#Michael hated the butters but he’s grown to see their value | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

k-she-rambles · 5 years

Text

So I wrote the “Oh no, she’s hot” fic I wanted to read

MidMerica Midsummer Conclave, Year of the Warthog.

“Hello, again,” said a voice in Scythe Faraday’s ear. The placement of the seats in the auditorium meant that he would have to turn completely around in his seat to see anyone directly behind him, or lean his head back, exposing his neck. He did the latter, because he knew that voice. Even then, the view was awkward. It was easier to speak to someone downtier from you.

“Hi,” he said, “I didn’t see you arriving.”

“I considered sneaking in,” said Scythe Curie, a faint downturn on her lips.

Faraday frowned up at his former apprentice. “I don’t love the attention, but…”

“Oh, don’t start. You were about to say ‘the public need to be reminded that they are the hand that wields us,’ weren’t you?”

Faraday felt himself flush, ego pricked, and found himself unusually unwilling to concede the point. “I’m very quotable.”

“Besides,” said Curie, “I’m beginning to understand that I can’t undo what I do. I made my choices as a young woman. I may be older and wiser now, but I can’t disrespect the memory of the girl who thought she was big enough to change the world and live with the infamy by refusing to do so when the time comes.”

Faraday turned in his seat to face her. “You’ve grown.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he glanced away. He didn’t think it was any thanks to him. He’d been far too young to take on an apprentice, years ago. She’d earned every ounce of her maturity the hard way. It was likely she thought the same.

But Curie only hmmed under her breath, and said “Yes, Michael, we’ve both turned corners.” He couldn’t place what was in her voice.

Like many Scythes, she’d turned corners back to a comfortably adult appearance. There were the faintest potential of wrinkles around her eyes, and a stripe of premature silver in her long, dark hair. Combined with the lavender robes, the effect was stunning. It was no wonder the rumor mill had started calling her the Lady of Death rather than “Miss Massacre.”

But he’d known her as an odd girl named Susan, just as she’d known him as an entirely too self-absorbed young Scythe. So he didn’t say anything.

MidMerica Autumnal Conclave, year of the Aye-Aye

All business and most pleasure had been concluded, leaving the Scythes to busy themselves with the final meal of the conclave or to wander back to their usual domains as they saw fit. Many stayed late: the catering was particularly good this year.

“I hear you have come into possession of a new house,” said Faraday.

“It’s not mine,” said Curie, around a mouthful of noodles.

“Of course,” said Faraday placidly. Scythes owned their rings, their robes, and their journal. Everything else was donated, considered loaned even if their owners didn’t want them back.

“I do like having a project,” Curie admitted. “Falling Water is practically a ruin. I have a tent on the property. The park rangers know I’m there, and people have started coming around, offering to help me rebuild.”

Faraday speared a final bit of pasta on his fork. It wasn’t the first architectural marvel she’d restored. “I am not sure I could do what you do.”

“You’d feel guilty.”

“I’d feel guilty. All those people volunteering time and resources in the hopes of me granting them immunity, when all I want is the house restored and preserved.”

“See,” said Curie, gesturing with her chopsticks. “That’s where we’re different. You live a life of simplicity to keep yourself grounded. But you still called it my house. It’s not. It’s Fallingwater House. It existed before me, and if I do it right, it’ll exist after me. A point where mortal art intersects the immortal age. I don’t know if art can have a soul of its own, but part of its value lies in what it stirs up in the human heart. That’s what I do. I glean to help people make an end, a conclusion, and I remind the living that they are alive. Falling Water will help me do that. It already is – I tell most volunteers no, and if they come back, it’s not because I might owe them.”

Faraday smiled. He valued her passion towards the things she believed in. “I would like to see it, when you’re done.”

“You could help me. I’ve always appreciated your head for research.”

He made a face at her.

“Oh, come on. Just because I hated doing your statistical analyses as an apprentice doesn’t mean I think it’s valueless. Just like you follow your heart more than you admit in your gleaning.”

It was an old argument, well-worn enough to be almost fond. “There is no such thing as unbiased heart, Curie. Statistics and just a touch of chance are the way to go.”

“But is it worth it? Denying your instincts all the time?”

“Interrogating my instincts all the time. The commandment says to kill without bias. And if I audit myself, I do not have to worry about it when the conclave rolls around.”

Curie huffed. She courted pre-conclave anxiety, but she had never once been reprimanded for bias, even though she flatly refused to glean children. She wasn’t sure if it was the better angels of the powers that be, or the perks of being her, and she wasn’t about to ask. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“Likewise.”

They glared at each other for a moment, before bursting into laughter.

Excerpt from the Gleaning Journal of H.S. Faraday:

Scythes own nothing, truly, but their robes, their journal, and their ring, but it’s difficult to live in the world and not acquire a few more things along the way. Which was why I was cleaning out my bureau when I found something I’d written as a very young man. I’d intended it as part of my gleaning journal at the time, but I was working with incomplete data, and what I had said there unfairly mischaracterized a friend. And, well, revealed what a self-absorbed bastard I could be. I had to laugh, but it was bittersweet—the same way we laugh at the foibles and ignorances of the mortal age and yet miss its vitality. If I had felt then what I felt now, or had the wisdom of experience then —no, I have lost the thread of what I am writing. Speculation is for those with time on their hands, which I do not have. Then again, immortality is nothing but time…

Revival Clinic, somewhere in MidMerica. Summer

If it weren’t for post-mortal medicine, Faraday’s head would be splitting. As it was, his senses felt muffled, like he was seeing and hearing everything through an invisible blanket.

As the nurse bustled away, pleased with his consciousness, a smear of purple in the corner resolved itself into Scythe Curie.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t mean it to sound accusing. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I mean –”

“Good morning, sunshine,” Curie drawled, in a tone that could have turned rainforest into desert. “Also, what the hell?”

“Sorry?”

“You. Are. A. Scythe. You do death as a career. Other people’s, not yours. What are you doing mostly deadish in a revival clinic in small town MidMerica?”

“Only mostly deadish,” said Faraday, smiling slightly. “Have you seen that one?”

“No, and you’re avoiding the question.”

“…IchallengedthemanIwasgleaningtoaduel,” Faraday mumbled.

“And you lost? You taught me bladecraft.”

He felt his cheeks grow hot. “Again. I lost again. I was going to arrange a climbing accident, but he is an avid fencer and I –” She was laughing at him now. “I cannot change my mind –that would be petty and cruel. I don’t actually use swords a great deal. Statistically, the number of sword deaths in the mortal age is–”

Curie shook her head. “You’re going to go right back to try again, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll drive you,” said Curie. “But if you die again, I’m eating your post-revival ice cream.”

“As you wish,” said Faraday, rolling his eyes.

Falling Water; the eastern border of MidMerica, Winter

“Faraday,” said Curie softly, opening the door wider “Come on in.”

Faraday hesitated on the threshold “I don’t want to intrude –you often have guests…”

“It’s ten PM. They’ve left already. Come on. I’ll make tea.”

She had turned off most of the lights for the evening. Even so, the ambient light from the full moon streaming through the large kitchen windows was enough to illuminate the counters and light up the silver in her hair.

Curie noticed him hovering, a ghost in a cream-colored robe. “There’s a loaf of raisin bread in the cupboard to your right. Bread knife is in the drawer.”

They sat at the kitchen island with their tea and buttered bread.

“This is good,” said Faraday.

“Thank you,” said Curie. “You want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“I never said anything was bothering me.”

“You’re a good Scythe, Michael. It means you’re a bad liar.”

He moved his tea spoon on his saucer. It clinked. “I may have made a miscalculation.”

“Personal, or professional?”

“Possibly both.” He took a deep breath and stood up suddenly, walking to the nearest window, eyes fixed on the dark forest beyond. “If there is a higher power, I am convinced they have a sense of irony.”

There was fire in his tone. Curie eyed him over the rim of her cup. “So.”

“I am a fool. I’m sorry,” said Faraday. “I should not have –I’m keeping you from going to bed.”

She joined him at the window with both their cups of tea. She wrapped his hand around his cup with her own. “What’s really going on?”

“I–” He bit his lip. “Marie.”

She laughed softly.

He loved her laugh. He loved– He reached out, cupping her cheek with one hand, everything he was afraid to say flitting across his face.

“I–” He kissed her. Lightly, tentatively, with room for her to back away. Her lips followed his as he moved back to study her reaction.

She frowned. “You stopped.”

“I was –if you did not still feel the same way, I didn’t–”

“Just because I grew up and made peace doesn’t mean my feelings have changed any.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve thought about this?” said Curie seriously. “Breaking the commandment for me?”

“I know it cannot be forever,” said Faraday. “I know we are Michael and Marie, not Gerald and Susan. We will be found out eventually, and I will submit to the judgement of the Scythedom with grace. But in between there will be time.”

She kissed him then, grabbing the collar of his robe and backing him into the window.

Later, they would have to clean up the broken china and spilled tea. Later, they would laugh at their younger selves. Later, there would be seven deaths and seventy years apart. Later, they would have to decide whether love or friendship were mortal or immortal after all.

But for now, there was time.

#scythe #arc of a scythe #scythe faraday #scythe curie #hs faraday #hs curie #left room for a curie-centric version

48 notes · View notes