#I still go back and forth between dews transformation being a happy thing

[turbodrawn]

Despite everything, it’s still… you.

———————————————————————————————-

Dewdrop/Sodo angst? More likely than you think

#I still go back and forth between dews transformation being a happy thing #cause you know #trans allegory #and it being a destructructive somewhat tragedy even though he feels relatively at home with the fire element #he still misses that old part of himself #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #dewdrop ghoul #dewdrop ghost #sodo ghoul #sodo ghost #my art

[ffangirlingsince2001]

End of the Tunnel: XV

Description: It’s almost been a year since Fred Weasley was lost to the Battle of Hogwarts, and for George Weasley it might as well be an eternity. He is lost in the dark, no color to be found. Until suddenly there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Warnings: Fluff

MASTERLIST

***

Seven months later Hannah was staring at herself in the mirror, taking deep, calming breaths as she shook with excitement. Four women were rushing around the room behind her, panic pulling them back and forth as they struggled to get ready in time, but Hannah could only daydream, still wearing nothing but the satin robe Caroline had handed her that morning.

She had been dreaming about this day since George knelt down on one knee, and it would have been here much sooner had the combined forces of Mrs. Weasley and her own mother not demanded the celebration be grand. They had whispered about eloping as they laid in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, but the idea had always vanished at the thought of their mothers’ wrath.

Now the day was finally here.

“Hannah, my god, do you even want to get married?” Sloane cried out when she finally noticed the daydreaming girl. Hannah giggled as she was yanked away from the mirror and to her feet by her maid of honor. They twirled around the room, laughing as they bumped into the edges of furniture. Sloane pulled Caroline into their little dance, and when the two mothers returned, they found a pile of giggling girls rolling among the bedsheets.

“It’s almost one,” Mrs. Weasley gasped, staring at the three girls, including the bride, who were the furthest thing from ready.

“I thought that was what magic was for, waiting until the last minute,” Caroline quipped from the sheets.

“It is, but last time I checked you don’t have any,” Sloane replied, tapping the younger girl’s nose before pulling her towards the wardrobe where their dresses were hanging.

When Hannah was younger, she had wanted nothing more than yellow bridesmaids’ dresses. When her mother took her to the shops, she took great pride in running her fingers over the yellow section of the store, determining exactly what dresses they would wear as they began the wedding procession. Today, that was a dream that would not be coming true. After a great many hours of fighting between what she had dreamed of for years and what present her secretly wanted. Sloane had finally stepped in and chastised her for her loyalty to nostalgia and that was all that was needed for the yellow dresses that refused to be any other color became powder blue. The color Ginny had informed her was Fred’s favorite color.

While her childhood bridesmaid dresses had been forgotten, her dress certainly hadn’t. The skirt was layers and layers of tulle that floated about her legs. The bodice was beaded into patterns of flowers, and the shimmer contrasted the stark white of the skirt. She let Sloane magic diamonds into the curls of her hair until she looked like the fairy queens she had read about in fairytales as a child. As she transformed, she stared out the window to the real fairytale, George.

He was waving his wand across the courtyard, summoning things beneath a silver tent. She craned her neck to see what appeared, but the angle was too harsh to ease her curiosity. So, instead she watched George. He wasn’t in his suit yet, opting instead for his sleep shirt and a pair of plaid pants she had bought him for Christmas. His feet were bare against the morning dew that hadn’t yet evaporated in the July sun. If she had been within earshot, she would have chastised him, worried he was going to catch a cold. Instead, because she wasn’t, she merely watched him, not entirely sure she could believe by the end of the day she would be Mrs. Hannah Weasley.

The last time she had dreamed about getting married had been Year 5 when Donald O’Donoghue had asked to hold her hand during recess. It was the only moment she had deviated from her yellow dress obsession, when he told her his favorite color was lime green; however, after realizing his hands were very sweaty (and viewing the dress options in his choice color) she realized they were not a compatible match. She had had other boyfriends of course, but she never was able to imagine them at the end of the aisle. She hadn’t even been able to imagine George, and now that the day was here, she kept pinching herself. He was so perfect, and so wonderful, and so incomparable that the fact he had chosen her was a miracle in itself.

Suddenly, he looked up and smiled as he caught her smile through the glass. She smiled back, heart still fluttering at the little grin he seemed to save just for her. She waved and tragically caught the others’ attention, who gasped before collectively yanking the curtains closed.

“You can’t let him see you,” her mother scolded, and she rolled her eyes, raising her fingers to peak out once more, disappointed to find he had disappeared from view.

“We’ll be okay,” she whispered, smiling when she caught a butterfly escape the confines of the tent and traipsed through her open window. It landed on the skirt of her dress and somehow, she knew it was all his doing, a small message that the butterflies were real. She felt herself tearing up, laughing softly to herself at the possibility that it might not even be him, but a simple butterfly.

“Oh dear, Hannah, are you alright?” Molly asked, taking her hand as she crouched down beside the teary-eyed girl.

“I just love him, y’know,” she whispered and suddenly Molly was crying along with her. They laughed as they wiped away their tears, muttering nonsense about eyeliner they both knew would be long gone by the end of the ceremony. “I’m glad you’re okay with me,” she whispered, and Molly instantly dried her tears, replacing profound joy with confusion.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m not like you, our children might not, and I’ll never understand everything,” she rambled, tears gathering again, and Molly pulled her into a bone crushing hug.

“Don’t you ever think that. I love you like my own, and it doesn’t matter as long my son is happy, and you make him happy,” she replied and then they were both sobbing quietly amidst the chaos of the morning.

A knock at the door startled them, and they both quickly dried their eyes as Caroline answered the door. A blond boy poked his head in and any worries that were left about the day melted away at the sight of her best friend.

“Can you give us a second?” she asked, and the woman filed out of the room, only Sloane pausing to kiss him hard enough his lips were printed with the lipstick she was wearing. When the door shut, she stood, and they stared at one another in comfortable silence.

“You look beautiful,” he finally said, and she laughed, brushing away a tear that threatened to fall. “I’m not kidding, and I’m glad it’s George. I never thought I’d say it, but if the first person who decided to care about me has to marry anyone, I’m glad it’s him.”

“My, my, when did you get so sappy?” she teased, if only to stop herself from shedding more tears and he rolled his eyes.

“Leave it to you to make fun of me for being heartfelt for once,” he replied with the same deadpan expression he always used in response to her teasing. She rolled her eyes and in two steps she was hugging him. He hugged her back and she smiled; it was all she needed to know that everything was going to be perfect. “Listen, this isn’t totally why I’m here,” he said, pulling out of the hug with a mischievous grin.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m the distraction.”

“The distraction?”

“For this,” he said before spinning her around to a freshly apparated George, wearing a suit and a blindfold. She giggled, stepping forward, barely aware of Draco leaving the room as she took George’s hands in her own.

“Hi George,” she whispered, and she could practically feel him shaking with excitement. She reached up to touch the fabric covering his eyes. “I like the blindfold, very kinky.”

“It’s the only way he would distract them,” he replied, “These people and their traditions.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Doesn’t matter of course, I don’t need to see you to know you look beautiful.” She could only blush, sure if she opened her mouth, he would know how choked up she really was. Even with the blindfold he was entirely too handsome. “And it doesn’t matter how pretty your dress is, because by the end of the night of the night I’m going to rip it off you.”

“I think you mean gently unlace it.”

“Are you marrying someone else today?”

“No.”

“Then when have you ever known me to unwrap something gently?” Now she was glad for the blindfold, that way he couldn’t see how brightly she was blushing. The sound of storming up the stairs caught her off guard and she suddenly felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“I can’t wait any longer, kiss me,” she gasped, panicking as the footsteps got closer. While she wanted to admire the little lopsided grin, he gave her, she took his silence as a moment to kiss him before shoving him back as he apparated back to his part of the house. When the door swung open, she was alone once more, only her guilty smile suggesting he had been there.

George landed in his room and ripped off the blindfold. Ron and Draco looked at him and he grinned. Bloody hell, he was lucky. Just as he had said to her, he didn’t need to see her to know that she was the most radiant thing he had ever seen. He just knew, he could sense it by the way her skin touched his and the way she felt when she kissed him. He adjusted his cufflinks, admiring the newest addition to the clock before making his way outside to the tent he had spent all morning.

It had been a task, convincing Hannah to let him decide the decorations, but once she had agreed it had been a breeze. It was easy pleasing the love of his life, especially when he had the best interrogators working in his favor. Sloane had pressed her for details about everything she wanted and then some, finding out all the creative workings of her mind before passing every bit of knowledge over to him. Now, butterflies that left gold trails drifted around the room and vines of orchids twisted into pillars that held up the tent. The white benches held their friends and family, some (his dad) already crying. He made his way around the room, checking to make sure everyone was seated, too nervous to sit around and wait for the ceremony to begin.

At the front, beside his teary father was an empty seat. He stepped forward, wondering who the seat could be saved for when his heart jolted. Emblazoned in gold across the back was the name that had once haunted him, and then a small table card caught his eye. He lifted it up with shaking fingers and almost began to cry in front of the entire congregation. In Hannah’s terrible handwriting were the words, “Wouldn’t want him to miss it.” He looked up, searching for whoever had placed it there and was only met with a wink from Malfoy. He offered him a grateful smile before placing the card down once more and taking his spot at the altar. He hadn’t chosen a best man, knowing that no one could replace who it should have been and having Malfoy as the other groomsman was the last thing he would have expected, but nothing could have been more perfect. No one had protested when the choice was made, and the confused boy had even been invited to family dinner for the rest of eternity.

Suddenly, the music began, and the crowds stood to watch as Caroline and Sloane made their way down the aisle in powder blue dresses. He lovingly shook his head at his soon to be wife. She never failed to surprise and replacing the yellow she never seemed to stop raving about with powder blue was certainly one for the books.

And then there she was, smiling at him like an angel. His eyes filled with tears to match hers, and he let them slide down his face without shame, because there she was, the beginning of profound joy and the end of the tunnel.

The End

#george weasley #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley smut #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fluff #george weasley angst #george weasley imagine #george weasley imagines #george weasley x reader #george weasley x reader smut #george weasley x reader fanfiction #George weasley x reader imagine #george weasley x reader imagines #george weasley x reader angst #george weasley x reader fluff #george weasley x oc

[pengiesama]

The Snow Prince (Fic, TOZ, Sorey/Mikleo, Fairy Tale AU)

Title: The Snow Prince Series: Tales of Zestiria Pairing: Sorey/Mikleo

Summary: Upon a beautiful day in late summer, Mikleo's heart is frozen by a terrible curse, and he is spirited away by a woman in dazzling winter white. Sorey sets out on a journey to save his one true love, and winds up making friends with half the continent along the way.

(A variation on The Snow Queen, written for the 2018 Chocomint Fairy Tale Compilation. With illustrations by Nami/defragmentise/@shamingcows!)

Link: AO3

This was written for the 2018 Chocomint Fairy Tale Compilation. @chocomint-srmk is a Sorey/Mikleo fan project!

The zine’s purchase period is now over, but you can check out some of the other fic and art from the zine in the links below. You might start seeing more of the Fairy Tale pieces go up now that the exclusivity period has ended!

Chocomint’s Tumblr: https://chocomint-srmk.tumblr.com/ Chocomint’s Twitter: https://twitter.com/chocomint_srmk

Read on Tumblr!

Once upon a time, there was a mirror, and the mirror came with a most terrible curse.

The mirror did not reflect, it only distorted. Even the loveliest of landscapes would show as a barren wasteland in its glass. A delicious feast would be shown as rotted, stinking refuse. Art that should properly stir the heart with exquisiteness would be transformed into something repulsive. It turned beauty to disgust, love to disdain. The stronger the feeling, the greater the deformation.

What kind of being would craft such a wretched artifact?

It was the work of a terrible spirit known as Symonne.

Symonne loathed the world and everything in it; from flora to fauna to humans and her fellow spirits. One can presume a fairly tragic event that caused her seething hatred, but her resulting behavior did not inspire sympathy. She was cruel and merciless, and tormented all living creatures that crossed her path, regardless of whether they had done a thing to deserve her ire. But this did not satisfy her thirst for terror, and she set her sights higher – most high. Symonne’s spirit magic allowed her to craft powerful illusions, and with this skill in her arsenal, she set forth in crafting her awful mirror. She poured every ounce of her magic into the mirror, and planned to carry it to the throne of Maotelus, the king of the spirits, to force him to look into its glass and behold the truth of his form.

However, the crafting of the mirror had exhausted Symonne’s strength, and while carrying the terrible thing to the heavenly palace, she dropped it. The mirror shattered into a thousand tiny shards, and the thousand tiny shards flew over the world to lodge in the hearts of humans. Symonne was furious, but when her raging calmed, she realized that this presented an altogether wonderful opportunity to terrorize the world that wronged her – on a scale that she had never achieved before.

This is what brings us to the matter of Sorey and Mikleo.

These two boys were friends from the cradle, and played and grew and learned together. Their hearts were as one, and their love for each other was a simple truth of the world – like the movement of the stars, or birdsong in the morning. This made them a perfect target of the wretched mirror, as it was an artifact that craved the distortion of everything right and true in the world. If it could destroy the love between these two kindred souls, it could surely shake the very foundations of the world.

Sorey and Mikleo were adventurers and scholars, and adored all things archaeological and natural, all things great and small, just as much as they adored each other. They would often race each other on the dirt-and-cobblestone path from their tiny town to the ruined castle in the nearby forest. This ancient stone castle was a beloved play spot of theirs, and over the years, they continued to explore and examine and study its crumbling walls and aging artwork. Sunlight shone through the cracks in the ceiling, and rainwater pooled in the ruined floors; blanketing the ground with a soft cushion of moss to nap and read upon. The very walls echoed with the sounds of their laughter and the warmth of their love.

One fateful day, Sorey and Mikleo were walking the path to their castle, with packs full of notebooks and sketchpads on their backs, and a picnic basket in Mikleo’s hand. It should have been a wonderful afternoon, full of happiness and joy. But a glint from the sky and a terrible whistling noise heralded the arrival of a mirror shard. The shard was thin and crystalline; too fine to be seen by the naked eye, and too sharp to be felt even as it pierced the skin. The shard pierced Mikleo’s chest, and his heart.

Mikleo fell to the ground, causing their picnic lunch to spill over the path. Sorey was at his side in less than a moment, carefully helping him to his feet and dusting the dirt from his clothing. Sorey’s own heart ached with sympathy at Mikleo’s bloody palms; scratched and cut from his tumble.

“Mikleo, are you okay?” asked Sorey. “Did you trip?”

Mikleo looked around them, at the apples and prepared sandwiches and treats that he had so carefully packed for their afternoon trip. His lip curled in revulsion.

“It’s okay,” Sorey assured him. “Five second rule, right? We can just pick out the grass and--”

Mikleo’s gaze finally fell on Sorey, and Sorey could hardly understand the disgust he saw there. Mikleo shoved Sorey’s comforting arms away, and stumbled backward, shaking his head.

“…Mikleo?” Sorey said quietly. He reached out to him, still. “Are you hurt? The castle still has the supplies we stashed there, let’s go in and get you bandaged up--”

“And just why,” Mikleo said with annoyance clear in his voice. “Would I want to traipse through that crumbling wreck with you?”

“Because it’s…fun?” Sorey offered helplessly.

Mikleo rolled his eyes and wandered off in a random direction, scowling at everything around him. Sorey scrambled after him.

“Mikleo! That’s not the way back to town--”

“I know,” Mikleo said irritably. He yanked his arm out of Sorey’s gentle grip. “Why would I want to go back?”

“Because…” Sorey grasped for words to try and describe the obvious. Why wouldn’t he? “Our families are there. And…and the harvest festival will be on soon, and then the merchants from the city will probably be by and we can buy more books with the money we’ve been saving up…”

Mikleo just shook his head at every word out of Sorey’s mouth, as it the very sound of his voice repulsed him. Sorey was at a loss. They’d fought before, but Mikleo wasn’t like this when he was upset with him. This was something different. Something terrible, and something that Sorey had no idea how to handle.

“…if you don’t want to go back to town, where do you want to go?” asked Sorey, finally. He would go with him, if Mikleo wanted to leave. He’d follow him anywhere. “Please. If you want to leave, let’s treat your hands, first, and get some supplies and money from home before we--”

“‘We’?” Mikleo repeated coldly. Blood dripped freely from the scrapes and cuts on his hands; dripped from his fingers to the grass beneath his feet. It looked so painful, and Sorey’s heart ached at the sight.

“Your hands,” Sorey said. “Can you at least let me help with them?”

Slowly, Mikleo looked to his sides. His arms were slack, and he seemed to be observing the sight of the blood with the same detached disgust as he now regarded everything else. He did not resist as Sorey touched his shoulder to guide him into the ruined castle; their special place. He did not resist.

The castle, their little home-away in the forest, was well-stocked with supplies that they had carried in from town over the years: food, medicine and bandages, blankets, and books. All things necessary for a happy home. Sorey washed and tended to Mikleo’s wounds, and was pained himself at his cruel silence. The water was fresh and clean, but it surely would sting such raw and deep cuts. Were the bandages too tight? Mikleo did not respond when asked. He did not even spare Sorey the flushing of his cheeks when Sorey leaned down to kiss his freshly-bandaged palms. He would only stare into the distance; his disdain such that he would not even look at the things that repulsed him so. Sorey despaired.

The supplies in their special place kept them in comfort for that night – Sorey did not dare to bring up the subject of heading back to town, lest Mikleo try to wander off by himself once more. However, before the morning sun broke the horizon, while there was still dew on the grass, Sorey awoke to a commotion outside. Panicked, he looked beside him – to find nothing. Mikleo was gone.

Sorey raced outside, to find a frozen world of dazzling white.

It was early autumn still, and the heat of summer still thrummed in the soil. It was far too early for frost in the mornings, or for Sorey to see his own heaving breath. But there it was – frozen grass, and puffs of mist, and a grand silver-white sleigh pulled by a team of silver-white reindeer. A woman in a snowflake crown and white robes was helping Mikleo up into the sleigh. Mikleo’s chestnut-brown hair had become frosted with white. It shimmered in the first rays of the morning.

“Mikleo!” Sorey called out, racing forward. “Mikleo, wait! Wherever you’re going, please, let me come with you--”

The woman turned her attention to Sorey as she settled in the front seat of the sleigh and picked up the reins. Hers was an expression of great pity, and with a wave of her hand, she summoned a herd of little snowflake-capped creatures to block Sorey’s path. Mikleo’s expression was completely blank as he quietly settled himself to lie down on the back seat of the sleigh – Sorey would have preferred his previous cruel disdain. He did not appear to hear Sorey at all, no matter how Sorey screamed his name.

The woman in white stole Mikleo away, and left behind a remnant of winter. Sorey wanted to race after the sleigh, but was stopped by the little creatures that surrounded him.

“Whoa there! Easy, buddy,” said one. “Don’t worry about your friend. Lailah will take good care of him.”

“Where did she take him!?” Sorey demanded, tears stinging his eyes. “Please, tell me – he’s hurt, and barely ate anything last night, and--”

“He’s hurt more than you know,” said another of the little creatures, solemnly. “Mistress Lailah has taken him in, and will do what she can to save him.”

Sorey’s stomach dropped out. “What happened to him? Please, tell me…”

The creatures murmured amongst themselves for a moment, peeping over their shoulders to make sure Sorey wasn’t eavesdropping. After their discussion, one of the creatures stepped forward to speak.

“A terrible curse is spreading throughout the world, and your friend was unlucky enough to get hit by it,” the creature said. “It’s a curse that…makes people hate everything good and beautiful in the world. Makes them cruel to the people they love. Miss Lailah’s been charged by Lord Maotelus to gather up the people who’ve been cursed, and take them away to try and break the curse before…”

The creature trailed off.

“Before what?” Sorey asked quietly.

But the creature was silent. The whole troupe of them joined hands in a circle, and began to dance. The summer snow swirled and blew into the air, blocking them from sight. When the air cleared, they were nowhere to be seen. Sorey rushed forward in a panic, and begged the empty clearing for answers.

“Please! Please, I’m begging you, tell me where she took him! I can help save him, I know I can!”

An answer rang out from the trees:

“Seek the mountains beyond Meirchio. Your Snow Prince awaits you there.”

And after that, there was silence.

Meirchio was the northernmost city of the land. Beyond it, there was nothing but impenetrable mountains and frozen lands. But if Mikleo had been spirited away there, if Mikleo’s life was in the balance, there was no other possible trajectory.

The compass of Sorey’s heart was pointing north, and he would follow it to the ends of the earth for Mikleo’s sake.

Sorey set out on his quest from his tiny home village that very evening, loaded with what supplies the town could spare, and the tears and well-wishes of his own family and Mikleo’s.

His mother provided him with warm-weather clothes: a scarf, thick gloves, and a warm woolen travelling cloak, with wool from their family’s own sheep. The love woven into it would surely keep the cold at bay, even in the forgotten, distant mountains beyond Meirchio.

Mikleo’s mother provided him with the money she had been keeping safe for them: the money that Sorey and Mikleo had been saving for the harvest festival that autumn. It pained Sorey to take it without Mikleo’s permission, just as it pained him to use it on fares and inn stays instead of the books and gadgets that he and Mikleo had dreamed and talked about all year. But coin was a necessary thing, when it came to the matter of adventuring and rescue.

And Mikleo’s uncle provided him with the gift of knowledge: a copy of his beloved encyclopedia, filled with maps, wisdom, and countless fond memories. Turning its pages, Sorey could recall any number of nights where it was just him and Mikleo under the covers; just them, a candle, and this book. They would read about the wide world beyond town and whisper and dream until dawn; curled around each other, two hearts as one.

Meirchio was a far trek, and it took Sorey a few nights’ worth of camping under the stars before he stumbled onto the first roadblock of his quest. The thicket of trees had looked like a lovely spot to settle in for the evening, and Sorey had done just that. However, when he was lighting a fire atop a pile of gathered sticks and fallen leaves, he heard a sneeze from the surrounding trees. He looked up to see a small girl there; bedecked in spring flowers and lace, and sporting a miserable scowl as she shivered. While it should have still been summer, ever since Sorey saw that mysterious woman and her sleigh, ever since Mikleo was stolen away, the weather had been…strange. Winter seemed to be seeping into everything overnight, and was becoming keener with each passing day. Sorey was warm in his cloak and scarf and gloves, but his guest was clearly suffering.

Sorey smiled and beckoned her close to the fire.

“Are you cold, miss? Please, come sit by the fire and I’ll make you a hot drink.”

The girl snorted, then sneezed again.

“C-c-cold? W-why would I want to accept drinks from a t-t-trespasser—ACHOO!”

Sorey blinked, then looked abashed.

“I’m so sorry. There are no towns or farms anywhere nearby – I thought this was un-owned land. I’m but a traveler, passing through on a mission to save someone I love. Please let me stay on your land for the evening.”

The girl, despite her scowl and dismissive words, had bundled herself up to the fire to get warm. She glared at Sorey, then huffed through her nose.

“You may address me as Lady Edna, human. And where is the drink you promised?”

Sorey prepared hot tea for his host, and presented it with a smile.

“Here you are. Lady Edna, are you a spirit? Have you heard any gossip of a mysterious woman stealing people away in her sleigh? Or word of what is causing this strange weather?”

“Yes to all three,” Edna said, snatching up the tea and warming her hands around it. Her shivering began to ease, which gladdened Sorey’s heart. “I suppose you want me to spill the beans on it, though.”

“If you have any information, any at all, please tell me,” Sorey said. “I have to find Mikleo before it’s too late. I’ll do anything.”

Edna eyed his warm clothing.

“…give me that scarf of yours. The gloves, too.”

“Of course,” said Sorey, already winding it from his neck.

Edna arched an eyebrow. “That’s it? Honestly. I was hoping for something more dramatic.”

Sorey blinked as he held out the scarf and gloves to her. “Hmm?”

“Normally when I make a trade with humans, there’s a lot more haggling involved. You could’ve argued me down to just the scarf, you know.”

Sorey tilted his head to the side, confused. “…but you’re cold, and need it more than I do.”

Edna eyed him suspiciously, and huffed again as she snatched up the offerings and put them on.

“Whatever. Don’t come crying to me when your fingers fall off in this weather.”

Edna took a deep drink of her tea, cleared her throat, and began to explain.

“That woman in the sleigh is Lailah, a spirit. She serves the Great Spirit, Maotelus, and does his dirty work for him. If she stole away your little boyfriend, then he was probably collateral damage in some drama at the big palace upstairs. Said drama is probably also to blame for this weather.”

Sorey’s heart twisted in worry. “Her little creatures said to go to the mountains beyond Meirchio to find Mikleo. Do you know what I’ll find there?”

Edna shook her cup at him, wordlessly demanding more tea before she spoke. Sorey obliged.

“The Killaraus Mountains. Home to a dazzling array of absolutely nothing at all. It used to be the seat of the heavenly palace until they moved it to somewhere more hospitable, so Lailah and her irritating little normins might have your boyfriend locked up in the old ruins somewhere.”

Sorey smiled happily and bowed low to Edna in thanks. He had so much more to go on now – he had evidence that Mikleo was being taken care of, and would remain so until Sorey reached him. It renewed his hope that he’d be able to reach Mikleo and save him.

“Aren’t you going to beg me to teleport you there with a snap of my fingers?” Edna drawled. “Whine at me for a map? Try to threaten more information out of me?”

“Do you have a map? Or – the finger thing?” asked Sorey, curiously.

“No,” Edna said. “But I don’t know what you humans think we’re capable of, anymore. I know what your kind is capable of, though, so you’ll excuse me if I keep some information to myself.”

Sorey nodded in understanding. He bundled his cloak tightly around himself – he was already feeling the chill from the loss of his scarf and gloves. His money was carefully rationed, but perhaps he could find some inexpensive replacements when he next encountered a town. He knew he was careless, and foolish, but he was not so inexperienced to run full-tilt into the icy mountains without protection.

He was quite tired, and his eyes were heavy. He closed them, just for a moment; just so he could conjure up the image of Mikleo’s sparkling eyes and smiling mouth beyond his lids.

“Sorey,” dream-Mikleo laughed as Sorey buried his face in his neck. He smelled so sweet; like the dampness of the soil at the start of spring. “I swear. What am I going to do with you?”

“Do with me what you will,” said Sorey. “You’ll never get rid of me.”

Mikleo’s smile went so soft, then, and Sorey’s heart soared.

“Is that a promise?” Mikleo asked.

“A promise.”

Mikleo’s lips, too, were very soft.

When he opened them again, it was morning, and the fire was nothing but embers. Edna was gone, and there was little more to be done than to pack his things and keep heading north.

Sorey noticed the root vegetables and apples that had not been in his pack before. He also noticed a small, perfect yellow bloom. He thought upon these gifts as he continued to travel another three days, then another three days after that, until he reached the outskirts of a harbor town. He would have to buy passage on a ship headed to Meirchio – Sorey suspected such a vessel might be difficult to come by. Meirchio was a distant, quiet town, and was certainly not a hot tourist spot or business destination. He would potentially have to wait weeks for a vessel to have business going there; camping outside the town the whole while in the freezing cold, with dwindling supplies.

One day, after a week of asking at the docks for any vessels headed to Meirchio – after a week of sailors laughing in his face, acting like Sorey was asking them to ferry him to the moon – he came across a ship he had not seen make port before. It was a small but stout vessel; clever-looking, even. Sorey spotted a red-haired woman on its deck, inspecting a shipping list, and shouted for her attention.

“Hey! Are you guys headed to Meirchio?”

The woman eyed Sorey and his ragged countenance with an amused expression.

“Meirchio? That dinky little mining town? Who’s asking?”

Sorey bowed deeply, and let his desperation show clear on his face. Though he likely looked desperate enough already – the cold nights of camping were taking their toll.

“My name is Sorey, and I have to get to Meirchio as soon as I can. Please. I’ll pay you everything I have, I’ll work your ship during the passage. Anything you ask.”

The woman put her hand on her hip and looked Sorey up and down. He lowered his head.

“I know it doesn’t look like I have much,” Sorey admitted. He looked an utter mess – he was filthy, and his clothes were wrinkled from days of travel on the roads. His hair was wild and windblown. Dark circles bloomed under his eyes – a good night’s sleep was hard to come by, sleeping on the ground. His bare hands were stiff and aching from the cold; the inclement weather having skyrocketed cold-weather gear to a price he simply couldn’t afford. “I’m but a traveler, passing through on a mission to save someone I love. I have to get to Meirchio to find Mikleo before it’s too late.”

Sorey dug in his pockets to present the woman with his travelling funds – the money he and Mikleo had saved up all year, through chores and hard work.

“All I have is yours. Including an extra pair of hands on your crew.”

The woman traipsed down the plank to the dock, and took Sorey’s money pouch from him to count it out.

“…it’s not really enough to make me consider deviating from our delivery schedule,” she said.

Sorey’s heart dropped. But then, the woman was twirling the flower Edna had given him between her fingers, examining it with great interest.

“But this herb here more than makes up for the difference. A single petal from this thing sells for a cool mint in the spice market. If you’re willing to trade it, I’ll be more than happy to put my deliveries on hold to shuttle you to that frozen wasteland.”

Sorey gave an excited shout, and bowed deeply from his waist.

“Thank you, thank you so much--”

“But if you’re coming on my ship, you’re gonna need to clean up first,” the woman said firmly.

Sorey’s cheeks flushed, and he scratched at his wild hair in embarrassment. The woman tossed the coin pouch back to him.

“Go to the inn with the green sign on the main road, and tell them that the Sparrowfeathers sent you. You’ve got enough in there for a hot bath and a good meal. And believe me, if you’re going to Meirchio, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Sorey bowed again in thanks, then turned and headed down the road. The woman called after him again.

“The name’s Rose, by the way. And your flower is back in your pouch – were you just going to leave it with me while you ran off to blow all your money at the inn?”

Sorey blinked in confusion. “…Yes? You wanted it as payment, after all…”

Rose snorted. “And you were just gonna trust me to not run off with it? You barely know me.”

Sorey smiled a sweet, self-conscious smile. “I guess I don’t. But you seem like a good, trustworthy person to me.”

Rose laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “Go and get washed up, and make sure you keep that herb safe. We leave at sundown.”

Sorey dutifully parted with the money required for a bath – he knew Mikleo would never let him hear the end of it if he showed up to rescue him looking like this, after all. However, though his stomach growled at the thought of hot stew and warm meat, he saved the remainder of his coin for the trials that surely awaited him in Meirchio.

As his freshly-washed clothing dried next to the fireplace, Sorey brushed his fingers over the illustrations in their beloved encyclopedia. Just as its knowledge of edible plants and berries had kept him fed over his journey, just as its maps had kept him on the right path, the memories of reading this book with Mikleo kept his heart and spirit strong. Sorey’s eyes fell on his own stiff, frozen fingers as they turned the page. They were a sorry sight in comparison to the memory of Mikleo’s beautiful hands.

“So to the capital first,” Sorey said in the haze of his dreams. “We’ll check out the libraries and architecture, and then heading south, we’ll be on the pilgrim’s path, so there’ll be plenty of roadside shrines to examine--”

Mikleo laughed. What a beautiful sound, even as a memory!

“You say that as if you’d ever be finished ‘checking things out’ in Pendrago,” he chided. “I know you could happily set up camp in a library for a year. Or a lifetime.”

“A lifetime?” Sorey teased. Head on Mikleo’s lap, he buried his face in Mikleo’s thigh, making Mikleo squeak. “Only if you’re there too.”

Luckily, Sorey awoke from his fevered sleep with time enough to get down to the docks and Rose’s ship. He handed over the herb, and she was true to her word – they set sail for Meirchio.

It was a journey made longer and all the more difficult with the terrible weather; that grew only more terrible as they approached Meirchio. It was proof enough to Sorey that they were approaching where Mikleo was being held, and it was enough to make Sorey pace the deck anxiously as the ship slowly wove its way through the icy waters. Sorey hoped Mikleo would forgive him for being late, just as he hoped Mikleo would forgive him for spending their money, and losing his clothing in this weather. Mikleo had always fussed over his health, ever since his sickly childhood. Sorey hated making him worry, but he seemed rather incapable of not doing so, all the same.

They arrived in Meirchio, and Rose called to him as Sorey made his way into the town proper from the docks.

“Hey! If you’re looking for info, you’re going to have the best luck chatting up the miners at the tavern.”

“Thanks!” Sorey said cheerfully, waving farewell to her. “I will. Mikleo and I owe you so much, Rose.”

Rose watched him go, and quietly said a prayer aloud for his safety. He was a clueless young idiot, and needed all the help he could get – lucky for him, that smile of his could melt the heart of damn near anyone, Rose would bet. It was like the light of spring. Or something cheesy like that. She sighed and wondered if Sorey would question why there was more money in that coin pouch of his than he remembered, and hoped that he wouldn’t get scammed out of all of it anyway at the tavern.

Rose’s prayer did not go unheard, for unbeknownst to her, there was a young wind spirit accompanying her ship. This wind spirit was named Dezel, and, being a spirit, was bound by ceaseless compulsion to grant the prayers asked of him. Heaving a sigh, he trudged unseen by all along the roads after Sorey, irritably sending out gusts of wind to knock over suspicious-looking individuals who were eyeing Sorey like a walking target. The town was not wealthy to begin with, and the cold weather had made people all the more desperate. With Dezel’s assistance, Sorey made it safely to the tavern. Cheerfully, Sorey turned and opened the door for Dezel to enter after him.

Dezel paused. “…you can see me?”

Sorey smiled. “Of course. You’re Rose’s friend, right? I saw you on the ship on the journey here. Did you want a drink before you headed back out?”

Dezel sighed and entered the tavern wordlessly. He could understand why Rose was so concerned about this idiot’s safety, and maybe even understand why she was fond of him. Maybe. A little.

As they entered, they overlooked a sea of dour-faced miners. Sorey didn’t really know where to start asking for information – the bartender was likely a good start, in any case. Sorey walked up to the bar (Dezel following him, still unseen by most) and sat down stiffly. The bartender raised an eyebrow at him and waited for him to speak.

“Do you. Um. Know anything about a lady in a white sleigh? Or a palace in the mountains?”

The bartender wordlessly polished a glass. Sorey fumbled out his coin pouch and carefully counted out a few coins – what, exactly, was a good payment for information?

“Less than that,” Dezel hissed in his ear. “You don’t know if this chump knows a damn thing.”

Still, the coins that Sorey offered seemed to make the bartender more willing to talk. He hummed, as if deep in thought.

“A lady, not so much. But I’ve heard talk about a white sleigh, being driven by a lad with white hair. Dressed like a prince. Sightings started ramping up when this damn weather rolled in, and people constantly whisper about seeing that sleigh when the worst storms roll in. As for your mountain palace, that’s just a fairy tale. If you’re planning on heading into the mountains to go looking for some palace, or that snow prince, may the gods have mercy on you.”

“Is there anyone who knows anything about the palace? Anyone at all?” Sorey asked. He held up his pouch. “I have money, and…”

Sorey heard someone whistling for him nearby, and swiveled his head. A man sat in a corner, and beckoned him near. Sorey nodded his thanks to the bartender, and moved to where the man was sitting.

“Lookin’ for the old palace in the mountains, eh?” said the man. “Has that snow prince stolen your heart away?”

“I – well, maybe,” Sorey said. “You see, my friend Mikleo was stolen away by a woman in a sleigh, and his hair had turned white when she got to him, and he’s so beautiful that anyone would think he’s a prince, so I thought that it’s possible that--”

“He’s a spirit, you know,” Dezel interrupted, gesturing with his chin to the man Sorey was speaking to. “A wind spirit, like me. He’s probably just looking for juicy gossip, and doesn’t have a damn relevant thing to tell us.”

The man clutched at his chest dramatically. “You wound me, my brother-in-elements!”

Sorey hummed thoughtfully. “I figured he was a spirit,” he said. “I’ve always been able to sense them, even when others couldn’t. But I thought a spirit would know better than anyone where the old heavenly palace is in the mountains. Especially a spirit that looks as old as him.”

The man looked far more legitimately heartbroken at that comment. “Really? Do I look old? Is it my hairline? It’s my hairline, isn’t it…”

He patted at his hairline mournfully.

“No, it’s just that you have a certain…air around you,” Sorey said. “An air of worldliness?”

It wasn’t a lie, but it was also kind of the hairline. Still, the man puffed up a little at the compliment.

“The name is Zaveid,” he said with a little flourish of his hand. “And I too have had my heart stolen away by someone driving that sleigh. Her name is the Lady Lailah, and she has had to freeze her fire on the order of the Mao-Man to clean up after some heavenly politics.”

“Politics?” Sorey asked. “Please, tell me whatever you can – I have to save a person I love, and his life might depend on your knowledge.”

Dezel sighed in irritation. Sorey didn’t even need his help to make this Zaveid character talk – there was nothing wind spirits loved more than drama and gossip. (Except Dezel. Dezel was proud to Not Be Like Other Wind Spirits. He was entirely and perfectly undramatic.) Zaveid’s eyes sparkled with tears.

“A romantic rescue…” Zaveid whispered mistily. “You see, there’s this spirit named Symonne who’s a real piece of work. She’s got it out for Mao-Man, and made some crazy cursed mirror to make him think he’s ugly or some shit, I dunno what her endgame was. But she accidentally smashed the thing in the process, and all those little mirror shards flew across the world. They pierce people’s hearts, and suddenly, they’re not who they were anymore – full of hate for everything they once held dear.”

Mikleo’s strange behavior before he was kidnapped made sense now, but the knowing was almost worse than the mystery. Sorey swallowed hard, his heart beating in his ears.

“How can they be fixed?” Sorey asked quietly.

Zaveid shook his head sadly. “That’s something Mao-Man is still trying to work out. In the meantime, he’s having Lailah head out and spirit away the victims and keep them in the palace on the mountain. If she stole your man, he’s there.”

And that was enough for Sorey. He stood up and bowed to Zaveid.

“Please. Lead me to the heavenly palace,” he begged.

Zaveid blinked at him. “…why don’t you ask your other spirit buddy there?”

“I’m not his to ask,” Dezel shot back. “And I wouldn’t do it anyway. I’m not venturing that far away from Rose.”

Zaveid nodded sagely. “We are all slaves to love, I see.”

Dezel sputtered. Sorey bowed deeper.

“Please, spirit; Lord Zaveid. I’m so close to finding Mikleo again – I just need someone to lead the way. Won’t you please grant me your assistance?”

Zaveid grimaced and leaned forward, waiting for Sorey to look him in the eye.

“Leading someone to the heavenly palace is no small thing to ask,” he explained. “Even though the big cheeses have since moved house, the enchantments are still there on the old place. You’ll need to give up something incredibly dear for me to even be able to help.”

Sorey had gotten used to giving things up on this journey. But he had so little left – and he knew that Zaveid wasn’t talking about the few coins he had left in his pouch. Sorey took out his and Mikleo’s beloved encyclopedia, and touched the cover with aching fingers and an aching heart. It was a precious memento. The notes they had made in the margins, the memories in the pages, were irreplaceable.

But what was more precious and irreplaceable was Mikleo himself.

Sorey bowed again, and offered the book to Zaveid.

“Please, spirit. Lord Zaveid. I’m but a traveler, on a mission to save someone I love. Won’t you please grant me your assistance?”

Zaveid accepted the book, and tucked it into his pack.

“It ain’t gonna be easy. Let’s set out while the sun’s still high.”

They parted ways with Dezel, who quickly beat a retreat back to Rose’s ship, and set out from Meirchio into the barren snowfields and towering mountains beyond.

Zaveid spoke true – the road to the palace through the mountains was difficult indeed, even with the assistance of a wind spirit at Sorey’s back. The weather made their way all the more treacherous. The snow weighed down Sorey’s cloak, freezing the fabric and making the cold bite through deep into his bones. Even tucked firmly under his arms for warmth, his bare fingers felt numb and useless. Sorey truly did not know if he could make it through. He kept the memory of Mikleo close to his heart, a gentle warmth that prevented him from freezing all the way through.

“Sorey! Buddy! Eyes up ahead!”

Sorey squinted through the blowing snow, and thought he saw the outline of a structure. Zaveid shoved him forward, and guided him to what looked like a chasm standing between them and the palace. Zaveid whistled aloud, and the chasm glowed with white light. A beautifully-designed bridge appeared to shuttle them across – Sorey would have loved to examine it closer were it not for his duty to Mikleo, and his imminent death in staying outside a moment longer. He and Zaveid hurried across, and Zaveid grabbed him by the hand, dragging him along through the strange glassy doors with their intricate silver filigree work. Through them – as if they were passing through mist.

Sorey had not known what, exactly, to expect when he found where Mikleo was being held. Perhaps maybe Mikleo, chained to a wall, swooning sweetly into his arms. Perhaps that was a bit too much. But what he did not expect was a receiving-hall filled with frozen statues. Sorey wandered up to one, and to his great dismay, he found that these statues were not statues at all.

“Zaveid! These are – these are humans! Frozen humans!”

Zaveid was examining a few of the statues himself, with a grim expression.

“This was their solution to the mirror problem, huh…” Zaveid murmured.

Sorey dashed from statue to statue, trying to find one that was still alive, dreading finding one wearing Mikleo’s face.

“Solution? What do you--”

One statue’s eyes stared back at him, listlessly. Sorey nearly jumped out of his skin, but calmed himself enough to take action. He loosened his cloak, as if to drape it around the frozen person – as if they had any warmth left to keep in.

“Sorey!” Zaveid yelped. “Keep your clothes on! You’ll freeze just like the rest of ‘em!”

Sorey hesitated at the thought of not being capable of saving Mikleo, but – but he couldn’t just leave this person to…to…

“Useless,” said the person in a flat, emotionless tone. The ice around their lips and neck cracked as they spoke. “Why would you sacrifice yourself so readily? Our frozen hearts are beyond saving.”

Sorey’s own too-soft, foolish heart ached. “Who did this to you? That spirit Lailah?”

“The mirror filled our hearts with hate,” said another frozen statue across the way. Their neck snapped with an awful sound as they slowly, painfully slowly, turned their head to look at Sorey. “The spirit Lailah froze our hearts before they rotted from it.”

There were so many statues. So many people. Some murmured their assent to the previous statue’s statement, but others were silent – frozen through with the silence of death. Sorey’s pulse raced, his eyes darting around the room. Not Mikleo, not there, not there either; none of these poor souls were Mikleo, so where—

The gate that Sorey and Zaveid had entered through glowed. Another guest stepped through – but truthfully, this was no guest. A trumpet blew, and snowflake-capped normins raced from every nook and cranny to form a receiving-line. The doors at the end of the receiving hall flew open, showing the throne room – and the throne, perched atop a dazzling frozen lake.

Through the front doors came that same familiar sleigh that stole Mikleo away. But instead of Lailah at the helm, it was Mikleo himself.

He was so beautiful. Mikleo was always beautiful, always, but he was simply…otherworldly. It was no wonder why there were whispers of a snow prince. Mikleo was dressed in a suit and cape fit for royalty; white and icy blue, trimmed with silver and royal navy. His high boots clacked against the marble floor as he dismounted, and his white hair glimmered in the iridescent light of the strange silver flames that lit the lanterns around the palace hall. Mikleo reached up to help his passenger off the sleigh, and led them to stand with the rest of the frozen people. The passenger went wordlessly, and stood without complaint or comment next to their new neighbors. And then Mikleo turned and walked, straight-backed, toward the throne room. He made no indication of seeing Sorey, or caring about the plight of the frozen people around him.

Mikleo was a kind and warm person, who cared deeply about the pain and suffering of those around him. What had that mirror done to him? What had that Lailah done to him?

“Mikleo!” Sorey cried out in despair. “Wait! It’s me!”

Mikleo did not turn to acknowledge Sorey’s voice, nor did he even slow down. He walked across the frozen lake confidently, without slipping a bit on the ice, and arranged himself on the throne with the same air of wordless complaint as the new arrival to the receiving hall. Sorey raced down the hall toward the doors to the throne room, his muscles aching with weeks of stress and strain, his heart aching, also—

The normins blocked his path, again. Sorey gritted his teeth and was about to just vault over their tiny heads, but one stepped forward. They raised their trumpet, and tooted another receiving flourish.

“The Lady Lailah approaches! Show some respect to your host, human.”

Sorey whirled around, trying to see where Lailah was approaching from, trying to see if he had time to grab Mikleo and run (he was sure driving that sleigh wasn’t that hard). And then, she appeared in a crackling of silver flame in the doorway to the throne room. Her expression was pained, and she extended a hand to Sorey.

“You are Sorey,” she observed. “I am Lailah, servant of the great spirit Maotelus--”

Zaveid wolf-whistled. “Lailah! My heart was about to waste away without you. Why don’t you turn those flames of yours back on to warm us up--”

Several of the normins rushed Zaveid to whack him in the shins with their trumpets, causing him to yelp and stumble back into the arms of one of the frozen people. Lailah’s cheeks were colored pink, and she coughed lightly, and started again.

“I am Lailah, servant of the great spirit Maotelus. Sorey. You have travelled so far, and touched so many hearts. Truly, you bring spring wherever you set foot.”

“What did you do to Mikleo?” Sorey demanded.

Lailah folded her hands and stared at her intertwined fingers.

“I am Maotelus’ closest servant,” she began. “And the only one who can wield even a portion of his power. Maotelus charged me with the mission of gathering those afflicted by the shards, and bringing them here for safety…and freezing their hearts so the shards do not destroy their very immortal souls. But I am a fire spirit – the taking away of heat is within my purview, but a more graceful application of the art of ice magic is…beyond me. My clumsy attempts at it have only caused more disaster – this terrible weather, for example.

“However, your friend Mikleo is possessed with a gift for magic. When I froze his heart, it awakened his latent abilities. He was able to take up my duties with far more dexterity and finesse. He has saved so many souls from eternal damnation, and once the Lord Maotelus has determined how to purify the mirror shards--”

Sorey slowly approached her as she spoke, and carefully, bones aching, went down on one knee. He bowed his head.

“Please, Lady Lailah. I’m but a traveler, on a mission to save someone I love. Won’t you please grant me an audience with the prince of this palace?”

Lailah extended a graceful, smooth hand, and Sorey accepted it with his battered, bloody one to rise to his feet again. Lailah made no indication of disgust – only pity.

“You may speak to him,” she said. “But he is unlikely to respond or recognize you for who you are. His heart is frozen through – were it not for his magic talents, he would be just as stiff as the poor souls you see here.”

That seemed like a challenge Sorey was willing to take up. Sorey would never be able to forget Mikleo – through trial and tribulation, through death and on to the ends of the earth. Sorey limped across the frozen lake; his feet not as sure on the ice as Mikleo’s, but his path just as set.

The throne room was dazzling, and an architectural marvel. Intricately-carved white marble spires twirled up to the high ceilings, which were under some strange enchantment – it showed the night sky, and an ever-moving map of the moon and constellations. These enchantments reflected onto the surface of the frozen lake, making Sorey’s path an otherworldly journey through the cosmos. The room sparkled with a sheen of ice and snow, which grew into flower-like blooms around the foot of the throne.

Mikleo did not acknowledge him as he drew closer. He did not acknowledge him as Sorey collapsed to his knees in front of the throne. He was as pale and lovely as a fine marble statue, but his eyes – those beautiful, expressive violet eyes that sparkled with love and intelligence – were so terribly blank. Sorey felt his tears freezing to his cheeks.

“Mikleo,” he said quietly. “It’s me. Sorey.”

Mikleo did not respond. Sorey continued.

“I was so worried when you got stolen away,” Sorey said. “I was worried the night before, when you were acting strangely, too. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize what had happened. You must have been in so much pain from that shard, and your hands were all scratched up on top of that, and you didn’t even eat the lunch we’d packed. Have you eaten since?”

Mikleo remained impassive.

“I wish I had more to offer. I only have some jerky left in my pack,” Sorey went on. “It’s not really a meal meant for royalty. You look even prettier than usual, Mikleo. I didn’t think either of us would have our hair going white for a few decades yet, but it really suits you. So do those clothes. Do you remember how we used to dress in our best for the village festivals? You always looked so nice in that vest and ribbon tie. I always just looked like a barn animal stuffed into a suit. Or I think that’s how you put it, once.”

Sorey flexed his battered hands, watching as fresh blood oozed from the cracked skin. He was battered, as a whole. He was dirty and ragged from travel, he was bruised and bloody and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He was a sorry sight, compared to how stunning Mikleo looked.

“I lost my gloves and scarf on the way here,” he admitted. “And all the money we saved up for the harvest festival. And…and our encyclopedia. I’m so sorry, Mikleo. I’m…I’m so sorry…”

Sorey crumpled, and crawled forward, shuffling over to press his forehead to Mikleo’s knees.

“Mikleo,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

He wept, and wept, and wept. Perhaps if he stayed here long enough, tears frozen to his cheeks, he would become a statue like the ones in the receiving hall – a statue that crouched at the foot of the throne like a loyal dog waiting for his beloved master’s return.

He almost didn’t notice the soft touch to his ruined hands.

Mikleo examined Sorey’s hand, turning it this way and that. Sorey felt color flood his cheeks, and pouted, despite himself. He knew his hands looked terrible, but Mikleo didn’t need to rub it in. Mikleo blinked slowly, and rubbed his thumb across the dried blood on Sorey’s knuckles.

“…hurts…hurts?”

Sorey stared at him, tears beginning to fall from his eyes anew. Mikleo bent, and pressed his other hand to Sorey’s chest, over his heart.

“Hurts here. You too?”

Sorey nodded, and reached out with an aching hand to press his own palm to Mikleo’s heart in turn.

“It hurts for me, too.”

Mikleo’s hand twitched, and as if on reflex, he moved it to cup Sorey’s cheek and brush his tears away with his fingers. Sorey gave a choked-off wail, and buried his nose into Mikleo’s hand – he thought he’d never feel this touch again. He closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of Mikleo’s palm.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and slowly opened his eyes. Mikleo was looking at him – really looking at him – and he looked absolutely distraught.

“Sorey,” Mikleo whispered. “What happened to you?”

Sorey really had thought his crybaby years were over, but here he was, weeping again. Mikleo scrambled down from his seat on the icy throne, and wrapped Sorey in his fur-trimmed cape, rocking them both back and forth and shushing him with gentle noises. Sorey had thought he’d never be fully warm again – how wrong he was.

“I had my heart stolen away by a snow prince on a white sleigh,” Sorey said, through his sobs.

Mikleo pouted at that, and color rushed to his cheeks. It was the most beautiful sight Sorey had seen in weeks, even after travelling the whole of the kingdom. Sorey smiled up at him, and leaned up, tilting his chin, pleading for a kiss. Mikleo leaned in as well, ready to oblige.

They were interrupted by sloppy crying from the throne room’s door.

“I-i-it’s so beautiful,” wailed Zaveid, sobbing into the arms of a normin who was weeping just as hard as he was. “Love! Love is what melts hearts and purifies cursed mirror bullshit! LOVE!!”

He trailed off into more crying. Lailah tugged a hankie from her sleeve and dropped it on Zaveid’s head for his later use, then approached Mikleo and Sorey, happy tears in her own eyes.

“Mikleo,” she said. “You are well again. Though the Lord Zaveid’s explanation was…simplistic, it seems that Sorey’s love for you has rid the shard of its corrupting power – in addition to melting your heart of my magic.”

Mikleo touched his hand to his chest, as if testing it for any sort of pain.

“…I can’t feel it at all, anymore. The shard. Do you think it’s gone?”

“I do not sense its presence within you any longer. A tiny piece of glass is surely nothing in the face of such powerful love. The Lord Maotelus thanks you so much for your service. Do you remember where you are, what has happened…?”

Mikleo nodded slowly. “…I do. Those – the people I spirited away, whose hearts I froze. Will they be…are they…”

“When the Lord Maotelus finds a way to purify the shards, it will be safe for them to be unfrozen. Your skillful work with your magic will ensure that they will live again – it will be as if they wake from a deep winter sleep.”

“And the rest of the shards?” Mikleo asked.

Lailah hemmed, and plucked at her sleeves. “I will tend to those shards that remain. You must tend to Sorey, to get him home and back in his own bed – you have gone above and beyond your duties, and Maotelus will surely bless you in all your endeavors for the rest of your days--”

“I do need to get Sorey home and patched up,” Mikleo said. “And bathed. But please. You saved my life, so I want to make sure no one has to suffer while we wait for a cure. I’ll come back to help, I promise.”

“I’m coming too,” Sorey said, a bit miffed at the bath comment. “You’re not leaving without me this time.”

“Do I really have a choice in whether you tag along?” Mikleo asked mildly, though he already knew the answer. Sorey smiled mischievously.

Lailah gave a watery smile of her own, and curtsied. “Thank you. Please, take the time you need to make Sorey well. He has journeyed far to save you, and his heart has melted a path through the coldest winter.”

A pair of normins trotted up to slide a pair of warm snowflake mittens onto Sorey’s hands, and wrap a matching scarf around his neck. To top it off, he was blessed with a snowflake cap, like the little creatures themselves wore.

“I will see to it that this foul weather is lifted,” Lailah said. “Now that I can rekindle my flame to do so. Mikleo, please take your sleigh and carry Sorey home to care for him.”

“Can I drive?” Sorey asked as Mikleo helped him to his feet.

“Absolutely not,” Mikleo said.

Zaveid stumbled up to the two of them, still crying, and bundled them both into a bear hug.

“You’ve allowed me to bear witness to the greatest romance in the past few centuries,” Zaveid sniffled. “Sorey, my man, you’ve overpaid me for my services.”

With that, Zaveid handed Sorey the encyclopedia back. Sorey took it gratefully, and clutched it close to his chest. Zaveid loudly and obnoxiously blew his nose into Lailah’s hankie, and it was clear one of the normin at his feet wanted to nail him in the shins with their trumpet again out of spite.

They journeyed home with incredible speed, sailing across the skies and making it back to their tiny village before the sun rose. They were welcomed back with open arms and tearful faces, and Sorey was bundled into his family home for a hot bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a big warm breakfast.

“The fruit trees are blooming all over the village,” Sorey noted to his mother and grandfather as he stuffed himself. “And the harvests look even bigger than I remember them. What happened?”

“Well, we thought we’d lose the whole harvest to the early frost,” his mother said. “But somehow our little village was spared the worst of it. It was a miracle.”

Sorey had seen Edna on the way back to his home, sitting on a bench in the town square, pretending to ignore him. She had still been wearing his gifts. He hoped she hadn’t strained herself too much.

Luckily, Sorey and Mikleo made it back just in time for the harvest festival – although they were out the funds they’d saved for it (“Sorey, stop apologizing for spending the money – I would have done the same for you!”), they enjoyed the hustle and bustle, and each other’s company, and the sight of each other in their festival clothing. On the second day of the festival, a caravan bearing the name “Sparrowfeathers” rolled into town, bearing an array of goods and gold to be traded for the village’s envious harvest bounty.

“For the wool, cloth, and goat cheese,” Rose said, handing Sorey’s mother a hefty pouch of coins. “And this here is on the house.”

Rose handed Sorey a stack of freshly-printed novels and journals, straight from the capital. Sorey smiled at her brightly, and thanked her profusely – and waved to Dezel where he sat atop the caravan, also pretending to ignore him. Spirits were so moody, sometimes.

The festival went long into the night, and Sorey and Mikleo curled together under a blanket in front of the bonfire, sipping at hot cider. Sorey was healing up well, and soon, they would be off on their mission to gather the remainder of the shards – Sorey wanted to make the most of this evening together. He nosed at Mikleo’s still-white hair, and watched as the firelight played off the silky strands.

“Is the fire too warm for my snow prince’s comfort?” Sorey murmured.

Mikleo idly traced the air, sending a few snowflakes flying into the night sky. “Hardly. I’m not a delicate, swooning thing, Sorey. I help you and your mother wrestle sheep for shearing.”

Sorey laughed. “I know. But isn’t that below your station, now? Wrestling with barn animals.”

Mikleo slanted a look up at him, and the side of his mouth twitched.

“Wrestling with barn animals is something I’m quite passionate about, thank you.”

It was Sorey that was a bit too warm, now. But with the light of the bonfire, and the beauty and crispness of an autumn night to enjoy, Sorey could make do for a while longer before they headed inside. He tucked his cheek against Mikleo’s silky white head, and sighed happily.

Yes, a while longer.

--

#sormik #soremiku #suremiku #soymilk #sorey/mikleo #tales of zestiria #i guess this is my personal tales of zestiria tag now #a tenderly crafted fanfiction #chocomint-srmk #chocomint fairy tale compilation #chocomint

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Sequence [viii]

sequence masterlist

masterlist

chanyeol x reader genre: angst word count: 5.6k

FINALLY

01.25.17

You were there, again, in his arms, again, after a night of reconciliation, again. The parallels couldn’t help but give you whiplash, couldn’t help but mercilessly remind you of just how backwards your relationship managed to be, just how complicated and painful and messy it was to feel at ease in his lingering presence. Always a back and forth, that’s how it was: always toppling the line of happy and miserable, always pushing the limits until there was no longer an existing limit to be pushed.

Though you accepted it; you had to. Had to accept the way his chin once again nuzzled deep into your collarbones and the way his hands were gripping your waist so tightly it was as if he’d never be able to do it again. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t blame him or his subconscious. You couldn’t blame the way he latched onto you as if you were trying to escape, because somewhere some parts of you were. Your heart could never escape- could never want to escape, but your brain was different. Your brain was desperate, thrashing wildly as the pain ricocheted through it like a blazing hot bullet: your misery the gun.

It wasn’t your fault, you knew it wasn’t your fault, repeated in your head over and over again that it wasn’t your fault, but it didn’t stop you from letting the worst eat you alive. His touch on your stomach burned a hot, agonizing fire as you replayed in your mind the absence of the life inside of you.

Maybe, back in their bed, Baekhyun and Sumi were laying the same way. Sumi was awake, thinking about her life and the boy nuzzled in her arms just as you were.

Only she was unforgivably happy.

And you were cautious.

Maybe she was rubbing circles into her stomach lovingly, smiling down at Baekhyun and the way he cuddled into her protectively, now falling into the routine of shielding two lives behind himself, instead of one. Maybe, probably, she was thinking about the future- their future, about the day her child would be born, baby names, crib brands, nursery colors.

You shook your head lightly, forgetting it, pushing it back at least for the time being. It would be stored in your mind, far hidden for later no doubt, coming back into your subconscious at the time when you felt like you could survive the onslaught the least. Things like that always plagued your mind, always crawled through your thoughts like a grotesque creature whose sole purpose was to make sure you were unhappy and miserable: to make sure your mind put the same picture burning into your brain on replay for weeks on end.

The sun outside shone brightly, mockingly, rays just barely grazing the top of Chanyeol’s head as you stared outside of the window. You could watch the movement of the clouds, their slow, tumultuous journey across the sky with no destination and no purpose. You were those clouds, the large, white tufts, drifting with nowhere to go. Straying from their neighbors as time drifted on, as the wind came and blew them apart.

You were those clouds, Chanyeol the neighboring tufts, and your neverending relapse of pain and dismay the wind yanking you away from him.

Breathing deeply, trying your best to clear your thoughts, Chanyeol’s body shifted beneath you. His movement sent an unavoidable line of splinters into your chest and took the breath directly out of your lungs. Not him, not his presence directly, but his sudden shift in turn collapsing onto your shoulders and triggering every thought to shoot straight into the lining of your stomach. You winced in pain, unable to help the way your muscles tensed beneath him and made your flesh burn indescribably. Unable to stop it, your mind flooded with images of Sumi, like treacherous waves of the way you could see her burned into the backs of your eyelids as she learned into Baekhyun to deliver her news.

I’m pregnant.

But you weren’t. And every second you spent with Chanyeol was a bitter reminder of that. A reminder that the one thing you wanted was something you failed to be able to do. That the most natural, conceivable form of love was out of your reach, slipping through your fingertips as if it were nothing more than a paper receipt you’d dropped to the ground. And it stained, submerged into the filthy water at your feet and smudged all of the ink off of it. Just as you had become: smudged, submerged, drowning, fleeting.

Chanyeol’s voice dragged you from your thoughts, kept the darkness that threatened to fog over every inch of your thoughts at bay and parted the clouds long enough to let the warm sun stream inside of you. In the past that’s what he had done, always becoming the one thing to pull you from the depths of the ocean you’d slipped into, the person who was able to make you feel happy again. As of late he had become the ocean, transformed into the unbalance of your legs and shifted into the wind that blew you over. It was refreshing for him to be back, for you to let him back in, for his voice to once again be the thing that kept you above water.

“Good morning, baby.”

He cooed into your ear, nibbling on the skin only slightly, memories of the night before taking place in your thoughts, masking over the images of Baekhyun and Sumi and leaving you reeling desperately beneath him. You felt hot, his lips burning pleasure into your skin and his hands rubbing tenuous circles into your flesh. His voice was again thick, laced with sleep and gravelly, the morning still fresh and overwhelmingly evident in his syllables.

The nickname melted you, turned you into a puddle beneath him, made you forget anything and everything at the simple touch of his words tickling your brain. You’d wished this was how your life was, always. That you could always wake up and feel this blissful beside him, greet the morning as sweetly as he greeted your neck with his teeth, not a single doubt in your mind. It was a feigning fantasy, one that wouldn’t last any longer than the dew that settled on rose petals outside, but you relished in it anyways. You were selfish in that way, but then again how things tended to be for you in your life, selfishness was the only way to survive.

“Baby,” you purred, your voice unintentionally dropping an octave as he nipped at the skin covering your collarbones, “haven’t heard that nickname in awhile.” You couldn’t help the reaction your body had to him, couldn’t help the way your skin turned aflame and your vocal chords became laced with the honey his lips coated you in. Carding your hands through his thick hair, you pulled him closer, allowing him to slot his legs between yours and bite down onto your shoulder.

“You’re my baby. I missed you.”

You sighed into him, pulling his head up to your face and dusting your thumb across his swollen bottom lip, red and angry from their assault on your neck. “I missed hearing it. I missed you.”

He kissed you. Again. Twelve hours ago he was doing the same thing, loving you the same way, pulling himself into your body with the same veracity, but now it felt like more. Like he was saying things with his lips that he could never manage into words. It felt as if he was closing an air tight seal, setting a layer of finality onto you and promising that he would never neglect you, never leave you again, silently. You welcomed it, with open arms, an open mouth, and open legs.

You welcomed him wholly.

Back into your life, into your heart, and into your soul.

Chanyeol dug his hips into yours pointedly, the way your back arched off of the bed and into his crotch throttling him and leaving his lips to tug into a grin against your neck. You gasped, hating the way he smiled against you, and shook your head. “Chanyeol, I have work you…” You stopped, letting a soft whine omit into the air as he sucked harshly into the flesh of your neck. “You know I have to leave soon, don’t,” you inhaled sharply, “start this.”

He pulled back, using his fingers to ghost lightly over the bruise he left on your skin just below your ear and admired it cockily. He loved seeing you that way, hair wild around your neck and sprawled above your head, mouth parted open and neck marked and abused from his teeth. It had been a long time since he was able to wake up next to you, too long since it had been you the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. For too long it was emptiness, the ceiling, the back of a couch, a pillow without your head snuggled into it. So he relished it, smiling above you as you scowled at the soreness of your neck brought on by his prodding fingertips.

“I just want to love you.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully at large, and put your hands on his chest to push him off. “You could have done that without branding me like a damn cow.”

He pouted, lip jutting out and feigning utmost hurt. You watched his eyes, watched the way they darkened when you lifted your hips into his purposefully. You loved teasing him, loved getting him riled up knowing there was nothing he could do about it. But he bit back, pushing his crotch into you and leaning down to press a feathery kiss over the purple decorating your neck like a painting. “This is my mark of love, for my love.” He was whining, voice a higher octave like a child who was told no to his favorite dessert. “Why don’t you like it?”

“Because, Yeol,” you started, rolling out from under his body and sitting up with your legs hanging off of the bed. His hands, of course, found your waist immediately, pulling himself closer so he could kiss the side of your arm from behind you. “I have to cover it up now.”

He shook his head, his lips brushing your skin and his arm wrapping tightly around your stomach. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

His lips curled upwards, the same lips that bloomed purple into your neck and pleasure into the most sensitive and hidden parts of your body. The same lips that before spewed venom into your veins and now coated your body in a thick layer of honey and sweat to keep you from escaping his grasp.

Only, you had to, and so you stood, the air clapping around your back at the distance between his skin and yours and goosebumps raking across the flesh. He watched you, leisurely, happily, as you got dressed. The morning was slow and warm, the atmosphere swallowing you in the best way possible and making you unregrettably late to locking the door of your apartment behind you.

His hands had been on you for too long, too prodding, and far too teasingly for the clock to have held any mention of importance as you buttoned the sheer blouse half adorning your body. He could’ve watched you for hours, watched the way heat crawled up your neck and made a home of the apples of your cheeks when he let his hands wander to places that you kept secret from the rest of the world.

But when you detached, your soul stayed still, like a statue fixed to the ground, into his hands where he played with it like putty. You could have ripped it away from him, could have tucked it into your shirt pocket for safe keeping and away from his teasing grasp; in your sane mind you should have but in your world where all you knew was him it remained. In his hold and attached to him for as long as he continued to exist.

You marveled at the sky. It was blue, bluer than you’d ever seen it so prominently indulged into winter, just having had relentless storms rained down onto your city days before. It was as if the rain came down and sloshed all of the malice down the drain and left behind a new beginning. A new beginning that it seemed the entire population was desperate for. It had an effect on everyone, on everything: traffic flowed smoothly, your boss greeted you happily even when you arrived fifteen minutes passed your shift, and the combination of your locker clicked open without a second’s hesitation- opposite of the usual.

As if the universe was mocking you, as if it was reminding you that the blue skies were temporary, that the weight lifted off of your shoulders was a facade of the pressure that lingered in your chest, the water scolded directly into your skin as you washed dishes. Despite the yellow rubber gloves you wore in mock protection, despite the way you tried to turn the temperature down, the water streamed out like blazing bullets into your skin and caused your face to wince in pain whenever they had to linger beneath the faucet particularly long.

You felt as if the way your hands were red and angry was symbolic of the way your life was intentionally and teasingly infuriating, like the puppet controlling your destiny had decided your happiness was over, that it was time for you to be brought back down, crashing and tumbling into a reality like you’d gotten into a bloodied wreck speeding down Highway 99.

Every time you closed your eyes you saw it. If they flinched shut at the pain, they burned beneath your eyelids at the image of Baekhyun wrapping his arm around Sumi’s shoulders protectively as she beamed brightly at her news.

I’m pregnant.

Two words you’d been overwhelmingly desperate to say, three syllables that ricocheted around your brain and prodded your tongue as they lingered back, far beneath your teeth and seeped deep into the cherry muscles of your jaw. The pressure became so heavy it branded into your bones, left blackened char across your skin as it dawned on you the realities of your marriage.

The most natural form of love, the one thing you’d been destined to conceive, was merely handed to her, given to her like it was some sort of parting gift, a stage in life she was destined to reach eventually. For you it was different. For you the vile rose in your throat at the idea of them ripping the life from your stomach and putting it in her own. For you the heat that crawled along your neck and into your mouth formed words that would get lodged so deep in your throat it was like you were suffocating.

For you, it was unbearable.

For you, it was pain.

And for a moment, as you let the air hit your raw skin and discarded the gloves into the back, the pain became real. The pain became evident and throbbing, sharp in your stomach as if you were being ripped apart from the inside out. Nearly heaving, you bent over, your head pounding like a drum in your ears and your heartbeat so pulsing you could feel it in your fingertips. It hit you like a semi-truck and left you crumbled beneath it’s eighteen wheels like a paper bag discarded in the wind.

You couldn’t help the way your hands shook, couldn’t stop the vigor that overtook your body in the form of trembles as you told your coworker you were taking an early lunch and nearly tripped your way to the faculty bathroom. From the stain in your underwear, you’d gotten your period. It was spotted red, just barely, from the unknowing visitor and you took a moment to regain your breath and smooth the wrinkles in your blouse. Cramps were the reason you were experiencing a throbbing pain in your lower stomach, fatigue the reason your brain spun out of control and your lungs felt deprived of oxygen. Somewhere, in your brain, you concluded that your period was the reason you’d been so drastically blue it turned even your blood navy, that it was the onslaught of hormones that triggered your emotional instability.

“Chanyeol,” you breathed into the receiver, voice lowering an octave and becoming hushed as if you were hiding a secret from a teacher, “can you stop by? I started my period.”

“Of course.” You were relieved, shifting uncomfortably between legs at the feeling of toilet paper folded into your underwear, a far from ideal way to spend the rest of your hours washing dishes and delivering plates of food to customers. “Why are you whispering?”

“As if the whole diner needs to know I’m bleeding out of my ass.”

He laughed, and it was that laugh that could create choruses in the hearts of angels if he so pleased. The laugh that you’d finally, finally been able to indulge yourself in after so many months of trying to bleed it out of your subconscious. And you could swear you could hear him struggling on the notion of where to put his hands, probably suspended in the air as his nose scrunched up and his mouth was open wide. He was the only person who took your sarcasm so light-heartedly, the only person who was able to read exactly what you meant from the few choice words you’d decided on. He loved every bit of you for it.

“I’m on my way.”

You knew the knock on the stall door was him, could tell in the boots adorning his feet and the way they stayed in stance; the parentheses of his legs burned into your vision despite not being able to see them through the wooden panel. When you opened the door for him, slid the small, flimsy lock across the chamber and let the wood swing into you, he smiled. His signature smile, the one so bright it lit up his entire face and every inch of air space around it, as if the sun was coming straight from it and into the atmosphere.

Only you doubled over again, and swiped your hand over your stomach so quickly you nearly lost your footing on the tile floor. His smile was gone, wiped from his face like he’d watched a child fall in a playground and grasped your shoulder protectively. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You waved him off, outstretching your hand for the box in his arms and shaking your head slightly. “Cramps.”

And then a yell just barely escaped your parted lips, and your knees buckled beneath you. You could swear you saw the galaxies behind your closed eyes, could hear your blood pulsing in your ears as you leaned into his body and gripped onto the fabric of his sweater. It was excruciating, like no pain you’d ever felt before and for a split second you wondered what was wrong with you. Cramps didn’t feel like this, cramps didn’t make your vision go spotty and your insides feel as is if they were getting minced like cloves of garlic.

“You’re not okay,” he said softly, rubbing circles into your back and looking around himself frantically, “we need to take you to the doctor.”

You wanted to say no, the fear bubbling up inside of you of the reasons you could be in turmoil more than enough motivation to just go home and sleep, but the way your fingers clawed at your stomach as tears burned your vision kept your mouth clamped shut as Chanyeol led you to the car without a word to your boss.

The doctor’s office smelt sterile, cold, anywhere you wanted to be but there coming to mind as you sat on the uncomfortable plastic bed, Chanyeol’s hand rubbing circles into your lower back as you picked at the skin around your nails. The pain had subsided now, no longer a double edged sword digging into your abdomen but instead a dull throbbing that radiated across your body. You could hear the sound of children crying around you as their fingers got pricked for blood, the fluorescent lights swaying above your head flickering, as if they were on their last hours of life.

You wanted to go home, wanted to lay in Chanyeol’s arms and let your eyes shut as you drifted off to sleep, to forget the day you had and forget the both physical and mental pain your body sent through you like shockwaves after an earthquake. Still, especially now as you heard babies cooing into their mothers, you replayed Sumi in your head, your stomach throbbing even more at the incident and your head spinning out of control. You wanted nothing more but to breathe easily, to have air reach your lungs as it was destined to instead of getting wedged into your esophagus like molasses.

“You’re gonna draw blood if you keep picking your nails like that.”

His voice was your anchor, drawing you out from the depths of the ocean you’d fallen into and keeping you above water long enough for you to inhale a breath and clear your mind. You looked down at him, reading into his face and the way he tugged his bottom lip into his teeth so many times it became red and raw. Likely, it matched the color of your own lip, of the angry lines streaked under your eyes and the dark grey that made a home of the thin skin.

You hated the look in his eyes, hated the way his eyebrows were so close together it left indents in his forehead deeper than the pain in your chest and the bitterness flowing in your abdomen.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Your head hung in your lap, neck sore from the position but taken well over having to face Chanyeol with the sadness in his eyes if you looked at him again. Weakness radiated across your body and you hated it, despised the way his hands held you like you were going to break and his words got caught on his tongue as if the wrong thing would destroy you.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes you are and you know it. You have that look, you know the one you give me when you think I’m about to crumble in your palms? I don’t like it.”

His hands retracted from your back and held onto yours and you could feel his pulse hammering in his fingertips. “You’re hurting. Of course I’m worried about you.”

He was right. You were hurting. Everywhere. As if you had been lit on fire, but your body refused to go into shock, refused to pass out from the pain and forced you to stay conscious for it. Your stomach still rattled inside of you as if it had been hung upside down, your brain still so throttled against your skull you swore you could hear your lungs functioning for breath and your fingertips so numb you could barely feel the heat of Chanyeol’s hands.

And when the doctor came in the lights above you felt so bright you were nearly squinting at him. Chanyeol’s grip on your hand tightened but you barely noticed, focused on the way the man’s lips were moving but you could hardly hear a sound coming out of them. You heard ringing, not from the pain but from the things you didn’t want to hear him say. Because in every corner of your mind was the evidence that it wasn’t just your period, that your stomach being ripped from your abdomen wasn’t as simple as you bleeding onto your underwear.

Warning signs flashing in your head clouded your vision and zoned you out of the world around you, Chanyeol’s touch on you dissipating into thin air as your tongue blanched dry and your fingers began to shake in anxiety.

“You say she’s been eating fine, sleeping well?”

Chanyeol spoke for you, carried on the conversation in your catatonic state despite the worry that flooded his system at your metaphoric absence. He hated to see you frozen in place, your hands limp against his own as he nodded alongside the doctor as he recommended blood tests and urine samples. It wasn’t until the doctor left to find a nurse did you snap out of it, did Chanyeol grab your chin with his fingers and looked straight into your eyes in concern and worry.

“He’s getting a nurse so he can draw some blood, okay?”

You nodded, lips clamped shut and eyes looking straight into Chanyeol’s but mind focusing on everywhere but him. For some reason you couldn’t, couldn’t see him sitting in front of you, couldn’t feel the warmth of his hand on your cheek or the gentleness of his fingertips as they brushed your hair out of your eyes. You thought of everything else, of the way everything started to add up in your head, of the signs you’d so blatantly ignored that now replayed over and over again in your subconscious.

And so you saw it coming. When the blood results came back you knew the words that would spill from the doctor’s lips, you knew the tension that would be so poignant in the room you could serrate it with a knife if you tried. You knew the way Chanyeol’s hands would freeze, the way his body would tense beside you, out of fear or happiness you couldn’t be sure, and you know the way the doctor would excuse himself to give you two some time.

You didn’t want to say anything. No words you could think of would be enough to explain, nothing you could manage would be enough to cut the silent seeping into the sterilized walls. You could feel him trembling in your hands, only slightly, the warmth of his body rushing onto you like a tidal wave as you pressed both of your hands into the bottom of your stomach. Out of the corner of your eye you could see his hair as it tucked itself into your side, as he pressed his head into the curve of your hip and steadied his breathing.

It scared you; you didn’t know why he was silent. You were silent because you were overwhelmed, because everything you’d been through had all been worth something, because you were able to do the one thing you wanted to do successfully and nobody could take that from you.

“Chanyeol?”

“So it’s true, then? You’re pregnant?”

You played with his hands where they stayed with an iron grip in your lap. You ghosted over his knuckles, used your nails to trace shapes into the veins in his hands and ignored him even when he lifted his head and moved to sit in between your legs in front of you. His hands removed themselves from your own and gripped your hips softly, gently tugging you forward so you could learn your head onto his shoulder.

Everything, all at once, came down upon you. Like a tidal wave crashing into your body, dragging you down under the rolling thunder as if you were nothing more than a grain of sand being swept by the current. Your eyes welled and the walls to the dam behind your eyes flooded, hot sticky tears rushing down your cheeks and into Chanyeol’s clothing. Your hands were frantic as they grasped at his clothes, breaths heaving out of your lungs as your body shook against him. You could feel his chest shaking, feel his hands gripping into your skin so tight you could feel it in your bones.

“I’m pregnant.” Your voice was small and broken, spit bubbling in your mouth as you sucked down air and pulled away from his grasp. His hands cupped your cheeks as he planted soft, wet kisses across every inch of your face as your lips broke into a smile so wide it could part the clouds in the sky if it wanted to.

You could finally say it, the words feeling like sugar on your tongue as you repeated it over and over again, almost making sure it was the truth, that you wouldn’t wake up and have it all be a pathetically desperate dream for sanity. “I’m pregnant. We’re pregnant.”

His lips melted into yours, body pulling towards you so feverishly you nearly forgot you were in a doctor’s office. And you kissed him back as if everything in the world finally settled. As if every drop of blood had rejuvenated in your skin, back into it’s burgundy red color and pumping across your body with vigor and glee. The world around you melted into a puddle at your side and you were left with nothing but Chanyeol and the life living inside of you.

The life living inside of you.

The one you’d thought you would never have. The same one that plagued your thoughts every time that closed your eyes could now become the one thing keeping you happy, the one thing keeping you and Chanyeol tethered like a pole into the cement and your souls from breaking anymore. You were pregnant, and after months of thinking you’d never find happiness, it was growing and thriving and existing right inside of you.

He pulled away, staring into you as if you held every answer to every question you ever asked, and you watched as his lips curved into a smile, and the dimple on his cheek poked out, and you couldn’t help but imagine a smaller version of him adorning the same exact dimple. You began to wonder if it would inherit his almond eyes, if the crescent moon shape of his lips would plaster onto the face of your unborn child, or if the baby, boy or girl, would have the same laugh its father did. In a perfect world, the life inside of you would be a carbon copy of the man sitting between your legs, because in a perfect world, two Chanyeol’s sounded heavenly.

You’d never sat in Chanyeol’s car feeling lighter than you did in that moment. No matter the events that led up to this point, no matter the way you’d cried yourself to sleep Christmas night without him by your side, or the way you baked a cake for him on his birthday even though you knew the chances of hearing from him were low, you would put it behind you.

You would put it behind you because for the sake of the soul existing within you it deserved it. It deserved to be born into a family full of love and compassion, so for its sake that’s what you became, and the entire ride home Chanyeol couldn’t stop talking, his lips refusing to freeze as his cheeks began to burn from smiling so wide. You couldn’t help talking either, couldn’t help blabbering on about the way it all made sense, the way you couldn’t believe you’d missed the warning signs, and the way you were glad you decided not to get shitfaced the Christmas he was away.

Because above all, you were happy. Finally, after so long, after months of misery, after seeing haunting images behind your eyelids every time you fell asleep at night, with our without him, they were gone. Like a distant memory, one that would be buried into the dirt beneath your feet, never to be dug up again.

Although the pain still lingered, and although you could never really forget the way Chanyeol had left you deserted for months, it was something you had to put behind you. Despite the way you would still wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because you thought you didn’t feel him laying beside you, you would try. You would try to put it behind you because you had to. Because even though you didn’t support yourself, even though Chanyeol was your anchor, the baby inside of you would rely on you to keep it afloat. And, so, that’s what you did. You became the anchor for the life in your womb and you became strong.

“I’m thinking about names.”

“Names? Chanyeol it’s like the size of a string cheese and you’re already thinking about what you’re going to call it?”

He laughed, and as you watched him driving, as you watched the way he gripped the steering wheel tighter and let his eyes turn into slits on his face, you thought of the way he would smile when he held his baby for the first time. You thought about the way salty tears would well in his eyes, how they would drip down his skin, slipping passed the bags of grey that made a home from the hours he had stayed awake by your side to bring his child into the world.

“It’s gonna have your ears.”

He looked over at you as he pulled into the parking garage, turning the ignition off and sitting to face you completely. His hands absentmindedly tugged at the tips of his ears where they were flushed red from the cold, eyes wandering down to your stomach slowly, languidly, unbuckling his seatbelt and pressing his hands flush against the warm skin of your stomach. Lifting up your shirt, he pressed a kiss to your abdomen where it bulged out only slightly, just barely swollen, and rested his forehead in your lap.

“If you come out looking anything like your mommy,” he began, almost whispering, as if the conversation between him and the cheese sized baby was top secret from your ears, “then you’ll be the most beautiful baby in the whole wide world.” He pressed another kiss to your stomach. “Even if you do end up with my stupid ears.”

Your life was like a sequence of events. Like everything that happened was planned, going in a set order: during, before, after, now, ever after, eventually, finally. A path that you had taken that ripped you to shreds, each goodbye at a time, and then glued you back together with every hello. Chanyeol: your muse, your tsunami, your wrecker, your savior, your everything.

He was you, and you were him, and now the life living inside of you was the both of you, all at once.

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#chanyeol fic #chanyeol angst #park chanyeol #fanfiction #pcy #park chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol fanfiction #pcy fanfiction #chanyeol #park chanyeol fic #park chanyeol angst #pcy angst #pcy smut #chanyeol smut #park chanyeol smut #kpop #kpop fanfiction #kpop angst #kpop fic #exo #exo fanfction #exo angst #exo smut #exo fic #chanyol chaptered fic #chaptered fanfiction #sequence #mine #GUYSSSSS HOLY SHIT #im assuming nobody is gonna read this but oh my god like i teared up writing some of this?????????????????????????????????

[thereins]

Hope in God

Now, ere this feeble heart beneath youth’s spell, To its illusions bids a last farewell, I fain would keep the old philosophy Which makes Epicurus divinity. I fain would live and love, and learn mankind, In quest of joy, small profit hope to find, And do what men can do, be what they are, Gaze upward to the sky nor feel one care.

I cannot; me the infinite torments, Fearless to dwell thereon hope consents; Heedless of men’s words, reason is dismayed To comprehend it not, though clear displayed. What is the world, what are we doing here, If we, in peace, must veil the skies in fear, To move like sheep, eyes fixed upon the ground, Deny the rest, can that be pleasure found? It is no man to be, degrade the soul. Chance made no part in the created whole; Or happy, or unhappy, woman born, I cannot flee away from men in scorn.

What shall we do? Seek joy, command the wise, Rejoice and die; the gods to sleep advise.

Hope only, answers our firm Christian faith, Heaven watches thee. Thou canst not die, it saith. Between two roads I, wavering, stop and stay, Aloof, would follow easier, gentler way. Not one exists, so speaks a secret voice, Believe, deny, there is the heaven-given choice. And such my thought; for souls with torture burn; Make mere excuses, this, or that, in turn. But the indifferents are an atheist's rout. They could not sleep had they one day of doubt. I yield me then and since the thought has bred, Deep in my heart desire and anxious dread, My knees shall bend, with hope I will believe. What fate is mine, what would high heaven receive?

Held in the hand of God, more dread, I go, Than all the ills combined here below. Alone, a wanderer, frail, wretched man, My deeds that witness eye must ever scan. He watches, follows. Let heart beat too high It might His great divinity defy. A gulf is 'neath my feet. If I fall in, Eternity will expiate my sin. My hangman, judge, with victim plays his game, For me is all a snare, all changing name; Love is a sin, and happiness a crime, Temptation all that work of seven days' time. Of human nature naught can I retain, Virtue for me is dead, remorse they feign. The recompense I wait, the pain I shun, My guide is fear, toward death, my mask, I run.

And still, they tell me, waits unbounded joy The elect. And when those blest without alloy, If you deceive me, will you life deny? If you speak to me, so can you ope the sky? That land of beauty of the prophet’s cry, If it exists above, must be a desert dry. The blest you make you wish them all too pure,

Though joy may come, the suffering more sure. I am a man no more, would not be less, Nor try for more. What shall I then confess? Since I believe no promises of priest, Shall I then go consult the indifferent beast?

And if by haunting visions thus bent, My heart the real seeks some joy to get, With each vain pleasure summoned to my aid, Disgust and gloomy death my sense invade. The very days when impious is my thought, When ending doubt denial full has brought, Should I attain whatever in this life Each man can seek with vast desire and strife, Both power, and health and riches freely give, And love itself, the good for which we live, Let fair Astarte, idol of ancient Greece, Outspread her arms from azure lands of peace, Could I explore the bosom of the earth, To win the secret elemental birth, Transform enlivening matter to my will, Make matchless beauty my desire to still; Should Horace, Epicurus old, Me at their side a happy mortal hold, Should they, in love with nature’s ancient code, Loud sing of joy and contempt of God, My words would come "Whatever we may be done, I suffer on, the world is older grown. Hope fills the earth with infinite surmise, In our despite toward heaven we lift our eyes!"

What then remains? Reason revolts, breaks out, Tries to believe, in vain, the heart to doubt. The Christian frightens, but the atheist creed Despite the senses, shall not hear nor heed. To truly pious men impious seem, Me, the indifferent, merely crazy deem. To whom shall I resort, what voice’s sound Shall soothe this heart when doubt inflicts its wound?

There is, they say, one philosophic creed Which can without a revelation read, Can guide us safely through our existence, Betwixt religion and indifference. I acquiesce. But where are they who frame Systems of truth nor wish the faith to name, Sophistic impotents, believing but themselves, What are the arguments, their reason delves? One shows me here two principles at war, Which, both defeated, both immortal are; Another finds far off within some heaven lone, A useless god who asks no altar stone. I see the dreams of Plato, Aristotle see; I listen, praise and walk my pathway free. Under the monarch find a despot God. To-day he gives a democratic nod. Pythagoras, Leibnitz both me transform. Descartes abandons me in vortex storm. Montaigne, self-student, nothing learns and sees. Pascal, a-tremble, his own vision flees. Pyrrho my sight, and Zeno senses, takes, Whatever stands, Voltaire casts down and breaks. Trying th’ impossible with wearied air, Spinosa finds his God is everywhere. The English sophist cries, Man's a machine, And in the fog a German rhetor's seen, Who of philosophism, ruin wrought, Declares our heaven void, concludes with naught.

So human science then becomes a wreck! Five thousand years of doubt are at our beck, Five thousand years of persevering fag With doubt, as final word, perplexed we lag. Ah! poor distracted, paltry human brains, How intricate your key that all explains; To mount above, no wings upon your back,

Desire you have, but faith alone you lack. I pity pride, that racks your wounded soul. You feel the torments round my heart that roll. You understand it, all that bitter sight Which makes man shudder at the Infinite. Pray we! Forswear the miserable toil Of childish reckonings, petty futile moil. Now that your bodies have returned to dust, Fall on my knees beside your tombs, I must. Ye pagan rhetors, first in knowledge, come, Departed Christians, dreamers here at home: Believe me, prayer is hope’s expectant voice! That God, man answer; speak to Him, rejoice, For God is just and good to pardon send. Your sufferings great, the rest to Him commend. If bare is heaven, to none offense we make; One, if he hears, shall on us pity take.

Oh! Thou whom none has ever known, Nor being false, can e'er deny Who gave me life, 'twas Thou alone, And who, to-morrow makes me die!

By faith alone, art understood. If faith be ours, why doubts of Thee? Why give not faith in measure good, That none may say Thou canst not be?

As soon as man lifts up his head, To that great temple in the skies, He sees a vast creation spread, A glorious temple in his eyes.

When now descends into his heart, He finds Thee there; thou livest in him. He can not weep or love apart, 'Tis God alone, wills every whim.

The highest aim of human thought, The grandest rôle as played by man, To prove Thou dost exist, be taught Thy name, O everlasting One.

Whatever name Thou mayest be called, Jesus, or Jupiter, Brahma, Or Truth Eternal, thus extolled, Toward Thee all arms are stretched, Allah!

The latest of the sons of earth Will give thee thanks, from grateful heart, When misery is turned to mirth, And happiness appears in part.

The whole world gives Thee glory, praise. The bird sings sweetly on its nest; To Thee, for rain of rainy days, A thousand anthems are addressed.

Thy every act astounds our gaze, Nor ray of love divine is lost, No soul so vile, Thou canst not raise, For this we kneel upon the dust.

Why, then, O Master, so supreme, Hast Thou created evil great? That reason, virtue, in its gleam, On seeing it, affrighted wait!

When all the splendid things of earth Proclaim Thy attributes divine, Bear witness to a father’s worth, Love, strength and goodness will combine.

Then how in view of heaven’s sight, Are acts so full of hideous hate, That prayer will die, unhappy plight! On lips of the unfortunate?

Why, in Thy heavenly work of love, Should discord draw unhappy breath? What is it crime and pest may prove? Just God! Why should we suffer death?

Thy pity must have been profound When, with its blessings and its ills, This world with love and horror crowned, Came forth from chaos! Sadness fills

My heart, to think Thou didst submit Thy sons to torture! Can Thy sight Find pleasure in the burning pit? Thy power for good is infinite.

Why shall the misery of earth Conceive of, and divine, a God? Doubt has despoiled our heavenly birth. In place of Thee, we feel the rod.

If these, Thy creatures, are so base, Unworthy of approaching Thee, In nature Thou shouldst leave no trace By which Thou might discovered be.

Thy power would remain no less, And we still feel its heavy blow; But rest and ignorance, we confess, Would make our ills more mild, we,know.

If suffering, and prayer, and praise, Move not thy glorious majesty, Preserve Thy grandeur from our gaze; In Space’s dread immensity.

But if our mortal anguish touch Thy heart with pity, if Thine ear Amid the heavenly songs, be such As can our direst moaning hear,

Shatter that canopy of space That hides our eager quest of Theee. Tear down the veil that mars thy grace, And show thyself, most amiably.

Then wilt Thou see on earth a flame Of firmest faith and burning love. All earth will then adore Thy name, As do the heavenly hosts above.

The years which have exhausted it, The burning tears that dimmed its eyes, Like dew beneath the sun shall flit, And earth will be one paradise.

Then Thou will hear hosannas sung In concerts of celestial joy, Like heavenly music heard among The courts of heaven, which saints enjoy.

Our chants would sound o'er land and sea, And Pain and Hate would howling fly, And Doubt and Blasphemy would flee, And Death itself, at last, would die.

#Alfred de Musset #1838