,” Brandon mused. “If the CIA is sponsoring an effort to destroy the Partners, they’d want somebody like Cross at the tip of the spear.”

“Not their wheelhouse,” Khai commented. “That’s more the FBI’s job.”

“Also doesn’t make sense that his story stops after his start with the CIA,” Everett noted, his hand on his chin. “I get the feeling there’s more to this Peter Cross than the records show.”

“Especially since the buyer named him,” Krueger added, just loud enough for the others to hear. He leaned on the back of a chair to Khai’s left. “Is it possible he’s changed sides, started working for another criminal organization?”

“Possible, but not likely; the only other major player in the region is the Company,” Khai said. “And after the ordeal with Osiris, they’re hardly on my radar these days.”

“Mine either,” Hayden said. He brought his knuckles to his lip as he looked away from the camera, breaking eye contact as he considered the new information. “Do we know if Cross is operating in the Tri-State?”

“I found an office in Long Island City,” Brandon said. “Registered to a Rook Capital. He’s listed as Operations Manager.”

Krueger and Khai shot each other looks.

“Then I think that’s where we should start,” Hayden concluded. “Mr. Krueger, head to the Rook Capital office tonight.” Hayden lowered his hand again. “Surveil the building and report back what you find”

“Understood,” Krueger said.

“If I may, gentlemen,” Brandon suggested, “I think I have a better idea. I wrote a script that clones a computer’s internal drive and writes it to another location. I call it the Intruder.”

“The one used at Miles Orham’s cabin?”

“The very same. I think we can use it again here, but we’ll need an access point for it to work.”

Hayden nodded. “I agree,” he said. “That is a better idea. Mr. Krueger, if you can gain entry to the office and upload Mr. Desmoulins’ program into their server room, I believe we’ll gather all the information we need.”

“I’ll get it done, Mr. Hayden,” Krueger said with a nod.

“Excellent. We’ll reconvene after we’ve made more sense of the data.” He reached for something off-camera. “Good day.” His visage disappeared immediately afterward, and the four remaining people on the conference call shared a moment of silence.

“I’ll make the needed modifications to the Intruder,” Brandon finally said. “Krueger, can you come by later today to pick up the drive?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get the address from you while I’m there as well.”

“Awesome. Let me know when you’re on the way. Mr. Everett, Liz, take care.” And just like that, Brandon Desmoulins disconnected from the conference, and Khai shut her laptop before turning to face the two other men in the room with her.

“Well,” she said.

“It sounds self-explanatory to me,” Everett said. “We plant the Intruder, wait for it to do its job, and decide our next steps after we analyze the data.”

“We might run out of time before then.”

Everett shot her an inquisitive look.

“Rook Capital… Rook, the chess piece.”

“Castle,” Everett concluded. “The private contractors?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.”

“I caught it too,” Krueger added. “It can’t be coincidence that Cross is part of their office in Queens, he has to be connected to the private contractors coming up in cities across the country.”

“All the evidence points to that,” Khai said. “And if all is as it seems then there’s no time to delay here…” She stood up from her seat, adjusting her glasses. “We have to kill him.”

“Liz,” Everett said, raising a hand to chest-level. “You’re talking about killing a possible U.S. Government agent. That’s a sure-fire way of drawing attention that we cannot afford.”

“It’s also the only way we can guarantee avoiding the same thing that’s happening to Dana and Charles right now, and to stop whatever’s brewing from destroying the whole organization…” She took a breath, placing her hands on her hips and shutting her eyes. She opened them again and met Krueger’s gaze. “Milo, go see CJ in the armory.”

“Liz,” Krueger began.

She started toward her desk at the head of the conference room, by the window overlooking Sixth Avenue. “It won’t be easy, but if you can get in and out before they know what happened, I think we can slip the noose before they get a chance to tighten it.” She took a seat and woke her desktop computer.

“Liz, I was ordered—”

“It’ll be tight, but there’s a safe house in Sunnyside, on 40th Street. You can lie low there while things settle down—”

“Liz..!” He got her attention.

Khai looked away from the monitor to face him.

“That isn’t the job,” he specified. “You heard Mr. Hayden, this is strictly an infiltration assignment.”

“I did,” she said, “but it may be too late to do anything about whatever facts we dig up by the time we analyze them all. We need to solve the problem before it becomes one.”

“And I agree with you there,” Krueger said, leaving his place at the table to approach her. “But this is different—you’re talking about having me remove a possible Federal Agent.” He stopped barely two feet from the edge of her desk, then placed his hands onto the desk top. “A long time ago I stood right here in front of your predecessor, and promised to kill him in his sleep if he ever ordered me to do something I’m not comfortable with.”

Khai didn’t take her eyes from his, even as she leaned back into the chair and uncrossed her legs. She wasn’t even aware of the distance she tried to create between them until she blinked, realizing what she was actually feeling wasn’t shock, but fear.

“I don’t want to have to revisit that threat.” Krueger finally said. He maintained his flat tone, deadly serious. “Least of all to you… but if I have to, I will.” He straightened his posture again, looking down at her. “I was issued an order, Liz. And I don’t intend to deviate from it.” Krueger turned on his heel and headed toward the exit, his hands in his coat pockets. On his way out of the office he acknowledged Danielle again and passed through the glass doors to the elevator down to Sixth Avenue.

Everett shuffled uncomfortably after Krueger left. “That wasn’t something I should have been in the room for. Sorry, Liz.”

“No, you’re fine,” she reassured him. “Really…” She let a quiet sigh escape her lips. “You know, that’s the closest thing to a fight he and I have had in the almost two years we’ve been together… I was always nervous about that, but now I think I was scared of the wrong thing.”

Everett followed her eyes darting across the top of her desk. He noticed her reach for a pen and absentmindedly tap its point on an old post-it note. He’d seen that look on her face before, and could practically see the gears turning in her head as she worked through what must have been a problem she’d revisited and resolved dozens of times already. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she declared, trying to convince herself more than him. “Yeah, it’s just… easy to forget who he is sometimes.”

“A good-hearted man?”

Khai looked up at him and, after a brief pause, exhaled. She shut her eyes and put the pen back down, then brought her hand back up to remove her glasses and rest them by the pen. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and first finger then pinched the bridge of her nose before allowing her hand to slide down her face to her mouth as she opened her eyes again, staring ahead blankly.

Everett looked over his shoulder to the conference table and headed over to retrieve a chair which he placed in front of Khai’s desk. “Don’t tell me,” he began, sitting down. “You’re considering ending your relationship with him; you’re listing the pros and cons in your head and trying to come up with any good reason to let him go on your own terms before you’re forced to make that choice.”

Khai quietly laughed and shook her head. “That obvious, huh?”

“You may as well be an open book,” he returned, smirking.

Khai relaxed her smile and brought both her hands together, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. She shut her eyes again and placed her face into her palms, exhaling slowly. She interlaced her fingers again, looking over her knuckles at him.

“And now, you’re realizing he’s not only the best thing to happen to the Branch, but also to you.”

Khai nodded. “I know,” she said. “And as much as I try to rationalize and poke holes in the pros, I can’t find a single reason to make it worth breaking up with him in the end.” She dropped her hands and turned her head to look him in the eye. “But I’m scared, Henry,” she admitted. “I hesitated even bringing him to the Brooklynite that night. I didn’t think I’d fall for him…” She shrugged. “But I did. A kind, charming, good-looking guy with a tragic past; I didn’t stand a chance,” she laughed. “I ignored my doubts and let myself get closer to him. No matter how many times I think I made a mistake with him, then realize I didn’t, I still feel like I’m going to screw this up somehow. And that terrifies me.”

Everett gave a half-suppressed chuckle as he considered his next words. “Forty years ago, I think I heard those same words come out of your father’s mouth when he tried to talk himself out of proposing to your mother.”

Khai laughed again. “I guess the apple plopped straight down,” she jested. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him he was the smartest person I knew. Then I chastised him for not being able to see the obvious choice,” he added with a smirk. “You inherited his brilliant mind, Liz. The two of you work through problems the same way—you consider all the approaches, all the variables, and by the time you reach your solution you realize you knew the right answer from the beginning.” He shrugged. “This is no different. I think you made your decision before we even started talking about this.”

Khai opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but stopped herself when she realized he was right. Sure Krueger caught her off guard with his parting words, but he said what he did because of who he was and—more importantly—who he wasn’t. Khai rested her cheek in her hand as she considered Krueger, weighing his numerous good qualities against his few bad ones. She tried to justify splitting with him in light of any hypothetical and actual threats to their relationship, and a soft smile washed over her face as she realized she couldn’t.

“There’s a reason you invited him to dinner that night, Liz” Everett concluded, leaning forward. “Remember that.”

Krueger headed down Sixth Avenue and crossed at 51st Street to head toward the garage where he parked his car. He slowed after he made it across the street, then sighed as he stopped in his tracks. He stood off to one side to let others pass him as he slid his hands into his coat pockets and stared absentmindedly into the sky, re-playing his meeting with Khai, Everett, Brandon, and Hayden in his head over and again as he considered the information. After a while he fished into his coat pocket to find his mobile phone. “Ich werde es bereuen,” he said to himself as he dialed the number when he found it in his list of contacts.

“Mr. Krueger!” CJ Silvio’s voice on the other end answered. “What can I do for you?”

“I need something precise and powerful.” he said. “Last-minute.”

“How powerful are we talking?”

“Hole-puncher.”

“Uh…” Silvio shuffled audibly on the other end. “I think I can put a list together. Rifles or handguns?”

“The latter. The quieter the better.”

“Oh, well that narrows it down… I’ll have to see if we have any of those left in the armory.”

“Meet me there in thirty minutes.” Krueger ended the call and headed for the garage on 51st to his car.

(Masterlist | Chapter 12)

#fiction #original work #original content #original fiction #prose #story #creative writing #drama #crime story

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docholligay · 4 years

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Time and Tide

@amberlilly requested “Michiru realizing she loves Haruka.” This is me INTENSELY on my bullshit, and I hope you enjoy grabbing your closest dictionary, i got to use so many words I rarely get an opportunity to use, I love you Michiru.

It is terribly odd how one’s life can change, and how you believe it to be in a single moment. But that isn’t how things happen, not really. It is only that in one single moment, you realize what has been true for some time. Love is not a strike of lighting, that is only true of fools and children. Love is the tide coming in, so slow and so sure that it hardly seems different from the last moment, and then you are underwater, awakened to the knowledge that the world is not as you last left it. That this harmless thing has come in and covered everything you knew.

There is a fortress in France, where the tide runs in, and separates it from everything, and island unto itself, and this has been my experience of love. Perhaps a better person might be as a dock or some seaside restaurant, the water only filling the space that it was always meant to, and making it lovelier, but for me it has surrounded me fully. Such it is with all things that do not prepare for love to come, I suppose.

Rest assured that any long philippic you might offer about the nature of my heart and all its empty and cavernous spaces is already quite known to me. I reflect on that now, so desperately loving her, knowing I do not deserve her. I look at her in the long, thin blades of moonlight that cross her body and know that I am owed every ounce of pain that my heart is served.

It wasn’t always this way. In the beginning, things were so much simpler. I am a spoilt child, and this has always been true, and I wanted her as one wants a doll or a pony. I am not accustomed to being defied, and I don't care for it. The moon had already given me my twenty lashes, and so it owed me a reward. If I was trapped in this fate, at least there would be a lovely bauble to call mine and mine alone. She was handsome, and she was tall, and she was bound to me whether she wanted to be or no.

That was enough, then. I seduced her as I have plenty of other women, thinking only that she would be a lovely mark on my record, that her low breeding and total lack of polish would annoy my parents and give my friends a good laugh. She was slow to warm to me, of course, so shy and unsure in the ways of romance and seduction, even as she puffed her chest and played the big butch.

Maybe that was the first moment, that first gentle lap of the tide, when she took off her shirt, and she trembled, and I saw how very inexperienced she was. Haruka. I knew I had said her name, before then, but that was the first time I had tasted it on my lips. Sweet as cream, delicate as rosewater. Unburdened of the layers she put on to protect herself form the world, she looked so vulnerable, so thin and bright, a string of spun sugar catching the light. I might have loved her in the first moment then.

She loved me, certainly. Haruka would call it a curse, that she can give her love so easily, that affection touches her so deeply, that kind words write themselves upon the sand of her soul and struggle to stay as the waves of her own self-regard wash over them. She finds herself silly, I know, for her softness. I found her silly as well, I suppose, when she became besotted with me, while trying to hold herself at a distance, a dance for which she had neither the training nor the skill. I saw her immediately for what she was.

I wish I could say this tempered me, that I found some humanity within myself where I did not wish to hurt her. It would be a lie, and I endeavor not, at the least, to lie to myself. I was pleased. Being raised in such penury, she would need me as much as she wanted me, once she became accustomed to all those finer things, I assured myself. I wanted her to be my lapdog, my toy, the clay upon which I could mold a splendid little thing for my own decoration and delight.

I laugh at that girl, now. How foolish she was to believe she could be so near Haruka, and feel the weight of her love, and remain dry, and safe, and in control. You have never known a girl like this one, I would tell her. She is a beauty, and she will transform you, beast that you are, into something that can almost be called human. Something that can feel fear and pain, the very heart of love.

Perhaps the tide of love came in at my ankles when she accompanied me to a gala, when she asked me to dance and waltzed, her frame beautiful, her feet light. When she beamed and told me she had found someone to teach her, and she’d been fixing up their car in exchange, and how she wanted to surprise me. She could learn how to be classy, she whispered into my ear, and she would do her best. Flowers slipped into a tiny bud vase, served alongside an evening glass of wine. Lovingly written billets-doux describing my hair and eyes and hands, artless and plain-spoken. That earnestness. What a cruel thing.

But I was blind even then, to how I would come to love her. I have always thought myself intelligent, and perhaps this is a sign of my greater folly, to think myself so logical against the flood that comes for so many. Perhaps I can blame the moon even for this, for bringing me this vulnerability I for so long saw as peccant.

Even now, it frightens me, to see how I love her. What a perfect little fool I’ve become, to love something that can be taken away.

I am often asked, what made me love her, now that we have been together these few years, and I find myself ever at a ramble. I suppose I have not done much better here. I have outlined so many small things that drew me to her, little laps of water growing higher and higher, and I could outline a dozen more at the least, all in very florid and unnecessarily embellished prose. I am almost a Rococo caricature of myself, at times, and I suppose this is cross anyone who cares to read this will be forced to bear.

But I can tell you when I realized that love. When I realized that life slips like water through one’s fingers, and that I could know fear.

We were in some manner of battle. This, I know, begins so many of my stories, but it is impossible to take into account how many battles I have been in and chide me overmuch on the subject. We were in battle, and it was heated and difficult. Mina was on the ropes herself, and certainly you must know how irregular a moment it was for us all. She wanted to regroup, to rethink. She did not declare us beaten, for I cannot believe that Mina would ever draw breath and consider a battle she had not won finished, but we needed to take a moment and find our footing.

Haruka hated herself nearly as much as she loved me. I am not certain this is the venue to describe all the ways in which she has struggled over the course of her life, trying to find a reason she was born. Perhaps it is enough to tell you that her own mother was unkind on the subject of her birth, and there was little in the way of anyone to dissuade her that it was true, and the improvident moon did not consider that such a girl might be the wrong one to put into danger. Handing her something to die for, to prove her goodness and worth by her willingness to be hurt, was always a foolish gamble.

She did not wait.

Haruka ran toward the enemy, even as Mina yelled her sign, and I was caught quite flat-footed. Haruka did little without my go-along, you must understand, and I was so arrogant as to assume that would always be true. That even in the heat of the moment, her deference to me could overwhelm her desire to play the hero. None of us could catch her. She was determined to have the moment of surprise.

I remember seeing her fall to the floor. I am, despite even my own protestations, not an unfeeling creature, and perhaps any of my comrades at arms, falling in such obvious pain, might have pulled at my heartstring. But I assure you it would not have caused the immediate flash of fear and pain, so like a dagger in my chest, sharp and cold, the very breath stolen from my lungs. For a few brief moments, I could not move. I was chilled by the knowledge of which I now had possession.

I would die for her. Worse than that, I would kill for her, I would let every single soldier beside me, all the world, crumble to ash if it could spare her life. Haruka had found something to die for, but the moon had given me something to destroy for, and if it played the fool with Haruka it had done oh so much worse with me.

I left the girls, then. I drew my dagger as if I were pulling it from my own chest and not the buckler that made up my mirror, and I did not look back. I heard Mina call my planet, too, curse me for my own special brand of cowardice. I cared not. Court-martial me, and put me to my death, but do not ask me to endure the loss of her. I had not known, before that moment, that I was such a fragile thing. That I could so easily be undone, the ice princess in the high tower brought low by the very idea of her plaything being wounded. Knowing that no longer was she the plaything, but the princess, and I her prince, her ardent defender, the Orpheous that would happily walk myself into Hell and Hades to be at her side.

I may have made a miscalculation, but the enemy had, as well. For you see, I am a great and terrible opponent, when I have something to lose. It seems the enemy was as unknowing as myself, and they paid for it in blood. I never even noticed its death, too busy running to Haruka’s side.

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. Mina barked something to me about orders, but she could only say so much when my great foolishness had won the day. It matters little how one wins the battle, so long as you win. Haruka was hurt, and angry that I had saved her, and touched that I had wanted to, and afraid that she could never be worthy of that desire. She said none of these things, of course, but she has no gift of emotional legerdemain, and I could read it all so clearly.

I knew fear. I have never know how to express that fear. To say I am afraid she will die is too simple and easy, for we all hope our nearest ones will live. I am afraid of so much more than than that. I am afraid that she will die, and so will every good thing in me, that the tide of love will recede and all that will be left is the exposed shipwrecks of what I am underneath it all.

And yet, here in the night, writing this for whoever might care to read when I am gone, I will tell you now: I would make this Faustian bargain again in one beat of my heart.

Love has made me a fortress, cut off from the land, but it has given the fortress a thing to protect besides itself. It has given me purpose.

It has made something inside of me alive.

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writersstareoutwindows · 4 years

Text

This is a story called “My boyfriend is an enabler.” He logged onto Fallen London for the first time in months just to send me Fate so that I could play the “become a serial killer” storyline. Naturally, I had to adapt that into an actual scene.

Han Mi and Helen are Kate’s cats. Han, more specifically, is a Parabolan kitten (and a gift from Flahhh!). Also important to know that between this story and the last, Kate faked her own permanent death for Cheesemonger-related reasons.

Kate knows that Jack-of-Smiles doesn’t really smile. But the Jack who stalks her early novels does. They’re sensational things, trope-soaked plots bound by gossip and gore, over the top by every measure—except, as one attentive reviewer noted, for the author’s depiction of Jack himself.

‘One might assume that McKnight has neglected their research, given that our stoic Jack now wears a fierce grin. But this reviewer finds their Jack to be a focal point in the midst of otherwise florid prose. Long after the convoluted plot fades from memory, Jack’s grin remains fixed in the shadows of one’s mind.’

It remains fixed in Kate’s mind too. Every Jack she ever wrote was based on one person in particular, whose vicious smile had a way of unsettling her like nothing else. Kate has never forgotten the way Vandameer Gaunt’s face turned bright with glee as they stood above a body, their cane dripping blood.

The lamp on Kate’s desk gutters. It actually startles her. She leans back, surprised by how much time has passed. The cards of the Marvellous are scattered across the desktop, grouped in various arrangements that mean very little. She stretches, sighs, adds another line to the letter buried within the mess.

Beechwood had curious ideas about the prelapsarian state of man. What have you been working on in

There’s a knock on the door.

‘Good evening, Sir-Madam McKnight.’

Kate freezes, pen suspended above the page, a chill lodged against her spine. Like a statue reanimating, she drops the pen and turns. She knows that voice, and she knows that smile. Vandameer Gaunt, already inside, has knocked on the inside of her door. They’re eating one of her currant-buns.

‘It’s been such a long time.’

Kate rubs her tired eyes. ‘I really hoped that you thought I was dead.’

‘Oh, make no mistake, I was heartbroken when I heard the news. If you wanted to be stabbed, I thought you’d at least have the decency to hire me.’ Vandameer wipes crumbs from their hands as they finish the bun. ‘And it’s been so terribly dull since you left. But that’s our Katie—’ she frowns at the name ‘—isn’t it, always moving on to bigger and better things. No matter who she leaves behind.’

Kate’s nails dig into the desktop.

‘How did you find me?’

Vandameer drapes themself across her armchair by the fire. They pluck a wine bottle from their coat and wave it toward her.

‘I come bearing gifts. Wouldn’t you like to catch up?’ They pull the cork out with their teeth. ‘And you can put the knife away, dear.’

She drops a sharpened letter opener back into the drawer with a hiss. Taking the wine from Vandameer, she sniffs it before drinking. It’s Broken Giant, prelapsarian, thick as blood. Expensive. Vandameer is here for a reason.

When she lowers the bottle, they’re holding a knife.

That grin curls wide across their face. ‘I brought my own.’

The bottle shatters. Kate’s hands close on air as wine and glass splash at her feet. The noise seems very far away.

‘How did you find that?’

It’s a scuffed, beaten thing with a wooden handle, hardly more than a kitchen knife, but the edge gleams. The last time Kate saw it, she was locking it away in the depths of a constables’ station. Only now does she notice that Vandameer is wearing gloves.

‘You know how avidly I followed all your cases. This one most of all! London’s greatest detective up against the infamous Jack-of-Smiles. What a thrill.’

They’ve begun lazily carving a pattern into her side-table.

‘That was nearly a year ago.’ Kate picks her way through the glass, away from Vandameer, away from that knife. ‘We’ve both been pretending I was dead for nine months. Why come here now?’

They adopt an air of wounded innocence. ‘I just want to see you close the case. Don’t you?’

‘I know enough about Jack-of-Smiles.’

‘But not everything.’

Kate pauses. That’s enough to get under her skin—except for the fact that it’s already there, festering like a wound, one of a hundred ugly frayed threads left untied. And she hates that Vandameer knows it. Unlike anyone else in London, they have the keen ability to push her. To the city at large, Kate McKnight is inscrutable, anonymous. But to Vandameer Gaunt she’s a funny little plaything who gets mad when they pull the right string.

They cock their head. ‘That’s what you really want, isn’t it? I don’t need a card game to tell me that.’

Kate walks back to her desk, where Han Mi has found a place among the scattered cards. She watches their conversation with round mirror-blue eyes that show Kate’s reflection.

Kate spent countless hours, resources, and sleepless nights hunting Parabola, but even the mirrored sun of another world is not enough. She’s arranged these cards into a hundred different arcane patterns, looking for the combination of faces and suits and hands that will make her win. But the only times she’s ever been satisfied were the sleepless nights spent staring at tangled red strings, the hours trekking through gloomy lost cities, the journey on a river of snakes in pursuit of the Marvellous’ heart.

Kate reaches out to pet Han’s soft ears. She used to collect her hints from the old women beneath Hangman’s Arch. Sometimes you can still find a Jack hanging there.

‘You don’t know me,’ Kate lies.

Vandameer laughs.

‘You were willing to let your true love drink herself to death, just to see what would happen.’

Kate’s fingers bunch in Han’s fur. Her kitten yowls and wriggles away, leaving her alone with the memory of the Last Constable raising cups to her lips.

Vandameer finishes carving their design and sets down the knife. The symbol makes Kate’s eyes burn.

‘You don’t fool me for a second, McKnight.’

They slide the knife across the table toward her.

‘Trust me. A knife in your hand is better than two in the back.’

They grin, that awful, blood-bright grin from every story. Kate recognises the Correspondence carved into her table: the conquest of an all-too-familiar rival.

By the time her eyes have stopped bleeding, Vandameer is gone. All that remains is the knife.

Kate has seen bodies, in alleyways and mirrored rooms and the banks of the Stolen River. She’s made bodies. She wonders, horrifically, detachedly, how it feels when Jack makes bodies. Maybe, she tells herself, if she knew, she would be able to stop him for good.

She wants to know. When it comes down to it, whose poisoned corpse will be lying on the floor of the Medusa’s Head?

Helen has emerged to paw at her legs. Kate steps around her.

When she took the Jack case nearly a year ago, the inspector warned her that they would put her down if things went wrong. A part of her had laughed; did he really think they could catch her, if she became a Jack?

How many bodies, before someone swings from Hangman’s Arch? And who will it be in the noose? She wants to know everything.

Crouched on the arm of the chair, Han watches with reproachful mirrored eyes.

Pick up the knife. Become Jack. Find out.

#my writing #fallen london #yes i named her cats for the lost hollow girls

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mystery-deer · 4 years

Text

Affection

Raymond didn’t understand at all why people thought he and his boyfriend were cold and unfeeling towards each other. He felt some days that he did nothing BUT feel for Kevin. Stumbling down the street in a lovedrunk haze made stronger by the fact that they were finally living together. Finally occupying the same space, their shared presence always there even when their physical counterparts weren’t. It felt like being together all the time and it was intoxicating, he was sure it showed plainly, that he reeked of it.

Kevin told him when Raymond asked, exasperated, (because he and Raymond had been to a party and Raymond, after rebuffing the advances of a man by saying he had a partner was given a look of pure confusion. "Who?" He'd asked, even though Kevin had been standing next to him the entire night.) that people thought so because they were not affectionate in public. When Raymond asked what that meant (surely it was plain to anyone that they were in love? Surely it was written all over their faces, all over their bodies and in the margins of every word they said to each other?)

“When people speak of affection they usually categorize it as physical affection. Holding hands, embracing, kissing. Though I’ve had a friend who found it odd that we don’t call each other pet names.”

He balched at this. “They expect me to call you pet names in front of other people?”

“Yes.” Kevin said in a tone that indicated he was as perturbed by this notion as his boyfriend. There was a meaningful pause as the information set in. “Please don’t take this conversation as a hint of some sort.” He cautioned.

“I will not, thank you for enlightening me.” “It was no trouble.”

He thought about it. He thought about holding Kevin’s hand while walking down the street, wrapping their arms around each other and kissing, calling each other by their pet names when they saw each other.

He began to notice other people as well. Girls walking arm in arm, couples waiting in line at the grocery store giggling and kissing quietly, their friends who called out to partners with a wave and a “Honey! Honey over here!”

He could not imagine doing so. Then again, he had never been accused of being affectionate.

He hardly ever hugged his sister, would stand there and accept her arms around him (one of his earliest memories was of detangling himself and her toddler face, shocked and then crying. It broke his heart.) but he built her fortresses and sang the songs he loved to her, delighted when she laughed. When she smiled.

She knew how much he loved her. She knew so surely that she teased him about it, that even his denials could not shake her.

So why?

Why had his first boyfriend broken up with him, red-faced and growling that “I don’t think you actually like me so why don’t we just stop this now?”

Why had his fourth stopped responding to his texts when he refused to kiss him after they had seen a movie (popcorn breathe, germs, the crowds were noisy and overwhelming). "Why didn't you want to kiss him?" Asked every friend he told the story to and even though they called him a jerk and a moron, said he should have just talked to Raymond, they placed that small bit of blame on him and he didn't know how to explain. He didn't know how to say that he would gladly kiss him, he would have loved to kiss him after they'd gotten home and comfortable. Why was it so imperative that they kiss right then? Why was it something worth severing over?

Why did people playfully (painfully) ask if he and Kevin were really dating? “You certainly don’t act like it!”

Was he not doing it right? Was it not enough? He remembered his uncle singing in the kitchen, "Thin love ain't no love at all" He'd croon, voice adopting a country twang. "No, thin love ain't no love at all." Was his love thin? Then why was he drowning in it? Why did the words catch in his throat, his heart skip beats, his lips quirk into a smile without his knowledge if what he felt for Kevin, for his friends, for his sister and mother and the entire damn world sometimes was not enough to hold everything together?

After weeks of thinking in circles he had wrapped his arms around Kevin in the comfort of their own home and asked him if he was satisfied with their relationship.

“I’m more than satisfied. I couldn’t be happier. Is something bothering you?” He was always good at cajoling him. And so everything came pouring out into the air around them and Kevin with his handsome, precise fingers plucked out the parts that mattered and addressed them in the way he did. There was something about it that was so particular to Kevin Cozner and no one else in the world could replicate it. If he were a more romantic minded man he would dedicate pages of prose to uncovering this quality but as such the mystery was charming.

Kevin spoke like a poet, even if he was not aware of it.

“Raymond, do you remember Constance’s birthday party?” “Yes.” Constance was a woman Raymond worked with. She was the mailroom technician and they often complained about their colleagues' sexism and racism respectively. They also talked a great deal about birdwatching.

“You got her a gift, a stapler. Because you often heard her struggling with the one at her desk. She never mentioned it but nonetheless you recognized the need.”

Raymond snorted. “Well that was just considerate gift giving. Constance is a dear friend.”

“Yes, but most people don’t know their friends enough to give them things like that. Things they really need and want.”

Raymond could not imagine this being the case. If you were friends with someone how could you not know?

“You changed which side of the bed you sleep on for me.” “I did?” “Yes, you did. When we began living together you changed because you knew I didn’t like to be closed in on the side with the wall. I fell in love with you then and I keep falling in love with you because of all the small unconscious deeply considerate things you do every day.”

Kevin leaned back and kissed his boyfriend’s cheek. “I love you, Raymond.”

“I love you as well.” Raymond said, dizzy with feeling.

Kevin told him later on when they were both in bed, that there was nothing wrong with Raymond. "I thought you might be berating yourself for or worrying over something." He correctly deduced. "And today it became clear that it was about showing affection." "I don't know that I will ever be able to hold you Kevin." He admitted, preparing for the worst. Preparing for the moment that Kevin realized that Raymond was Raymond and he was not going to change, not going to become a man who would kiss him on the street after movies. "That I will ever be able to kiss you in front of the golden gate bridge."

Kevin did not understand why his boyfriend had chosen the golden gate bridge as the pinnacle of romance but he wrapped his arms around him, rested his head against his. "You're holding me now." "Kevin..." "And I am holding you. Today we have kissed numerous times, held hands under the table during lunch and you've told me you loved me on eight occasions since I woke up this morning." "But not in front of people." "I don't care about other people." Kevin declared in a way that reminded Raymond of a swashbuckler. "Damn them." When Raymond laughed he repeated the sentiment with more feeling. "Damn them all!"

And so the world was damned. All but two and in the vast void left over by the absence of everyone else they built. They built castles and archways and stone paths and ornate paintings and songs and ancient relics and towns and cities and oceans. Everything, everything made by love. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21411298/chapters/51011797 (link included bc there’s a chapter two)

#b99 #this is about their affection #Raymond in this fic would be surprised at himself if he was told he would one day hold Kevin's hand in the middle of the precinct!!#this fic doesn't focus heavily on homophobia but lets just say nature is not the only thing that makes Raymond reluctant towards PDA #though nature is a part of it...they are both not overly demonstrative people #sometimes your nature is shaped by society #idk this is a lot of tags but I worry ppl will misunderstand what I'm trying to say #my fanfiction #my writing #b99 fanfic #b99 fanfiction #kevin cozner/raymond holt

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beeblackburn · 4 years

Text

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Three

Guilt really is a luxury for the living, isn’t it. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Guilt Is a Luxury Point-of-View: Rikke

The snow had all melted and left the world cold and comfortless. The icy slop that stood for ground seeped into Rikke’s boots and spattered up her sodden trousers. Cold dew dripped endlessly from the black branches, through her sopping hair, onto her soggy cloak and down her chafed back. The wet from above met the wet from below around her belt, which she’d been obliged to tighten on account of having hardly eaten anything in the three days since she killed a boy and watched her home burn.

At least it couldn’t get any worse. Or so she told herself.

In short, it’s really goddamn cold. As an opening, it serves as a microcosm of the lack of small comforts that Rikke’s endured since watching Uffrith burn, a relentless litany of the miserable chill upon her person, but as a contrast to the Original Trilogy, it’s a difference in prose craft and characterization between our two Northern voices, from Logen’s more stripped-down viewpoint to Rikke’s longer ruminations on the comfortless environment. Just compare here:

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was blazing overhead. He turned his face towards it, closed his stinging eyes and let the light wash over him. The air was painful cold in his throat. Cutting cold. His mouth was dry as dust, his tongue a piece of wood, badly carved. He scooped up snow and shoved it into his mouth. It melted, he swallowed. Cold, it made his head hurt.

Whereas Abercrombie went for a more bare-bones description of how cold it is, note the repetition of cold and how the descriptions don’t quite connect as neatly here, Rikke’s descriptions have a greater sense of continuity, going more directional as she notes the dew above dripping down her hair, soaking through her cloak, then her back, then from above to down below. There’s a sense of seamless rhythm here that Abercrombie’s earlier word craft doesn’t quite have, in terms of being refined by the later books. I definitely think Logen’s more bare-bones voice in reaction to his condition is intentional, but I also think the comparison shows concretely how much he’s improved since then.

And, character-wise, you can see the difference between the two: Logen acknowledges that things can always get worse. He’s a survivor, a hardened man who’s been through tougher and been through far blacker conditions than the cold. Rikke, though? She’s not there yet. An inexperienced naif who thinks it can’t get worse, even though past books in the Circle of the World make a point that things can always get worse, and the difference between the winners and the losers being how clear-eyed you are about taking reality as it is.

One can argue that makes Rikke less compelling compared to the savage experience Logen had, but she’s still learning, and everyone in this world learns about how this world works in full.

“Aye, and his uncle Scale Ironhand’s, and his father Black Calder’s. The thorns may scratch your downy-soft skin, but a lot shallower than their swords would.”

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! CALLED IT!!!

CAN’T WAIT TO MEET STOUR!

On a more serious note, yeah, this makes sense on how Stour’s taking back Angland plan would have the traction it got. If Black Calder wasn’t involved, he’d plot to assassinate Stour Nightfall in a heartbeat. That being said, I wonder what made him decide to cut Bayaz’s strings now? Did he meet with King Casamir Shenkt already? If not, then Calder’s playing a hugely dangerous game, given Bayaz’s history with the North and their talk in The Heroes.

I hope you can slither your way out of Bayaz’s wrath, Calder.

“It’s almost like an unfriendly army swarming over your land is an inconvenience in all kinds o’ ways. You’re used to reckoning the world your playground. Beset by dangers now, girl. Time to act like it.” Isern slipped on through the thicket as quick and silent as a snake, leaving Rikke to struggle after, pointlessly cursing.

She liked to think of herself as quite the rugged outdoorswoman, but in this company she was a towny oaf. Isern-i-Phail knew all the ways, that was the rumour. Even better’n her daddy had. Rikke had learned more from watching her the last couple of weeks than she had from that fool Union tutor in Ostenhorm in a year. How to build a shelter from ferns. How to set rabbit traps, even if they hadn’t worked. How to reckon your course from the way the moss grew on the tree trunks. How to tell a man from an animal in the forest just by their footfalls.

Aw, Rikke calling the Dogman daddy instead of da’ or father’s a cute detail.

This chapter really digs into how lacking Rikke’s been in real experience, giving this picture of a coddled Northern girl. And, on the one hand, that’s honestly kind of sweet: Dogman getting out of a life of relentless violence to try and give his girl the peaceful sort of upbringing he didn’t get to have, drenched in blood and the violence that comes with being the following dog to the Bloody-Nine.

But, at the same time, life in the Circle of the World is pretty pitiless to those with illusions. As someone who’s lived through the old trilogy, but isn’t in a familial capacity like the Dogman, Isern is an old hand at how this world works, and she’s giving Rikke a crash course on how to survive it.

Union tutor, eh? I wonder if that better life for the Dogman’s daughter also included giving her an education. Though, Rikke certainly isn’t appreciating it now.

Some folk said Isern was a witch, and no doubt she’d a witchy look and a witch’s temper, but even she couldn’t magic food out of rocks and bogwater at the arse-end of winter. Sadly.

Snrrrk. I’m noticing a patterns with how much Abercrombie shades magic and magicians from other series in Rikke’s chapters. Which, you know, makes sense, given how much the Long Eye pervaded her first chapter, and I imagine that not stopping in later ones. Magic isn’t a cheat code in this world, no substitute for lived experience and knowing how to survive.

Rikke knew what folk said about her, and maybe her head didn’t have the right parts in the right places, but she’d always had a sharp eye for things. So in spite of the gloom and Isern’s nimble fingers, Rikke saw the hillwoman only ate half as much as she handed over. She saw it, and was thankful for it, and wished she had the bones to insist on fair shares, but she was just so damn hungry. She stuffed her shred of dry meat down so quickly she swallowed her chagga pellet too without even noticing.

1. That first bit makes me think of a growing thought about how Rikke could be read as neurodivergent, given the whispers and the consideration that her brain isn’t wired “right.” In some ways, I’m not entirely sure how to feel about this, considering the magic = disability trope is a thing, but I think Abercrombie’s earned enough credit in the bank, and the writing with her mundane difficulties with the Long Eye makes me feel that Rikke isn’t really written as a figure of pity as some poorly-written disability-coded characters can be, so much as someone who has to deal with the inconveniences of a mental condition, but is still their own person beyond that. 2. Awww, Isern! That’s really nice of you. Though, I will admit, what’s Isern’s skin in this game? She says it’s the Long Eye, but why not just knock Rikke out and give her to Stour’s men? Would be the selfish thing. Would be the easy thing. 3. Rikke really isn’t a bad person at heart, but, when the practicalities of hunger push us, we find it easier to lean on our self-interest to make our choices. Selfless choices are rare in this world and a good way to determine the choices of characters in this world is “how does this benefit me?” Not always, but you’ll rarely be disappointed.

While she licked the wondrous taste of stale bread from her teeth, she found she was thinking of that lad she shot. That bit of dyed cloth around his scrawny neck, like mothers give sons to keep the cold off. That hurt, confused look he’d had. The same look she used to have, maybe, when the other children laughed at her twitching.

Man, Rikke really is a soft person and it’s such a tonal contrast from Logen’s “welp, I didn’t really have a choice, best not think on those I killed” attitude towards killing. The difference between lived experience is a chasm between them. An evil older man in a harsh world, and a decent younger woman in it.

Also, I know a friend similar to Rikke, who’s got a mental condition. It inconveniences her more often than not, and she’s not particularly happy about it, but, at the same time, she was born with it and she appreciates all the people in her life that don’t define her by her disability.

And when I read that last part, my heart hurts for Rikke. And my mouth tells those children to fuck off.

“I killed that lad.” And she sniffed up a noseful of cold snot and spat it away.

“Aye.” Isern trimmed off a chagga pellet and stuck it behind her lip. “You killed him all to bits, and robbed everyone who knew him, and cut all the good he might ever do out of the world.”

Rikke blinked. “Well, you’re the one split his skull!”

“That was a mercy. He’d have drowned on your arrow for sure.”

Oh, Rikke. I get the defensiveness, I do, but Isern’s right in that you effectively killed him first, so don’t deflect the blame there. Sure, it might’ve been an accident, but sometimes, intentions don’t mean anything to the reality of actions. Just ask Khalul.

“Deserving won’t make much difference to an arrow. The best defence against arrows is not a life nobly lived but to be the one who shoots them, d’you see?” Isern sat back against her, smelling of sweat and earth and chewed chagga. “They were your father’s enemies. Our enemies. Wasn’t as if there was any other choice.”

The difference between the killer and the killed, the hunter and the hunted, the living and the dead in this world.

Rikke hunched into her cold cloak and her bleak mood. “No justice, is there? For him or for me. Just a world that looks the other way and doesn’t care a shit about either one of us.”

This chapter is basically The First Law 101, one of the fundamental truths of the Circle of the World: the world is full of shit, and the people living in it just have to make the best of it through the eyes of a naif who wishes she didn’t have to kill to preserve herself. Someone like Logen would’ve given up on the idea of existential justice or wishing things were better, he’s long past that point.

Rikke still wishes for that, and it’s a heavy feeling borne from her youth.

She felt Isern’s hand firm on her shoulder, and was grateful for it. “If killing folk ever starts to feel right, you’ve a worse kind of problem. Guilt can sting, but you should be thankful for it.”

“Thankful?”

“Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt’s your big problem, girl …” Rikke saw the faint gleam of Isern’s teeth in the gathering darkness. “Things can’t be that bad.”

In short, “I am still alive.” When you’re alive, you can feel all these emotions, you have the luxury of guilt. Because once you go through the Last Door, meet the Great Leveller, guilt’s your last worry. So, at the very least, be grateful to be alive. Because there are some who don’t get to be grateful, especially the corpses you made to keep yourself breathing.

She slapped Rikke’s thigh and gave a witchy cackle, and maybe there was some magic in it after all because Rikke cracked her first smile in a day or two, and that made her feel just a bit better. Your best shield is a smile, her father always said.

Awww! This is so much more emotionally warm than Logen’s first few chapters, trying to survive in the bitter cold. And I love how, after a dig against fantasy’s penchant for easy magic, Abercrombie flips it, giving a sort of magic to just these mundane gestures. Abercrombie’s gotten more optimistic as the series went on, and I just smile at how much it’s carried over to the official start of the new trilogy. There’s a sweetness to this I adore after the first trilogy’s more cynical touch.

“Why haven’t you just left me behind?” she asked.

“I gave my word to your da.”

“Aye, but everyone says you’re the most untrustworthy bitch in the whole North.”

“No one should know better than you what the things everyone says are worth. Truth is, I only care about keeping my word to folk I like. I seem untrustworthy because there are only seven of those outside the hills.” She made a fist of her tattooed hand, trembling tight. “To those seven, I am a rock.”

Rikke swallowed. “You like me, then?”

“Meh.” Isern opened her blue fist and shook out the fingers with a clicking of knuckles. “About you, I remain to be convinced, but I like your father and I gave him my word. That I’d try to put an end to your fits and coax your Long Eye open and bring you back to him still breathing. The small matter of an invasion may have nudged him out of Uffrith, but the commitment still stands, far as I’m concerned, wherever Stour Nightfall’s bastards might’ve driven him off to.” Her eyes flickered to Rikke, cunning as a fox that sees the coop unguarded. “But I’ll admit I’ve a selfish reason, too, which is a good thing for you, since selfish reasons are the only reasons you should trust.”

“What reason?”

Isern opened her eyes very wide so they bulged from her filthy face. “Because I know there’s a better North waiting. A North free of the grip of Scale Ironhand, and the one who pulls his strings, Black Calder, and the one who pulls his strings even. A North free for everyone to choose their own way.” Isern leaned close in the darkness. “And your Long Eye will pick out our path to it.”

Hah! Setting up the joke, only to deliver that “Meh” punchline. Perfect.

Well! That explains why Isern hasn’t abandoned Rikke yet. Though, frankly, that’s pretty non-selfish as far as motives go, Isern. You’re a nicer person than you give yourself credit for. Few of the characters in the first trilogy gave a shit about their countries in terms of better. I think only Jezal did, by the end, and... well. We all know that sad story in the end.

Though, whoa, does Isern know about Bayaz? Or is she just smart enough to realize Calder’s got strings around him, just like everyone else? Intriguing...

And I have to laugh a little about this ending. Isern’s sentiment’s in earnest, don’t get me wrong, but at the same, this feels like the typical “protagonist with magical gifts is set-up for a huge destiny” and... well, we all know Abercrombie doesn’t entirely roll that way. His character and genre deconstruction work is way too notable for him to play that sort of trope entirely straight and I relish that expectation coming true.

In short, this chapter is definitely a bit more light-weight than the others I’ve read, but it definitely serves a crucial purpose: The First Law 101, the Lesson. Imparting to a new reader, unfamiliar with this world, that this is how the Circle of the World works, but also, for old readers, pointing out that we’re getting different blood fore-running our stories, a huge difference from Logen’s world-weary mindset.

And, I got to say, it’s a lovely contrast so far! It only makes me like Rikke all the more, as she wrestles with her guilt and the reality that the world doesn’t care for her guilt. Her first steps in being a survivor. And Isern really helps bring out the naivete in her, but there’s also a splash of character, both wild and warm, in her that makes it a more winning combination than the first trilogy’s Logen-Quai roadtrip duo.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five: A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

#a little hatred #a little hatred spoilers #the age of madness #the first law #joe abercrombie #rikke #a little hatred part I

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erosiier · 4 years

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“ i wanted to be ruined a little more than I wanted to be loved. “

* ╰ FROY GUTIERREZ ; 21 ; HE/HIM —— wow, EVAN ROSIER sure has grown! it’s almost hard to believe they actually passed recruitment … i still remember them being so INTUITIVE & ADAPTABLE now they just seem LISTLESS & DISSATISFIED. guess they’re special if they made it this far. word in the halls is they’re training to be a HIT WIZARD but i don’t think they’ll make it out alive. after all, they’ve shown signs of being NEUTRAL in the war. ( zoe ; cst ; 22 ; she/her )

WARNINGS: self harm (wall punching), parental manipulation, parental death, war mention ADDITIONAL MATERIALS: evan’s stats page & pinterest board

evan was four years old and recently motherless when he decided, for the first time, that he didn’t like rules.

he was raised from a young age to believe in the power of his name, if nothing else. above all else. it was a poor belief system for a child, but he’d say he came out alright. not great; but then he’d long forged a private belief that people weren’t capable of being great, not really. sometimes he wondered if they were even all that capable of being good.

but --- names. something small and tangible and stifling, not quite rules but not quite not. he’d decided at four that he hated rules, but names were just that little bit harder for him to escape.

evan’s father, sebastian, was not an altogether awful man. he was a politician, as many rosiers often were. he was as known for his corruption as for his re-elections. people came to him for favors; he’d hear them out, pull a few strings. always at a price. he never asked for more than someone could give --- because he’d learned in his own childhood that there was more to be bargained for than money. trust, faith, loyalty, those were far more powerful. people were often so grateful not to be asked to give their gold up that they didn’t realize the cost of dealing with sebastian rosier.

more often than not, he saved his harshness for the closed-door happenings at the ministry. cruelty was better suited for passing laws that hurt people, or made it easier to hurt them; in speeches given on marble steps with a smile and fingers crossed behind his back. still. sebastian presented a good, if slightly crooked, face for the rosier name. he tried to make sure his son could do the same.

but evan didn’t like rules. society and politics were nothing but rules and he was still a child but he was certain he could never do well under their thumb. it was fine. evan had always been able to tell that his father wasn’t the type of man cut out to be a father. his harshness seldom bled out onto his son. but evan was a solitary kid by circumstance if not choice, raised by a string of tutors and house elves until his dad came home each evenings in time for stilted dinner conversations.

it took years for sebastian rosier to note evan’s shortcomings.

they didn’t talk about evan’s mother, but that was fine. the two didn’t talk about a lot of things.

sebastian remarried --- another young, pretty pureblood with a dead spouse. the two of them had a kid all their own, and while evan was never his father’s best friend, he never felt like an outsider in their family.

not being beloved didn’t mean much when evan knew that no matter what, he’d always be his father’s pride and joy. he expected evan to be a good man --- by a definition of good that meant he being a good rosier. it was a rule, but it’s what passed for love to evan, so he accepted just the one.

evan didn’t like rules and the prospect of being a good rosier sure felt like it came with a book full of ‘em. but what could he possibly do about that? it was one thing to break free from the order of the day to go running around outside, escape his tutors and steal a broom from where his father kept them hidden. it would be another entirely to buck out from under his father’s wishes; evan wasn’t willful enough for that.

evan had nothing against his father. nothing tangible. but he’d always wonder if the things wrong in his wiring were to blame on those years of his life with just his father around. maybe if his father had been the kind of man who could be a father, evan would be capable of being a half decent person. his half siblings and his step-mother all seem better at being people than he is; at the cost of being poorer rosiers, sure. for the most part, evan would guess he’s fine with it. he lets his hands be bloodied, if they’re not good for much else.

( he thinks they’re good for plenty more, of course, but it’s an unspoken rule of being evan rosier, to keep thoughts like that to himself; for someone who hated rules, evan set so many for himself. )

his father was a politician, and politicians had rules. they couldn’t appear too hot-headed, too rash or emotional. every move evan’s father made felt calculated. hell, it was calculated. even the rote love he gave to evan feels like a choice he’d come to one day in the office that evan was barred from entering.

but evan was a young man. young men could do things that seemed cruel and illogical and if they did them with enough charm, the world would forgive them. and so, anytime his father has a favor to call in, something harsh he needed done, he had evan to call upon. wasn’t that why purebloods had sons? so they could fall in line and do the work their fathers couldn’t anymore?

evan knew his father didn’t think of him as smart. perhaps sebastian thought even didn’t know the reasoning for all the errands his father sent him on. evan knew a lot of people didn’t think he was smart --- and his farther hardly knew him better than those strangers. it was just that he didn’t care enough about school or order to come across like someone who knew to play the game.

( be any way you want, but seem perfect. )

but evan noticed things, he’d always noticed them. made note of ‘em and did nothing with the knowledge. nothing except keep it packed up and hidden in the back of his head. he made note when he was fifteen: the first time his father asked him to visit someone he’d helped along, and make a few pointed remarks, a few veiled threats. evan worked off the script his father had given him --- after all, the man didn’t think him capable of much improvisation, and evan didn’t care to challenge that expectation.

he did exactly what his father asked. and then he went home and punched his fist through a wall so hard, had bruises for so long, he didn’t notice when they faded.

it was a routine. his father didn’t often ask things of evan, and when he did, he didn’t so much want evan doing them as he wanted the rosier heir to do them. but evan would --- because there were some rules you couldn’t break. this was a new rule of being a rosier. and when he was finished, he’d come home and find something he could break instead of the rule, and that’d be that.

it was easy to live a life by his father’s careful scripts while cheerfully shattering every other script around him. not caring about other people, about classes, about the future he as a rosier would one day be forced into ... it was easy. it was necessary. evan didn’t like rules and life was full of them, unless you knew which ones to follow and which to throw by the wayside. he was four when he decided to hate them and fifteen when he realized that hate could never fully manifest the way he wanted. fifteen, when he realized for all his hate he’d always follow his rules.

evan rosier knew rules, but sebastian rosier knew people; he had evan go and talk for him because he knew that deep down none of them would begrudge evan. he was painfully youthful, with a stubborn set to his mouth and eyes that turned wild on a dime, and, yes, enough charm to shake the clouds off the moon. evan’s natural carelessness, paired with the careful lines his father fed him, made the perfect recipe for getting away with whatever sebastian wanted.

evan made note of that, too. did nothing with the knowledge for now.

if anyone ever decided to ask evan a personal, deeply soppy question, he would say: quidditch was, perhaps, the only thing he loved. there was something about the caress of harsh winds on his cheek and the complete insanity of ground obscured by fog and distance. there were rules in quidditch, yes, but rules evan knew how and when and why to break. that was the only important thing about rules now --- knowing the ways around them. and aside from all that ( the stupid love and stupid freedom ) he was good at it. he made captain his fifth year and could have crowed with pride.

instead of crowing or whooping or grinning too wide where someone might see, god for bid --- he poured all that brash emotion onto a roll of parchment. and burned it; tucked a corner against the merry common room fire and let his excitement burn to ash. then he wrote his father a very measured letter detailing the accomplishment in clean words.

writing the things he knew not to say out loud became a routine, then, as much as noticing things had always been one. hell, he wrote the things he noticed too, onto the pages of a notebook in dizzy, cramped handwriting. evan was under no illusions that he was good at writing; and he’d never let anyone read his words enough to comment on his prose one way or the other. the quality didn’t matter. it was necessary. it was a practice he’d started five years ago but he could never keep track of how many journals he’d filled since.

every single journal, once written up to the last inch of paper, was burned. evan hated rules, but he’d made this one for himself, for his own good: leave no trace. and so he followed it to the letter every time.

evan’s father didn’t ask too much of him. mostly evan figured this was because sebastian thought he knew his son’s limits and didn’t want to become disappointed by exceeding them.

this was fine. every few months evan would be called home or written to, a location printed on the page in his father’s neat hand with directions on what to say and what to get out of the interactions. aside from that, the rosier patriarch did nothing to corral his wild heir, not yet. evan’s wildness still had use.

evan would never call his actions self-destructive, because he too knew his own limitations. ( of course, evan felt he actually knew them, while his father just assumed shortcomings and planned accordingly. not that evan much cared what sebastian assumed --- his father used him as a tool. it was hard to expect more of the man after that. ) his actions couldn’t destroy him; were just outlandish, and reckless, and carried an undercurrent of anger he tried his hardest to only put onto the pitch.

he didn’t think of himself as charismatic, but he knew he knew how to command a room.

he didn’t think of himself as smart, but he knew how to figure things out.

he didn’t think of himself as a liability, but he knew he was a few bad choices away from his father turning to the children he’d had with his second wife.

after school evan was recruited as an alternate seeker by the montrose magpies and he jumped on the opportunity, meager though it was. their current seeker was a star who evan didn’t see going out any time soon. but quidditch had always been a way for him to channel the energy he didn’t expend on things the world expected him to. he wouldn’t give up a chance to prolong that channel. his father balked a little, when evan first told him of this choice --- but eventually he came around to evan’s way of thinking. it only made evan a better tool at sebastian’s disposal: if evan waited a few more years to take on a real job, then sebastian had a few more years to use him as a threat.

the job helped in ways besides its easy access to the skies; now, it was easier than ever to break things once he returned home from appointments his father sent him on. now, evan didn’t live at home. and now, evan had an athlete’s salary with which to buy many small, breakable things. he fast learned how to spell away bruised knuckles and scratched palms and return to practice the next day looking like nothing at all had happened the night before.

technically, evan has never played by the rules. not once in his life. and somehow living that way has given him everything he could have dreamed of when he was four and motherless and decided rules were bullshit. he’s got his father’s approval and his dream job, a nice smile people like even when he knows they shouldn’t.

but there’s got to be more, right? there’s a war coming up. evan didn’t think his father would ask him to fight in it ( evan has always been his tool, not some causes’ ) but it was impossible to ignore its presence. and it was even more impossible to ignore the call of edin. an instructor came knocking on his door one day after a practice where he only stepped in when the real seeker needed a bathroom break --- as if they’d sensed what day he’d be most amenable to their offer, less likely to question what they meant when they told him they were familiar with his work.

he wondered what his father would think of the elite training academy knowing all the things he’s had his son do for him --- how the perennial politician would feel knowing there are people out there who owe him nothing and know he’s placed blood on his heir’s hands.

( he wondered, also, if any of his professors actually recommended him to the academy, or if he’s only here on his experiences as a hired hand. )

evan wondered, and filed all that wonderment away. made note of it for later use.

edin offered an opportunity for evan that felt as exhilarating as the moment he kicked his broom off the ground; it offered a path without his father’s fingers pulling strings, without the shadow of the war so obviously looming. it felt a little like he was breaking a rule when evan told the magpies he was finished for the season. and it felt a lot like breaking one when he told his father he wouldn’t be available for the foreseeable future.

if evan crashes and burns a scant few months into his time at edin, it will have been worth it for the break it offered.

there’s probably some sort of wartime protocol even evan should abide by, even now, even at edin. but at this point he doesn’t know how. too much is on his mind and it clouds over all the things he should care for. there’s likely rules for winning and rules for losing and evan just cannot, will not, bring himself to care about them. come what may, he is determined that nothing in his life will change unless he wills it to.

#( ⊱ ━━ 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖┊intro. )#edinintro

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valntinemorgenstern · 5 years

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Regret

A Jordelia TLH one-shot fanfic, inspired by Cassie’s post that Cordelia reads to James.

There was something illicit about this, Cordelia thought.

She could not for the life of her recall what exactly she had just read.

It was perhaps the proximity, she thought. Being so close to James, sitting beside his bed, handling one of his books. The greenish fabric of the hardback was beginning to fade; pages yellowing, the edges furred. This was, in any other circumstance, prohibited, unallowed; this was, in any other circumstance, utterly unreal: an unmarried woman, and an unmarried man, present in the same bedchamber. James, in his own bed. This close.

This close.

If she turned her head just so, she would see — she had done it ten times, already — fanned-out, ink-black lashes cast down against a milky pallor of skin. There was even the faintest tracery of vein just over his closed, slightly fluttering lids. She felt absurdly gleeful. How many times had she dreamt of such a scene like this? Whenever else would this moment like this arise?

She imagined Lucie, suddenly, her expression disapproving and puzzled. No. This was something she could not confess to Lucie. Her brother was scandalously handsome, yes, anyone could see that; but she would be horrified, surely, to discover her own parabatai’s affection ran so deep: the things that occupied her mind.

What would the ends of those lashes feel like, she thought, brushed against the tip of her finger? Her imagination vaulted, leaping over to other, more thrilling possibilities, scudding fast as clouds: pressing a light, delicate kiss to each lid.

James, in Cordelia’s mind, was painted on a daytime canvases of motion against murky London sunlight: sauntering around a drawing room, slinging on a dark coat, feet up on some sofa or chaise longe; twirling a pistol mid-air; grinning wickedly at Matthew. This was unprecedented, James, alone in his bed chamber, and she, alone with him. Her mind, suddenly, supplied the word for her, the thing she was hesitant to give form to: intimate. That is what this scene was. And unlike all those other times she had ever been close to James, now there was not a single soul to watch them.

Cordelia could hear his slow, deep breathing; every little twitch and shift she detected against the heavy sheets piled on top of him. Were his feet bare, she wondered? Though perhaps, given his injury, he was merely wearing a nightshirt—

She read the next few lines louder, with renewed fervour. Concentrate. By the angel. She was reading Thomas Hardy, which, in hindsight, she wished she had not picked from the leaning stack of books on his bedside table. She would much rather it had been something more decorous and turgid like Dickens, rather than this splayed, sensuous prose, like a split-open fruit. Indecent, people said. She could see why. Of course a Herondale would like something like this. The heat in her cheeks, the trilling in her chest, intensified.

James shifted, a troubled noise emanating from him. Cordelia’s watched him, pausing again, noticing that his cheeks had pinkened to a sleepy, soft colour; his brows were furrowed, his mouth sad, a darkening shadow all around his jaw. She thought, some woman, some day, will wake up to this sight every morning.

Cordelia felt a surge of emotion, something searing hot and bursting, almost like rage, sweeping all the way up through her body, as she gazed at him. She had this thing before; she knew it well. But it was getting worse, she thought; she felt a constriction in her throat, as if she could hardly breathe. I had better leave before I do something I shall regret.

Trying to disguise the sound, she inhaled deeply, as far as her stays would allow her, and then simultaneously snapped the book shut and stood, gathering her skirts.

There was a quick, shocked gasp from beside her.

“Sorry,” She said, “I did not mean to wake you.”

His voice was a breath, croaking and broken. “Daisy?”

“Yes.”

He coughed slightly, his voice a little clearer. “What are you doing?”

His eyes, as she watched him, were bleary and half-open. “I…” What had she been doing? “I was reading.” To you, she added, internally.

“Are you leaving?” His voice hitched a little.

Her mouth formed an answer that she could not articulate. She sat back down. “I was stretching,” She said, giving him a tight smile. “What were you dreaming of?”

His gaze moved to the quilt cover. “I have horrible dreams sometimes.”

Cordelia hardly knew what to say. Would it be rude to enquire? “So do I.” She said.

“Really?” His tone was incredulous. He looked back at her, and held her gaze.

“Yes. As my father says, there is no better actor in this world than woman.”

James’ frown deepened. “Yes,” he said, eventually. “I think your father is right.”

She knew they were no longer talking of herself anymore. “You were dreaming of Grace. Would you like to talk about it?” She felt something in herself deflating, turning cold.

He shook his head. “Talking is of no use. It is as if…” He trailed off, a little sigh escaping him, “she is lodged in my mind, dug in somewhere I can’t find. And I have tried and tried but I…sometimes I think, in a year, in two, or three, will it still be like this? This incessant…will it be even worse? I swear by the angel,” he looked at her, something in his expression suddenly fierce, “I will go mad. I already feel it, sometimes. Possessed. I look at a seraph blade and wish I could plunge it straight into my head, if only I could cut her out with it, I would in an instant.”

She let her breath go. “Jamie.” Damn it all to hell, she thought, and she leant down to kneel beside his bed, to grasp his hand. She brought it up to her mouth, pressing a desperate kiss onto the back of his hand. “Jamie, please. Please.” She did not know what she was begging for; she did not know why there were tears, suddenly, filling her eyes.

“I am sorry, Daisy, pretend I never said anything—“

“No, no, Jamie, you— we will find some way,” She vowed to him, two cold, wet tears running down each cheek. “We will.”

He stared down at her and whispered, “I feel it is hopeless.”

“Don’t say that.”

He gave her a weak smile. “You’re right. You are so good,” He stroked back her hair from her face. “I’m sure we do not deserve you.”

Good. She thought, that’s what I am to him. Good. Her tears streamed faster. His fingers moved to brush them away, but she arrested his hand, and brought it to her mouth, proceeding to blanket it over in kisses, just as she had imagined thousands of times — into his wrist, in his palm, over his fingers.

She stopped. Recoiled. Swallowed. She felt like she had that time when she was a little girl and she had picked up her mother’s most favourite and expensive vase from Tehran. Inevitably, it had slipped through her fingers and shattered disastrously into fragments all over the tiled floor, making such a sound that surely the entire house had heard it. She remembered looking up to find her mother’s eyes on her; the deep chill that ran through her as she met her eyes. This is it. This is regret. There was no undoing this, now.

She cringed at the shock in his voice. “Daisy?”

“I’m afraid I must go.” She hastily dropped his hand and got to her feet. “I feel — rather — rather ill.” It was the only thing she could think to say.

She dashed out the room, feeling James’ gaze piercing the back of her, searching, dumbfounded. The moment she escaped, she threw herself against the nearest wall, savouring the fresh air, closing her eyes, biting down viciously on her lip. How could you be so stupid?

“Cordy?” She heard Lucie’s voice to her right. Where had she come from? Cordelia’s eyes flew open. “Are you…” She saw her expression become puzzled. “Why are you out of breath?” She saw her parabatai’s eyes flick to the door behind her — her brother’s room — and flick back to her.

“I feel unwell, suddenly. I have no idea why,” A breathy sound left her.

Lucie smiled. “Come with me.”

#the last hours #my fanfics #tsc #jordelia #james x cordelia #lol this is the first fanfic i've written in like...2 years #the shadowhunter chronicles

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theflashdriver · 5 years

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Bohemians of Crisis

This is another fic I wrote for Silvaze week a while back! It utilises the music prompt and focuses on the shift in Silver and Blaze’s dynamic both pre and post 06, little changes brought on by their different lives. I hope you enjoy!

As crisis city days went, today was peaceful. Blaze the cat, age 14, was reclined atop a battered leather couch, leafing her way through a poetry book. She and Silver had spent the last two weeks reinforcing the city's library and today they were, finally, settling in. Together they'd restored the brickwork, welded metal bars to the windows and established a defensive perimeter through the placement of destroyed vehicles. There was only one job left, the transportation of their belongings from their old home to their new one.

Silver was currently seeing to that. She could have been out there with him, but a single spare pair of hands wasn't comparable to the grasp psychokinesis granted him. While she would struggle, bags weighing her down as she leapt across rooftops, he could soar over it all; well out of harm's way. Were he not so focused on training and beating Iblis, the hedgehog could likely live the safest life of all the city's inhabitants. He could live on the rooftops and only descend in search of food, beyond the monsters' reach. Then again, if he chose to live like, he wouldn't have become her trusted partner.

Finding her thoughts had overcome her interest in poetry; Blaze set the book aside and reclined deeper into the couch. They'd only spent a handful of nights here, just yesterday moving a bed into the library's children's section, but she was already comfortable. While their hearts were always set on their grand goal, destroying Iblis once and for all, she knew it was important to enjoy these moments of respite. Their new home certainly allowed for this, every room contained stories and histories they'd never heard of let alone read. This library contained more entertainment than they'd ever need. The building was gigantic, two stories tall and only the upper west wing had been beyond saving. Naturally, some of the books had worn or burned beyond being readable but the majority had survived the end times.

She was considering rising, be it to seek out a more interesting tome or prepare a meal for her partner's return, when a ringing echoed through the halls. Immediately, Blaze recognised it. It was the ringing of a chandelier with fifteen bells bound to it in place of candles, the security system they had set up. Whenever the door was pushed open the bells would ring, alerting those inside to what may be an intruder. But Blaze had no idea if that was him or a wanderer or one of Iblis mon-

"Blaze, I've found something really cool! Come quick!" Through doors and walls, his voice had rung out louder than the bells. He was good at being loud when he wanted, be it calling out to her or shouting about saving the future.

Curiosity piqued, she began to make her way toward the library's entrance. She'd sat near the far end of the first floor's fiction section, the area specialising in older poetry and prose over the likes of novella or series fiction. Winding her way around bookshelf after bookshelf, she couldn't help but ponder on what he might have brought. It likely wouldn't be a practical object; he wouldn't be so excited for about a strong padlock or an unburned broom. He might've found clothes? The hedgehog didn't often wear much, but he'd found a handful of garbs he enjoyed wearing; a jumpsuit of some kind and an outfit from a lost Winter festival most notably.

Pushing past doors, she soon found herself at the library's entrance. All of their belongings had been abandoned at the entryway; books, toys, bed sheets, trinkets and clothes, split among suitcases, rucksacks and old burlap sacks. Whatever this 'thing' was, it was clearly important to him. Had it been something simple like clothes he would have brought them to her. No; this had to be bigger, stranger even.

She called out, "Silver? Where are you?"

"Over here! I've not gone far!" By the sound of his voice, he was through the door opposite to the one she'd exited; the more studious and scientific portion of the library.

Blaze soon arrived in the library's gigantic non-fiction section. The walls were stacked five metres high with books on subjects ranging from botany to architecture to cooking. Now in the same room as him, albeit a giant room with row upon row of desks and shelves blocking her vision, Blaze could hear the whir of his psychic aura and track its glowing light.

Her pace slowed as she rounded the bookshelves, what intrigued her most was that this item so clearly excited him yet was likely so impractical. Their choice to move into the library had been a difficult one, not only had the building required a lot of patchwork but its size made it an easy target. Despite that, they'd had their eyes on this building for years. Living here granted them access to books and games the likes of which they'd otherwise have to scavenge for, that made it the most comfortable building in town. New information and leisure were mere footsteps away at any given time. For him to have found a distraction that surpassed this, it hardly seemed possible. She noticed the light brighten with ever step and soon only one shelf lay between them.

No more than five steps later, Blaze immediately understood. The hedgehog had his back to her but that wasn't the first thing to catch her eye. Wrapped in psychic light and floating just beyond his reach was a grand piano, its stool sat just behind him. Of all the possible items, Blaze never would have considered this. A smaller instrument perhaps, something made of metal like a flute or something simple like drums, but never a lumbering grand piano. One thing was for certain, if it was intact, it was a find worthy of his overexcitement.

"Silver," With the call of his name she caught his attention, as he turned back his grin almost blinded her, "Where did you even find this?"

The hedgehog's eyes were alight with excitement; "There was a lot of activity so I had to take a different route. I flew past a giant skyscraper and saw it in one of the windows, I couldn't help myself!" He brought the great wooden mass to the ground once only to raise it again, as if unhappy with its exact positioning. Glancing to the surrounding bookshelves, Blaze determined that they were in the music section. Unintentional or not, he'd picked a fitting location.

Though such rules had been unenforced for at least two centuries, the irony of moving a musical instrument into the library wasn't lost on Blaze. She watched as he struggled to decide the right position for the large instrument, dragging it left and right through the air. Eventually, he settled near the far wall, quickly sliding the stool. Blaze knew what a piano was from depictions in a variety of books and, judging by those depictions, this piano wasn't in good shape.

The wood had lost most, if not all, of its lustre; though it was unburned the city's heat had warped the lid's wood and eroded much of its varnish. The keyboard wasn't missing any keys but she wouldn't say it was in good condition. They didn't sit on an even plane, many having sunk lower than was surely intentional and many being chipped. She stepped forward to glance inside only to find many of its strings had snapped, those seemed rather important to the function of the instrument. The chair wasn't much better for wear, what had surely once been an emerald green cushion was now torn and bleached a yellower shade.

Of course, that was to be expected; they were beggars rather than choosers and there wasn't much left to choose from anyway. Still, she had to ask, "It does work, doesn't it?"

"W-Well," His hand came to his chest fur and his eyes split from there, "Some of it does?"

Blaze allowed her amber eyes to bear down on him, "What do you mean some of it?"

"A little more than half of it?" He admitted, still pulling at his fluff, "That means it's most of them though, that's more than enough… I think."

Silver slid onto the stool, more of its fabric tearing as he did so. An expectant look was thrown her way. She rolled her eyes before lowering herself down next to him. Safe to say, the seat wasn't designed for two. While it managed to hold their weight her left hip was pressed against his right, even though she was fully sitting Blaze could tell he was half hanging off of the stool. The closeness was setting off… something in her chest, a strange warm fluttering of sorts. She felt him shift slightly and almost jumped, following his eye-line she found her tail had curled around and into his lap. Grumbling beneath her breath, she snatched it up; sitting on it to prevent any further wandering. With a final flick of his wrist, a book was pulled from the ground beside him, sliding into the piano's holder.

The pages were littered lines, numbers and squiggles sitting atop and between them. He stretched a little before lowering his fingers to the white keys, though he stopped himself before actually playing. His brow furrowed for a minute as if he was trying to remember something before finally the first sounds were played. She'd flinched as he started, a sound unlike any she'd ever heard echoing out from the device; the notes causing her ears to flutter. As he continued to play, fingers occasionally pressing the darker keys, she managed to settle somewhat. The noise was bizarre but not unappealing, questions about the music's origins and how it was meant to sound started trickling into her mind. Blaze couldn't help but notice he wasn't looking at the book, his eyes were constantly on the keys as he tried to play patterns he might well have made up upon finding the instrument. They were far from perfect, occasionally a note would fall out of place and he'd cringe; trying the piece again and again with a new note in place of the old.

She had to ask, "Do you know what you're doing, or are you just making it up as you go along?"

"Well… I can't really read the book," As he admitted that, his playing slowed, "But I thought that if I just kept trying I'd eventually figure it out?"

"I think that's highly unlikely," She truthfully answered, "I think you'd have far better luck creating your own songs."

"That sounds like way more fun!" His face lit up, "Just join in whenever you feel like it."

"Join in?" She blinked.

"Yeah, this isn't just for me after all," He was still beaming, clearly excited by this brand new toy, "You can play too, if you want?"

There wasn't enough space on the stool for them to sit comfortably, let alone on the keyboard for them to freely play together, but seeing a spark of excitement in his eyes and urged on by her own curiosity; Blaze pressed her first keys. Noticing her hesitation, he gave her a moment to test on her own. She quickly came to understand not only the point where the keys stopped working but the further along her side she went the higher the sounds were. Additionally, she discovered the speed notes were hit did affect their sound, if she pressed too slowly the note wouldn't sound but if she pressed much faster it would be louder.

Soon enough though his hands returned to the keys. As she'd anticipated, there wasn't nearly enough space. Their wrists and shoulders would constantly brush, hands crossing both over and under one another, as they slowly but surely grew more confident in their playing. Blaze was unsure how much time had past but, eventually, she started to feel more confident in her movements. She fully relaxed, a smile growing on her lips, and managed to play along.

Just as she thought they'd roughly synchronised, Silver's section came to a rather abrupt stop. Glancing to him, she found his hands had raised and wisps of blue-green aura were slipping from his fingertips, "Hang on, I've got an idea. I might be able to fix the other side."

There was a sound like the scraping of metal, followed by ringing and rumbling and rustling. It was almost as if some shining creature had entered the case of the piano. Leaning in slightly, Blaze managed to gaze through its open lid; she found the broken threads stretching toward one another, reaching out to reconnect to their parallel counterparts. Rust flaked from the wires like old paint being stripped from a wall, some of them were too warped to reach and thus a thin string of psychic energy came to connect their endpoints.

A smirk crossed her lips as she glanced back to watch him work, the way his quills bounced as he attempted to psychically hold the strings together and the sheer concentration on his face was a sight to behold. Following more than a little fiddling, twanging sounds occasionally emanating from the instrument's wooden hull, he pulled back.

A toothy grin graced his lips, "Alright, that should be the wires fixed? Well, not fixed but… you know."

Her fingers stumbled along the right keys, pressing each in sequence and uncovering brand new notes. Their tone didn't quite match the other half of the keys, but they were undeniably musical sounds. The further she travelled from his side the higher their pitch was. His aura's reverb was also granting the notes an almost ethereal quality; they echoed out and bounced against the walls and bookshelves. Now that they were able to play more independently the sound changed drastically. Their music was no longer so synchronised but with a wider range of notes to play, they were able to more thoroughly explore the instrument.

Of course, two people hammering at a piano together (without a plan or prior practice) didn't create the wondrous sound she imagined pianists could have in the past; but the noise was certainly fascinating. She supposed it made sense that the first time would be this way, as long as the instrument remained intact they'd be able to find combinations of sounds they liked; to grow as musicians even without a teacher. Perhaps, one day, they could play like those old pianists.

As her fingers continued to fall on those reconstructed keys, she couldn't help but think their unique twang sounded far more melodic than the hitched notes the regular keys played. Still unsure what she was doing, thoroughly unable to read the music sheet he'd set up, the feline's fingers glid across those ebony and ivory bars. She was producing some kind of melody certainly; finding keys that, when hit in the correct sequence, made a sound that bordered on appealing. Meanwhile, having had the chance to fiddle on his own before bringing the instrument home, Silver was producing something closer to what she thought good music might sound like. He'd found clusters of notes that seemed to flow into each other, the beginnings of a true melody even if they weren't quite a song. She couldn't help but throw glances to him as they played away, watching how his nose and brow would crumble whenever he misplayed and struggling to suppress her laugh. He was having fun but, like always, he wanted to excel; to truly to his best. His heart was so openly bared, be it in moments like these or his pursuit of their grand goal.

Curious, she gave a suggestion; "Why don't you try over here? I think your notes sound better than the piano's own."

She'd expected him to rise and swap places with her but, just as she had done to him earlier, he turned and leaned into her. Their cheeks bordered on touching, his shoulder brushed against hers and, once again, Blaze couldn't help feeling that flutter in her chest. When they'd first met she had been the taller of the two but now, without the boost of her heels, the difference was made clear. Discounting quills, he was a half-head taller than her at the very least. His long nose looked like it would about align with the jewel on her forehead and his shoulders had certainly become broader than hers.

Having caught herself staring, Blaze tore her eyes away; mumbling, "You're so naïve," as he stretched to reach even further across; head drawing closer as he, again, brushed against her.

With every keystroke she watched the symbols on his hands glimmer, resonating with the cords as they were plucked. Her assumption had been correct; as he played his tune in those higher sounding notes they succinctly flowed into one another. Every time he repeated a melody he seemed to grow more confident in it, short and sweet as they all were. His passion for the activity was clear, they'd come across musical instruments before of course but they'd never been in such good condition; much less on this scale. Things of the past drew both their attention, but they'd always fascinated him. From books to tools to toys to photographs and paintings, depicting nature and urban life alike, almost anything could catch his eye.

Blaze felt herself begin to slightly lean against him, matching the gentle brush of his shoulder as he played; "You're having fun, aren't you?"

A dusting of red covered his cheeks, surely at her words rather than touch; "It's just so strange… but in a good way, you know? I've never heard anything like this, I've never done anything like this," Despite his bashfulness, the hedgehog continued to play. He kept changing his tempo and trying new combinations.

There was a lot of truth to his words. Without backing music to understand the flow and cadence they'd never even sung before, outside occasional out of tune joke. Nursery rhymes were passed down family lines of course, but they could never know how accurate they truly were. To them, music was a lost art.

More words cut off her train of thought, "There's not really any point in playing music, it's not like it'll help us beat Iblis," Despite the sombre words he spoke, the hedgehog was still smiling, "Despite that though… I still want to do it. That's probably pretty naïve, isn't it?"

Blaze's fingers returned to the keyboard; her hands crossing over and under his in a much closer proximity, "No, but that was," Out the corner of her eye, she caught chagrin twitch across his brow and his blush redden, "Rest is important and we should find things we enjoy, both to take the edge off and well… for afterwards, of course. For whatever you want to do when it's all over," The music slowed, their wrists brushed again but this time their fingers came to intertwine, "I've got no idea what I'll do…"

She felt him squeeze her hand, their eyes met as the music fully stopped; bright yellow orbs mingling with her amber set, "What we'll do when it's all over," he corrected. Was he getting closer? There'd been no more than inches between them, perhaps it was just that he'd turned, "Whatever you decide you want to do, I want to do it with you. You're my partner, I want to stay with you forever."

Blaze had to look away, but her eyes only found their linked hands. She felt her temperature skyrocket, "That's even more naïve. If you already know what you want to do so I'll be the one to do it with you."

"Well, I don't know if I want to play the piano all the time. It's just kind of… nice, you know? It's not like we'll defeat Iblis and I'll end up sitting here all the time," He tried to explain, "I'll just do it… whenever it feels right. There's no reason to force it."

Those words resonated far more than she anticipated; she curled her thumb to top his. Despite the gesture, Blaze could only muster a two-word response; "So naïve…"

----

Silver was excited to spend another day in the Sol Dimension. Less than two weeks ago the hedgehog had fallen through space and time; arriving by happenstance at a strange cluster of islands ruled over by a feline he now knew a better than he'd ever known anyone. Remembering their erased history been a bizarre, bordering on traumatic, experience (initiated by the accidental touch of a hand) but he was more than happy to have remembered Blaze; let alone find her safe.

Since his arrival, he'd been on a brief break from fixing the future. He'd been living in a bizarre wooden hut that belonged to a friend of hers, sleeping in a hammock and venturing to the palace every day. Some days Blaze would take him to visit an island, on occasion they'd try a modern activity but often their time was spent lounging in the palace library. She'd work away at royal duties while he flipped through books, idle conversation flitting through the air. Despite her workload limiting them, they were able to enjoy each other's company. He was excited to see what today would bring, but more than that he was excited to see her again. Having scarfed down a quick breakfast, he quickly exited his temporary abode.

The sound of waves filled his ears, the smell of salt was strong in the air and the sky was both blue and clear. He wasn't quite living on the beach, rather just a stone's throw from it, but he'd come to love the sea. Sailing, hunting for seashells and so much more; this island nation had already claimed a space in his heart. Still, he didn't have time to dawdle; stretching in the morning sun he set off toward the castle… only to be immediately stopped by his housemate.

Blaze's friend, Marine the raccoon, was hammering away at the house; patching a hole she'd surely created herself.

"G'day mate, where's she draggin' you off for today?" She greeted and asked, "Maybe she'll take you up the mountains, maybe around the coral caves…" She answered again before he could even think, "Or maybe she'll treat ya to another doctor's appointment."

Silver cringed at that. While his days spent with Blaze were often simple fun, there had been exceptions to this rule. Yesterday was an example of that, the hedgehog's left arm was still more than a little limp from the various blood tests and vaccinations she'd insisted he have. Coming from a destroyed future, modern medicine had been entirely inaccessible to him, thus Blaze had seen fit to schedule a full check-up. To make matters worse, as that appointment ended, she'd dragged him off to the dentist; making certain his teeth were in tact. Silver knew it'd all be good for him in the long run, and afterwards they had returned to the library, but the thought of a repeat sent shivers down his spine.

"Good morning Marine, and not this time. She promised me we'd do something fun after all that," Silver explained, "I don't know what we're doing today but I'm sure it'll be great!"

"Sure mate, that's what she wants you to think," The raccoon grinned, blue eyes mischievously sparkling, "She's lullin' ya into a false sense of security. She's a cat, after all. She likes to play with her prey a lil' before pouncing."

A second shudder ran up his spines and, before he could stop himself, he blurted out a response, "Blaze would never do that!"

Rather than admit she was wrong, the little girl dropped to the ground. Her tools were cast aside and snorting laughter freely flying from her throat, "Honestly mate, you're so gullible. Only been here two weeks and already you're tied around my finger," She struggled to sit up, "I'm sure you'll have a bonza time with her, regardless of what torture she has planned."

"I was always told naïve more than gullible…" He still wasn't used to the young raccoon girl, so excited for adventure and quick to tell jokes, but he understood she was more than harmless. Quills relaxing, he managed a quick goodbye, "I'll see you later Marine, try not to hurt yourself."

"If I do, I'm sure you'll hear about it!" She called out, managing to return to her work; ranting and raving to herself about the inevitable voyages she'd lead.

He took to the air, gliding over the island's market town. The stalls were just starting to open, students were heading to school while their parents rushed to work. Despite having been here for two weeks, Silver still got his fair share of stares as he soared by. He wondered if the townsfolk would get used to him. The flight to the palace didn't take more than ten minutes, the island itself wasn't particularly big, but as he drew closer a sound caused his ears to flicker. Between the wind and the hum of his power he couldn't make it out but upon his landing it became clear. Music was being played in the palace. Someone was playing a piano. He'd landed in the gardens, planning to enter through the back door and avoid causing a fuss, but having passed through the hedgerows he found a koala blocking the doorway. Gardon, head of the royal guard… not that Blaze much needed one.

"Silver," He nodded a greeting, "I take it you're here to see the princess again."

"Who?" Silver blinked before quickly realising, "O-Oh, yes, Blaze! Yes, I am."

"She's not in the library, but I'm sure you'll manage to find her," The elder explained, turning and unlocking the door, "Just follow the music."

It was only as the door closed behind him that he realised what he'd been told, he was to follow the music to Blaze? But then, did that mean she was the one playing? He racked his thoughts and remembered the stories he'd read about princes and princesses, that there were often parties with lots of dancing. They were named balls, if his memory served? Perhaps this was like that? Regardless, the sound now had his full attention. It was wonderful, unlike anything he'd ever heard.

Silver followed the music up stairs, down hallways and around various bends until finally, he arrived at a door. He immediately reached for its brass handle but, as he did, he noticed a small metal plaque was affixed just left of the door. It simply read 'Music Room.' Bracing himself Silver pushed inside, the music he already thought was blaring grew louder still but its source overwhelmed his senses before the sound itself could. Blaze was sat at the far end of a large room, various instruments hung on the wall and music books neatly shelved. Of course, she was sat in front of a grand piano. It was as he'd first thought; she was the one playing it.

With his arrival, Blaze brought the song to a close. She slowly turned back to face him, "Whenever it feels right," Words spoken in another time and place ringed in his head. There was a smile on her face, her fangs were just barely visible, "I thought now seemed like such a time…"

He approached without hesitation, gawking at the piano in front of him. It was like the one they'd played, made from dark wood and having brass embellishments, yet to compare the two seemed ridiculous. The light bounced off its varnished surface and the wood was entirely free from scuffs. He reached past her, drawing a finger across its lid and finding it perfectly smooth.

Having convinced himself it was real, Silver finally slid down next to her, almost jumping back up as their outer thighs brushed. He hurriedly tried to explain his state, "I-I don't think I've touched one of these in this lifetime."

Her smile remained, "Well," Her fingers danced from left to right, playing the scale, "In this one, I've picked up a thing or two. I started lessons as a child, I don't remember much enjoying my music classes but…" As though it was the easiest thing in the world, she pressed the keys and drew forth a sweet tune, "With my renewed hindsight, I suppose there was some worth to them."

His jaw slacked as he watched and listened, her elegant fingers running wild and free across the keys; plucking from them sounds he'd never heard before. He'd heard music in his visits to the past of course but he'd never witnessed it being played, let alone by someone he knew. It'd always just been blaring from radios or phones, distractions passing by.

Blaze continued to explain, nodding to the papers in front of him, "I can read those sheets now, they're not nearly as complicated as they look," He felt something on his far side, glancing down he found her tail had coiled up and around his waist, "Just… join in whenever you want."

He watched her for just a little longer, coming to understand the patterns she was following and the regions of keyboard her hands tended toward. Of course, a side effect of this was finally understanding how truly enamoured he was with the sight of her playing. She had lived a peaceful enough life that she could dedicate time to this. He knew this world wasn't free of harm, but it was so much more peaceful than anything he'd ever known. That wasn't the only reason he stared of course, the longer he did the more he felt a strange warmth in his chest that threatened to spread across his cheeks and up his ears. He'd noticed it many times before but it only seemed to happen when they were alone together. As it grew too much to bear, he took it as a sign he should join her.

He started by playing on two keys, doing little more than alternating between them, and beginning to reflect on what he'd done before. There was no trick to pressing the keys, the sound was simply cleaner than that of the rusted strings he'd used and repaired. Slowly, but surely, he became more comfortable; reaching further to play. More and more frequently their arms would cross and the melodies they'd made in that past life came trickling to the surface. Of course, having been played on a broken piano, some of the tunes weren't quite as melodic as he recalled but others sounded a thousand times better.

Given time their shoulders would push closer together, their heads would rest against one another's and the sound of their shared music, fragmented and messy as it often was, would echo across the palace grounds.

#silvaze #blaze the cat #silver the hedgehog #marine the raccoon #sonic #sonic the hedgehog

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trivialqueen · 4 years

Text

Chess

Here’s the next section of that original story. Still currently, and creatively called, Hospital Romance Drama. As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British. I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.

“Did you sanction this?” Ms. Hale didn’t knock when she entered his office, but the click-click of her heels had announced her.

“Knocking is common curtesy when entering another’s abode, is it not Ms. Hale?” He capped his pen without thinking about it. His muscle memory could tell she wasn’t going to be leaving his office any time soon.

“If you wanted people to knock you shouldn’t have left your door off the latch.” It’s not a hill he’s willing to die on. He can see she’s spoiling for a fight; it sparks in her dark eyes. They’re not blazing hellfire at him, for once, but they’re quick and sharp all the same. A bee in her bonnet for sure, and while he has a board meeting later today, he knows it would be worse than futile to try and rush her out of his office before she was ready to go. So instead he inclines his head, acquiescing to her point and waiting for her to get back to her original point.

“I’m told you’re getting rid of the – -- machines.” He didn’t have to wait long.

The DOS’s office was on the 4th floor, amidst a maze of corridors that led to conference rooms, HR, and the records department. She’d visited it several times during Charlotte’s tenure as Director of Surgery. She’d not been back since Magnusson took over. The bones were the same. Same double doors framed by wave patterned glass blocks that provided both privacy and a vague sense of who was outside the door. Across from the door was a wall of windows with a beautiful view of the car park, along the ledge which ran under the windows he had kept with Charlotte’s tradition of keeping plants. His looked markedly more alive than hers ever did. It was perhaps a terrifying or a very fitting fact that despite being a talented surgeon and a devoted mother she couldn’t keep a plant – even a cactus – alive for longer than a month. The walls were the same warm shade of ecru and the floors the same industrial beige Berber. Beyond that the room was completely different, as distinct as the two people. Charlotte’s office had been an eclectic mash of overstuffed seating and bohemian rugs, ornate lighting and a big vintage desk. Magnusson’s office was in a, predictable, curated Scandinavian design. He sat behind a sleek, teak L shaped desk, filing cabinets and bookshelves anchored on the wall behind him. At the other end of the narrow, rectangular office there was a small meeting table, in matching sleek, teak design and a very square, grey sofa. Tossed over the back of the seats was the only source of color, a blue ikat blanket, which looked delightfully soft. Even the pictures on the wall were in black and white. If the – -- weren’t on the line she might be tempted to take a closer look at the objects d’art around his office. The sculptures on his shelves, the photo sitting on his desk – the only non-practical item on the tidy worktop. But the – -- machines were, apparently, at stake. Short notice as well. Probably hoping to avoid protest. She thought bitterly, Jokes on you!

Hale paced in front of his desk, hands slashing through the air as she spoke – making a passionate case for two old CT machines the hospital board had decided were surplus. Only used a handful of times a year, tops, the space could be better utilized. Without them the south Harvey bay would be entirely open for new, hopefully more lucrative, or at least ambitious projects. He’d been apathetic about the idea before but seeing her agitation he was willing reconsider his position. Ms. Hale had good instincts, even if she also had a distaste for rules and a self-righteous streak wider than a football pitch.

��If you have strong opinions about those machines.” He cut off the third verse of her rant about what a mistake they were making. She stopped pacing and stared at him. “I have a board meeting in an hour. Write up a proposal for me to give them.”

“What?”

“Write a proposal for the board regarding the machines and I’ll present it to the board in,” he checked his watch, “fifty-five minutes.”

“It’s not a done deal? There’s a guy here to take the machines away now! He might have already taken them if he’d not hurt himself.”

“He what!?” Visions of lawsuits danced in his head. What happened? Why hadn’t he been informed?

“Not important.” She waved the question away. “He’s fine. You won’t let him take the machines?”

“Let is a strong word, he has his orders. The board had decided already. I am offering you a second chance.” She studied him eyes pinning him like a bug under glass. The spark was still there, as was a wariness as if she was deciding if she trusted him. He stared right back. For a long moment they just stared at one another. Then, she seemed to realize what she was doing, and her gaze dropped. He could see her cheeks flush before he looked elsewhere himself.

“How many copies do you need?” She asked, picking up one of the pawns from his chess set. Chess was one of his few hobbies. Playing against a computer was convenient, and challenging, but it felt so hollow clicking around on a screen. Even when he was playing the computer, he wanted to be able to see and move the pieces in the real world. The set had been a gift from his mother, the pieces carved from wood, based on the Lewis chessmen. The set was one of his most cherished possessions.

“Hmm?”

“For the board, how many copies do I need to run you off for this proposal?”

“Seven.” She had forty-five minutes to pull this off. But at least she seemed to be willing to follow the procedures in this instance. He was almost tempted to ask if she was feeling well. He resisted. Just.

“well tempus volat, hora fugit.” She placed the piece back on the board.

“I’ll get you the proposal before you meet. Seven copies.”

“The meeting is in forty minutes.” She paused at the door, looking over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you in thirty-five then.” She smiled. “Thank you.” The door closed behind her with a soft click. It was the second time she’d smiled at him…

Felix, as a general rule, eschewed violence. However, in that moment he could happily throttle Sofia Grace. Things had been going so well. She’d gotten him her proposal five minutes before the meeting started, seven copies as he’d asked. There was only one type-o betraying the haste with which he’d written the document. Her prose had been clear, concise, and pitched toward her audience – emphasizing the PR/image those machines could generate since they were particularly effective in diagnosing issue with small, adorable children. Not that it mattered now.

Ms. Hale sat on the tailgate of the truck, as primly as if she was taking tea with the queen, except for the chains wrapped around her waist and the truck. Beside her, sitting as regally as if she was the queen was a striking older woman. Her hair the color of pure snow falling over her shoulders, wrapped in a lavender silk robe. She was, mercifully, not chained to the truck. Both were chatting amiably with Oliver Anderson, who for his part seemed to be trying and failing to coax the patient away from Ms. Hale.

“Come on, Colleen.” Anderson wheedled. “I really need you to come back to the ward with me.”

“And as your Doctor, I must insist.” She patted her knee, “Go with Dr. Anderson, darling. I’ve got it from here.”

“Do you? I know a thing or two about protests you know.” The woman preened. Across the parking she caught his eye.

“Oh, I know. And after you’re in recovery I’d like to hear all about it. But for now, please let Ollie take you to bed. My audience is here.” The woman was not subtle in how she looked at young Dr. Anderson.

“He’s got eyes like Fonda.” Ms. Hale’s gaze slid from his, slowly, turning to look at Anderson, her expression softening to a wry smile.

“Doesn’t he just.”

“Come on Vanessa Redgrave.” In the time that he had been at St. Sebastian’s Felix had been rather underwhelmed by the young foundation doctor’s medical skills, but he was exceedingly popular with the patients. And his eyes really were almost an unnatural shade of blue. The old patient turned from Anderson and took Hale’s hand.

“You call if you need me, dear.”

“I was about to put your proposal to the board when I was called down here.” Magnusson crossed the parking, one hand in his pocket. He ambled over to her; his tone conversational. He might have been chatting with her about the recent Bundesliga game. It was an impressive performance considering the grinding of his jaw and the flint in his eyes. He was so angry he was calm. When she was angry, she knew she burned hot. Could taste the blood in the back of her throat, felt her hands shake, her stomach swoop. It felt like rage crackled from her fingertips. His fury was not fire. It was all ice.

“Circumstances changed.”

“I’ll say. You’ve hardly furthered your cause with this stunt.” He crossed his arms over his chest. At a glance it seemed passively displeased but standing next to her she could see the way his fingers dug into his arms, the wrinkles in his suit jacket under his nails.

“Other options weren’t producing necessary results.”

“So, you chained yourself to the truck?!”

“It got attention, didn’t it?”

“Do you ever think ahead? Or even care about your reputation?” He looked down his straight nose with an imperious eye. God Almighty he could be condescending.

I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation! Joan Jett immediately got stuck in her head.

“Compared to what’s at stake, not really.”

“Perhaps you should, considering this is the definition of insubordination and gross misconduct. You could be fired.” There was a hardness in his eyes as he stared down at her.

Fired.

It was admittedly not an ideal situation. And yet it did not scare her like it might have. Not anymore. There were worse things in this world.

It was steely determination, rather than incandescent rage, that shown out of those coffee brown eyes. It was in contrast to her wry smile which twisted across her cayenne colored lips without any humor. She patted the tailgate next to her, and he felt compelled to take the seat.

“I died once; you know.” She said softly. He recalled that from her file. More than once if one counted both the episode in the ambulance, her flatlining on the table during surgery, and an incident with a shard of glass after her initial procedure. There was a sadness around the edges of her gaze, in the undercurrent of her voice. And despite sitting on the filthy tailgate of a truck in the loading bay of the hospital the moment felt intimate.

“After being good and quiet and rule following my entire life.” She continued. “And I died. I got better and since then all I can think is like, what’s the worst that can happen when you’ve already died once? What can you do to me? Fire me? By the grace of God and these hands, I’ve got savings, I’ve got skills, I’ve got a support system. I can find another job. I got second chance and I’m not going to waste it being ‘good’ when I can spend it saving lives. Go ahead, fire me over this. I don’t think I’m wrong though. These machines are worth saving.”

Well then.

“And I almost had, without any of this fanfare. If you’d just waited.” The proposal she had written had been a good one, and it was late enough in the meeting that most of the members cared about calling it a day. Twenty minutes and the machines would have been free and clear. It was almost as if she didn’t want the process to work.

“Circumstances changed.”

“What? What circumstances?” He looked around, the machines weren’t even on the truck yet and as far as he could tell the only people around were drawn by her protest. There was no maintenance men around, no laborers hauling away the machines yet. Nothing. She opened her mouth to speak.

“No.” He cut her off. “I was in the middle of presenting your proposal. The middle. If you waited ten minutes this would have been taken care of. What circumstances changed? I see no change. Those machines aren’t out here. No one is out here except the people this stunt has attracted. It’s like you don’t want this to work.”

“Of course I want this to work! I want to save those machines!” He hopped up from the gate. He wanted to throttle her. Rather than wrap his hands around her lovely throat he ran a hand through his hair.

“You. You want to save those machines. Be the martyr. Be the savior. And you won’t let anyone take that from you. Even if someone else can help. If someone else could have succeeded.” It was possible for someone to look more insulted than Sofia Grace did in that moment, but only just. The hot, spice of her anger rolled off of her in a wave. Her eyes blazed.

“How dare you!” She was incandescently angry. It was terrifying. Beautiful. And he found that he didn’t care.

“Why didn’t you trust me?” His voice was so low she almost didn’t hear him over the rush of blood in her ears. FLACHWICHSER! He stood over her, back ramrod straight, his jaw clenched, teeth visibly grinding.

“Why didn’t you trust me to take care of this. I told you I would. I was literally in the meeting doing this work when you stepped in with this self-righteous grandstanding.” He didn’t raise his voice. The accusation landed as heavy as a slap.

“Because to you these machines are just numbers on a balance sheet. Dead space clogging up one of the bays.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms, suit jacket wrinkling under his fingers, the white knuckles the only thing betraying his state of mind.

“But to me I see children with heart problems, a chance to make a difference in a family’s life.” Her throat felt raw; tears were threatening. Sofia Grace hated the fact that she was an easy crier. Any strong emotion could send her into tears – anger, pain, joy, sadness. It completely undermined her, and she could never stop it once it started.

“Do you have any evidence for this allegation?” He challenged. “Is it because you believe that you have a monopoly on compassion, or do you truly think that I can’t feel?”

Had she not been so far gone, in a berserker rage, she would have better noted his tone. Hurt. However, she was gone. So gone there was white around the edges of her vision.

“If you cared about these machines, you’d not have let it come to his in the first place!”

His nostrils flared and the grinding of his jaw became more pronounced.

“I am but one man on a seven-member board that is ruled by majority vote.”

“SG! SG!” Oliver Anderson’s voice was like a bucket of cold water on his anger. “It’s Colleen!” The junior doctor came skittering to a stop, nearly bowling him over.

“Sheiße!”

“Helvetes jävla fanskap!” Ms. Hale had chained herself to the truck and tossed the padlock key toward the dumpster. Maintenance might have bolt cutters, but it was a gamble on if finding the key (provided she hadn’t actually hit the dumpster) or finding the cutters would be the faster solution. “Fan out, we have to find that key!” All of his rage, his displeasure, the coil at the base of his spine disappeared and was replaced by clear purpose. “Do you ever think ahead?” He snapped. Alright, perhaps not all of his anger had dissipated. But really, what was she thinking? She was a CT consultant, on duty and just decided to not only chain herself to a truck in an act of pious protest, but also throw away the only key!

“Hang on, hang on.” She snapped back, scooting to the edge of the tailgate, her hands tugging at the chain around her slim waist.

“What are you doing?” It was strange and uncomfortable looking as she slithered inch by inch down from her seat. The chain moving up her body inch by inch, bringing her claret colored blouse further up her abdomen. He didn’t want to stare but he couldn’t look away as more and more of her smooth, pale stomach came into view. The scar was long, bisecting her down a center line, almost perfectly, save for the slight jog it took around her navel. It was nearly twenty years old, healed and faded from the once angry, jagged line it had been but still pinker than her natural skin tone and slightly puckered. It continued down below the waistband of her slacks and up into her chest (not that it was visible yet, the shirt was bunched under her breasts as she kept wiggling through the loop). The upper half of the open surgery scar was slightly more faded, almost impossible to discern from her cleavage if she wore a blouse that revealed any (not that he’d ever admit to looking).

“Just a second.” She grunted, flattening her own breasts until the chain slipped over them, which it did eventually. She raised her arms above her head and finished slipping through. She found herself free of her chains, on her hands and knees in the car park. She quickly popped up, straightening her blouse and dusting her hands, her cayenne colored smile cocky and broad.

“I am not as dumb as I look!” She said brightly before rushing toward the door.

“Ms. Hale, my office as soon as!” He called. She acknowledged him with a wave of her hand and disappeared into the hospital.

“What should we do with this?” At his elbow the junkman appeared, hobbling on crutches, answering that question more than Dr. Hale did.

“Hold off, plans have changed.” The board hadn’t formally voted, but enough members had told him they didn’t care what he did with the machines if it mattered so much.

Three decisive knocks took his attention from the file he was only half-heartedly reading. It was past the hour people generally headed home for the day, but he had never been most people. More than that, he and Ms. Hale had a conversation they needed to have and she only now had gotten out of surgery.

Word on the ward was that it had not gone well.

Ms. Hale did not sweep in has she had before, proud and pugnacious. She was tired, faded. She’d dressed after surgery, but not reapplied her lipstick. He could not think of a better metaphor for how she looked than that faded cayenne.

“She had been a long-term patient of yours I’m told.” And quite the character too by all accounts. Sofia Grace ran a hand through her curls.

“Yes.”

“Your proposal passed, with amendment. We will keep the equipment but move it out of the bay and downstairs with the less frequently used machines.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a small nod before turning her attention to his chessboard once again, slim fingers brushing over the pieces. “I was out of line today. I’m sorry.” The apology was so unexpected he wouldn’t even complain about the way her eyes failed to meet his. Or even look at him.

“Yes. You were.”

“I should have trusted your word when you said you were bringing the matter to the board. I certainly jumped the gun in the most dramatic way possible.” He couldn’t help the dark chuckle. That was putting it mildly. “More than that, I crossed a line. I should have never even remotely suggested that I have a monopoly on compassion or that you do not care for your patients or the wellbeing of the hospital more broadly. And for that I am sorry.”

He was not expecting that.

Apologies were not natural for him. He did not give them easily nor did he know how to accept them.

“Yes, well.” Awkwardly he cleared his throat. “If you are going to continue to work here, Ms. Hale, you’re going to have to learn to trust me. I am not the enemy.”

“I guess we shall see then.” She picked up a white knight from the board, turning the piece over and over in her fingers. It was not the response he expected.

“See what?”

“If I’m still working here for one.” She raised her eyes to his, slowly. “If I’ll trust you. If you’re not the enemy.”

“Everything I have done and everything I will do is for the good of this hospital.” Her dark eyes twinkled at him.

“You certainly believe that.”

“I do.” He replied firmly. “Have some faith in me, Ms. Hale, if only a little.”

“I will try.” She said firmly and then placed the knight back on the chessboard, not in its original place but out into the field. “It’s your move.”

#Hospital Romance Drama #cait writes #original fiction #I don't know Swedish but I do know Google translate #Sofia Grace is Chaotic Good chaffing under Lawful Good Rules #If stacked end to end this story is like 75 pages long and they still don't like each other #Well maybe they're more friendly than before than that's it #this is the slowest burn I've ever written

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pickalilywrites · 5 years

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someone asked me for a GoT fic but i had to write a lil smth and make sure i got the tone/dialogue/prose exactly right before i tackled it. i think this is what i might be sticking w/ in the end~ a little prequel to the main story

The Departure of the Raven

Levi Ackerman. ASOIAF AU.

3577 words.

Buy me a ko-fi!

The heel of Levi’s boot clicks against the gold and marble floor as the knight makes his way to the throne room. The knight does not turn his head to admire the tapestry that decorates the wall nor the crystal chandeliers that hang from the high ceilings. He has lived in this castle for far longer than he’s ever cared to, and he’s memorized every inch of it. Even when he had first arrived to be accepted as a knight on the Kingsguard, he had not been enchanted by the glamour of the castle, and he has come even less interested in its fanciful decorations now. Rather than spend even a second more than he needs to in this overly lavish hall, the knight quickens his pace as he nears the glossy wooden door with its gilded carvings. When he arrives, he is already reaching for the handle, pushing the heavy doors open without waiting for the guards to announce his arrival.

“Ser Levi.” It is not the king that greets the knight, but Queen Helene, a regal woman dressed in garments just as extravagant as the decorations that adorned the hall outside the throne room. Her hair was done up in plaits and wound closely around her head, which was covered in a woven net of gold set with pearls. On her brow sits a golden circlet, a treasured heirloom passed down for nearly a century in the Tybur family. Although it had been made for the first Tybur queen that had been crowned nearly a century ago, the circlet shines as if it had been fashioned just yesterday. The queen wears it proudly, her head held high, showing off the crystal choker on her neck. Despite the many jewels that cover her hair and neck, it seems that the precious gems are not enough for her, for the bodice of her gown is sewn with even more crystals and pearls, sparkling as she walks towards the knight to greet him. Even her skirts are embellished with intricate designs of golden thread, but she walks as if the weight of these jewels is nothing to her. The queen smiles at him, and it is this smile of hers – not her lavish palace, her precious jewels, or her extravagant gowns, but her smile – that this knight trusts the least about her.

Levi bends his knee and closes his right hand in a fist over his heart as he kneels in front of the throne. He casts his eyes downward, staring at the scarlet carpet beneath his feet. “My king. My queen,” he says. He only looks up when the skirts of the queen, a swirl of violet fabric embroidered with feathers of golden thread, appear in front of him. When the knight looks up, he sees the queen smiling down at him. “I trust that you have read my letter.” The queen gestures for the knight to rise, and so he does.

“Indeed, we did, but we thought it a poor joke when we first read it. It is not every day that a knight requests to be dismissed from the Kingsguard.” King William does not rise from his throne, instead speaking to Levi from where he sits. He wears robes in the same shade of violet as his queen, fastening the fabric together with a thick leather belt. On top of his head sits a golden crown that shines just as brightly as the queen’s circlet. His headdress, however, is decorated with sparkling crystals and glistening topazes. Unlike the queen, he never feels the need to overdress himself in jewels and precious metals, believing that it was far more effective to use his charisma and charm than his wealth to influence his people to follow him. It is a far more reliable method, perhaps, but Levi trusts the king's smile even less than he trusts the queen's – not at all. “Perhaps you can lend us more insight. I believe not everything was told in your letter.”

“There is not much to tell, my king. I believe that my time on the Kingsguard has come to an end,” Levi replies, his eyes still cast respectfully downward. “It seems that I have been called to journey down another path.”

The king nods, thinking deeply. His brows are knitted slightly, and Levi can tell that the king disagrees with him, but is pondering what words to use to prevent the knight from leaving. After a moment, the king asks, “And tell me how you came about this decision to leave, Ser Levi? It feels rather sudden to us after you have served our family for years.”

Levi raises his head, glancing at the queen from the corner of his eye. “I saw it in a dream,” he responds, watching as the queen’s eyes widen. He clears his throat and speaks louder, confident now that he has the queen’s attention. “A white crow appeared at my window and as I reached for it, it flew off. When I had looked to see where it had gone, I found that it had disappeared towards the north – towards the Wall.” He glances back at the king, and it is apparent that he does not believe in the knight’s word nor does he believe in the power of prophetic dreams. All of that is no matter to Levi. All he needs is the queen’s interest, and he has her completely enraptured. “I believe it was a sign for me to join the Night’s Watch.”

“Surely, a dream can just be a dream,” the king laughs, but his wife silences him with a wave of her hand.

She clutches one of Levi’s hand in hers, holding it close to her breast. The queen gazes down at the knight, eyes shining brightly. “The raven is the sigil of House Ackerman, is it not?” she asks. She grasps his hand so tightly that her knuckles turn white. “This cannot be a coincidence then.”

“But how often do dreams come true?” the king scoffs. He tries to convince his wife, but even Levi knows that any attempts will be futile. The knight’s freedom from this castle is imminent. “My love, you must admit that to release one of our most trusted knights because of a dream is unwise.”

The queen looks back to scowl at her husband. “It is because of your refusal to believe in prophecies and dreams that our kingdom is nowhere near the good fortune that Kiyomi believes we can achieve,” the queen declares, holding her head high. She refers to the priestess from Hizuru that has slowly managed to enchant her ever since the Little Rebellion. “You see the resignation of Ser Levi as a loss, but his departure may be a benefit to us. With Ser Levi’s presence in the Night’s Watch, our kingdom would have closer relations with an additional military branch should an outside first dare to attack us.”

“The Night’s Watch can hardly protect the kingdom, let alone themselves. What is there even to protect up north beside a frozen wasteland?” the king mutters.

“I believe in your vision, Ser Levi,” the queen says loudly. Her skirts sweep the floor as she glides across the room, her arms raised. She clutches her hands over her chest, and her eyes are cast downward. “You are blessed to have dreamt up such a prophecy. For us to deny you your destiny would be cruel. Not only would it hinder your growth, but the growth of the kingdom as well. Surely, my husband can see that.”

Both Levi and the queen turn to observe the king’s reaction. King William’s hands grip the arms of his throne tightly, and he shakes in silent fury. Although it is true that Ser Levi has proven himself a loyal and talented knight, the Kingsguard has no shortage of loyalty and talent. Even if he were to deny the request, the king knows that his wife would continue to wear him down until he finally gave in and dismissed the knight.

“Very well then,” the king said grudgingly, a tight smile on his face. “I will give you my blessing, and we shall wish you all the best at your new calling. But never forget where your true loyalty lies, Ser Levi.”

“Of course, my king,” the knight said with another bow, but he’s lying. His loyalty was never to the Tyburs, and it never would be. “I will be eternally grateful for the kindness you have shown me during my time on the Kingsguard.”

“Oh, the Kingsguard will not be the same without you. Your loss will be felt sorely throughout the castle,” the queen sighs. She then turns to her husband, an expectant expression on her face. “Well, we must make preparations.”

“Preparations for what?” the king mumbles, still disgruntled over the resignation of his best knight. “Is there something we have to celebrate?”

“Would you have Ser Levi leave without any ceremony?” his wife asks, incredulous. “We should at least throw him a small feast after he has served our family so dutifully.”

Levi raises his head, trying not to appear startled. “I assure you that that won’t be necessary, Your Majesty. A quick and quiet departure would be best, I believe.”

“Are you quite sure, Ser Levi?” Queen Helene asks. She’s torn between accepting his request and throwing an extravagant ceremony. “It would be no trouble at all. Of course, I could have planned something far more suitable for your going away. With such short notice, I’m afraid I can only prepare a small dinner for you and the other knights on the Kingsguard.”

“That is more than I deserve, Your Highness,” the knight says. He looks towards the king. “All I ask is that you allow me a horse so that I may journey to the Wall. I pray that whatever history is written of me on the Kingsguard’s record is kind, just, and true.”

“Ah, yes, we shall ensure that your services and accomplishments are properly documented, Ser Levi,” the queen says. “But do you not require anything more of us? No money, no feast, no gifts at all? Whatever it is you request, please do not hesitate to ask.”

Levi shakes his head. He wonders why the queen is so insistent on leaving him with a parting gift. When he had served on the Kingsguard, he was certain that she held no affection of him. It was only his loyalty that she desired of him, but she pays him far more attention now that he is leaving. Perhaps it is because she really believes that she will be able to use him as a connection to the Night’s Watch, but he doesn’t see how that’s possible. After all, the Night’s Watch pledges its allegiance solely to Paradis, not the king or any single house. And yet, the queen seems confident that she will be able to keep Levi’s devotion even after his departure from the Kingsguard. There was also that strange thing that the king had said…

“Very well,” the king says, interrupting the knight’s thoughts. He claps, a signal for his servants to attend to him. As his servants approach him, the king points at Levi and says, “Provide Ser Levi with a horse so that he might travel where he desires. Once that’s done, bring me Ser Nile. He shall be head of the Kingsguard and shall officiate Ser Levi’s resignation in the Kingsguard’s record.”

“Thank you,” Levi mumbles. He looks up at the king and queen for what he believes is the last time. “I am eternally grateful for the time I have spent serving you, Your Highnesses.”

“Likewise, we are grateful for having your service for so many years,” the king says with a bow of his head. He watches as the servants begin to lead Levi out of the throne room. “Do not forget us when you become a part of the Night’s Watch, Ser Levi. And when you get there, please send Lord Commander Zackley our regards.”

The king’s last words to Levi disturb him the most, echoing in the knight’s head even after he’s left the throne room. It is strange for the king to mention the Lord Commander so casually, to say the man’s name with familiarity as if the two were comrades instead of mere acquaintances. Surely, the two cannot maintain such close relations. There is the distance between the Wall and the capital, the Night’s Watch and its sole dedication to Paradis, and the duties of the kingdom that keep the king busy. Maybe he was simply overthinking things and had simply imagined it. He should no longer concern himself with the royal family. His work with them is done after today. All he has left to do is to travel to the Wall and start his new life.

He follows the servant down the hall and does his best to keep his eyes on the floor. He does not care to gaze at the detailed paintings on the ceilings or the glass chandeliers that hang from them. He wants no memories of this place.

“Ser Levi!”

The former knight turns at the call of his name, and he sees the royal children playing in the garden. He had hoped to leave without seeing them, but it is just his luck to run into them just as he is about to take his leave. He bows deeply as they approach him and raises his head. Although they had all been mere children when he had first been welcomed into the castle, the children had caught up to him in height years ago and now tower above him.

“Where are you going?” a golden-haired boy, nearly a man now, asks. Prince William has his father’s charismatic smile, but his mother’s glittering green eyes. The young prince wears a silk tunic the color of periwinkles and dark trousers, his clothes made of fine material even though he is simply lounging around in the garden. That is, however, expected of a boy who wears his dragon skin boots no matter the occasion. Even now his fingers are adorned with over a dozen rings – gold and silver all studded with a rainbow of gems – even though there is no special occasion. He is certainly his mother’s son. “It is unusual seeing you walking about the castle during the day. When you aren’t on duty, you keep to roaming the halls only during the nights just like a ghost.”

“Don’t bother him, brother.” Prince William’s sister comes up from behind him, resting a graceful hand on her brother’s shoulder. Unlike her brother, only a single golden band is worn on her finger – a promise ring that matches the one worn by her fiancé. She is a far more modest dresser than her mother or anyone in the royal family. On her head, she wears a veil of gossamer that covers her thick brown locks. The last time Levi had seen the princess’s hair was when she was but a girl with waves of brunette rippling down her back. She has changed so much over the years. Rather than wear the bright colors she had when she was a child, she wears darker colors – deep blues or greens on special occasions, but usually browns and blacks – and the only other jewelry she wears is the gold pendant that hangs around her neck, a brilliant ruby in the center of it. It looks like the blazing sun, a symbol of the Church of Ymir. Although her mother had lost faith in them years ago, her daughter is still a devoted follower. “I am sure that Ser Levi has better things to be doing than chatting with a silly prince.”

The two siblings are about to bicker, but Levi interrupts. “I’m leaving today.” He continues before the pair of siblings can protest. If they get another word out, they’ll keep him longer than their parents did. He gestures for the servant to meet him in the stable before continuing. “I have spoken to the king and queen, and they have agreed to allow me to resign from the Kingsguard. I shall be following what I believe is my fate and join the Night’s Watch.

“Fate?” the princess echoes, a glimmer of amusement in her dark eyes. The corner of her mouth curls upwards. “I did not think that you were one to believe in fate, destiny, or anything of the like.”

“It came to me in a dream,” Levi replies, hoping that will be enough to satiate the princess’s curiosity. He has always thought that she was clever, far cleverer than her parents ever expected. It was a pity that the king and queen were only interested in using Princess Edith for securing a marriage meant to appease the public.

“Well, it is a pity that you must go so soon,” the princess tells him, a polite smile on her face. Although still young, she speaks with the air and grace of a queen twice her age. “When you became a part of the Kingsguard, I felt that you had become a part of the family. Your absence will be deeply felt throughout this castle.”

“It will be an honor to be remembered so fondly by the royal family,” Levi says.

“Will we really never see you again?” another voice asks from behind the two siblings. When William and Edith step aside, a boy steps forward. He looks nothing at all like the royal siblings, but that is because he is not one of them. Despite having lived in the castle and eaten at the same table as the Tyburs, young Zeke is a hostage in this castle. He has been out of place in this castle ever since the rebellion had ended, and he is out of place now. Even the golden ring on his finger, gifted to him and his betrothed by the king and queen to mark the engagement, looks out of place on him. It is no wonder that his slight frown has a mournful look to it, wistful as he watches the knight depart as he remains.

“Those who pledge themselves to the Night’s Watch spend the rest of their lives at the Wall,” Levi says quietly. He watches as the young boy’s expression, once sorrowful, now turns to anguish. Although he has never been particularly close to him, Levi still feels a pang of guilt for leaving. He looks to the prince and princess and says, “I have left all my belongings at the castle. You may have whatever you find. To Will, you keep any of my swords that you fancy. To Edith, I entrust you my white raven’s cloak. And to Zeke…” Levi pulls out the small dagger that was hanging from his belt. He had meant to take it with him to the Night’s Watch, but the truth is that it will get little use up north. “Take my dagger.”

The boy’s amber eyes widen as he accepts the blade. “Th-thank you,” he whispers, admiring the detailed illustration carved on the scabbard – a raven in flight towards the sun.

Princess Edith’s eyes flicker towards her betrothed for a moment before returning to Levi, her polite smile still on her face. “Are you certain? It is very generous of you, Ser. And your cloak…” Her hand hovers over her heart as if touched by his kindness. “I know how much it means to you. My father killed a hundred ravens for that cloak. I shall treasure it.”

“It feels a bit wrong to be taking your things,” Will laughs, but he does not refuse Levi’s gift. A glimmer of his eye reveals just how eager he is to run up to the weaponry vault and lay claim to the knight’s best sword. “It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Perhaps we should be giving you parting gifts.”

“Then why don’t you gift him those dragon skin boots of yours?” Edith asks. She glances down at the boots that her brother wears proudly on his feet, smirking when she looks back up to see how the prince had stiffened. “After all, they would suit him much better, don’t you think?”

There is a flash or anger in Will’s eyes. He opens his mouth to lash out at his sister, but Levi speaks first.

“Not at all. They suit the prince much better than they would ever suit me,” Levi says quickly. His answer pacifies the prince, but only for a moment. He can tell that the prince is still simmering underneath, but the prince’s anger will never be his issue again. “I am thankful that we were able to meet before I departed. I will keep you in my memories.”

The siblings give him their good wishes, assuring him that they will think of him often and that begging him to write them when he finally arrived at the Wall, but Zeke stays silent. The boy simply gives Levi a wave with the same forlorn expression on his face as before. Levi makes the mistake of looking back and laying his eyes on the young boy. Zeke’s amber eyes - wide, anxious, terrified - look the same as his mother’s before she died.

As Levi turns around and makes his way to the stables, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

#levi ackerman #asoiaf au #got au #snk

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