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hobidreams · 4 years

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april 1869.

the night brings with it the moon, rippling waters, and truths silenced with his mouth hot on your skin.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst words: 2.2k contains: historical au, exhibitionism (but more indirectly), rough sex, dirty talk, name-calling, hurt feelings, hair pulling, a very unhealthy (but historically accurate) relationship, yoongi is an ass

moonlit throne index. this is drabble two. start from the beginning?

The chilly evening wind of coming spring sweeps a scattering of fallen leaves across the courtyard. It ripples through the sleeves of your jeogori as you descend from the stone veranda of your quarters towards the private palace gardens. The two guards who stand at the entrance move wordlessly aside upon seeing you, offering you slight bows that you return. Past this barrier, the tall, reaching trees hang against the darkened sky, heavy branches scratching invisible marks over the moonlight. You follow the set path with steady footsteps, passing blooming shrubs with a yawn on your lips. The day has been long and your eyes are sore from studying medicine with only a dim lamp for company. But the breeze - it whisks away fatigue with an enviable ease.

The path winds along the expansive pond. Water lettuce and lily pads cover most of the liquid surface, lining the makeshift island that houses your favorite: the grand pavilion. Recently renovated on the king’s direct instruction. You move closer, slippers leaving stone to scrape the thin wooden bridge.

Something in the dark shifts.

Your eyes fall upon a shadow. Your steps stutter, then quicken.

“Jeonha.”

The king sits on the left bench, near the open front that has yet to be replaced, with a casual arm draped over the intricate banister. He doesn’t stir at the sound of your deliberately soft voice, his gaze remaining mired on something in the distance, far beyond the pavilion’s, or perhaps even the palace’s, reach. His hat is abandoned beside him, the topknot slightly loose where it is bound on his head.

“May I join you?”

He waves his hand absently.

You consider your options, but ultimately take advantage of the pavilion’s half-finished state and sit on the very edge with your legs tucked under you in a traditional kneel. You cannot even remember the last time you’ve sat together like this - out in the open outdoors, away from the tightly-drawn curtains of his chambers and away from prying eyes. Only now do you realize how much it had been missing. “The willow trees have grown out nicely,” you offer, what you hope is a safe topic. You watch a lily pad drift idly by. “I hope the lotus flowers bloom well this year. The pond truly felt so empty last season without their color. I—”

“Is it commonplace for subjects to inflict idle chatter on their king?” The ice in his voice is a slap across the face.

You shut up immediately. Nervously swallow too, but the heaviness in your throat remains stuck. You’ve become uncomfortably familiar with that tone, the quick temper that flares up in seconds but takes its time to dissipate. A part of you wants to retreat and hide; the other can never bear to leave him. Ever so slightly, chewing on the inside of your cheek, you turn your head instead. Take your first good look at him and almost gasp at how gaunt he looks in the sparse light. Nor do you expect the deep purple settled beneath his eyes. If this had been ten or even just two years ago, you wouldn’t hesitate to mention it but with things as they are, you are so nervous to speak and…

“What?”

“Have,” you bow your head slightly, “have you not been sleeping?”

Silence.

“Jeonha?” You press. “Please.”

When he finally looks at you, it’s with a glare. “I haven’t the time.”

“And your meals?”

“Not hungry.”

Your fingers knot. “But rest, sleep is essential. As is food. Without it, to make important decisions—”

“Hah!” His scowl deepens, the scar stretching down with his lips. “It would make little difference in how they are received.”

Ah.

You should’ve known it was impossible to miss the rumors rumbling through the palace, their source the restless palace occupants faced with a ruthless king. He can’t stop the rampant thievery brought on by the grain shortage, yet executes the thieves themselves. His petty rejection of treaty with Japan left threats of war looming like an open wound that refuses to heal. All this, the former king would never have done. Or so the gossip goes.

“Still… Jeonha, you cannot, simply cannot, live like this. The people need you to be strong. They need their leader. Every hour you spend pushing yourself too far is an hour taken off your life. ” Saying the words alone puts a tremble in your fingers. The thought of his death could keep you awake right along with him. Has. But every syllable you speak is an overstep of your boundaries and rank. “I-If something is weighing on your mind, tell me. Use me. Tell me what you need and I’ll try to help however I can.”

He laughs then, but it’s an ugly, mocking sound. With a thud, he drops to the floor. “Spare me your fucking idealism.” His tight fist finds the roots of your hair. He yanks, hard. Your plain hairpin clatters to the floor, teetering wildly off the pavilion edge. “You, help me? What power do you have?” He drags you backwards, your eyes wide and quivering as they find fury in his. “What can you really do?”

He all but rips open your sash and you let him. You let him throw aside the layers that cover your chest until you’re exposed to him, torn white fabric pooling around your arms. His breath is hot at the shell of your ear as he growls, “this is all I need from you. This and nothing else.”

“T-Then use me,” you repeat, despite the dagger stab of pain in your heart. If this will lessen his burdens, you’ll do it. If this will have him in your arms if only fleetingly, you’ll do it.

He grabs a breast and smirks when you tense, then cry out when he pinches a nipple pebbled from the wind. Take it all, you think deliriously when his fingers tighten with an almost unbearable strength, and again when he dips his head low, sucking hard at the nape of your neck to give you a dark ache to remember come morning. He leaves one mark then another, and another, as if threatening to consume you entirely with his desire. And you? You’re addicted to that jolt of pain, the heady wetness of dominance that says he wants you. He wants nothing but you right now, and you tuck that precious knowledge away with a moan.

When he flips you onto your back, you don’t hear the quiet splash as your hand knocks the pin over. All your focus is stolen by your king between your legs, demanding obedience even from his knees. He wastes no time in forcing your skirt up, undoing the ties of the shorts beneath and throwing them aside. You don’t think you breathe until his nail rakes across the scrap of cloth covering your heat. “Look at you,” he mutters. “So wet. Shameless.” He doesn’t bother taking off the sokgot before fucking two fingers into you, deep enough for you to feel the ridge of his knuckles. The way your tight cunt opens and molds to him makes him sink his teeth into his lip in appreciation.

You already feel pressure building when he curls his fingers. It spikes up when he scissors, pushes you apart to hear you gasp. The noise travels far, echoing across the water while he makes a mess of you with each rapid pump. You don’t need to see to know that clear arousal is running down the sides of your lower lips. The sound of slick is as lewd as your whines, pitched at a tell-tale high.

“Fast, too fast,” you groan. But when you shift back, you’re only met with open air beneath your hands. You turn your head in panic and yelp when you realize just how close you are to the edge, with nothing but murky water below. “J-Jeonha, let me bac—”

“No.” His eyes glimmer with something possessive at the sight of you stretched out over the precipice, moonlight’s glow painted across your bare skin. All that pliant softness for him to ruin.

And you do break, when he hits that spot and punishes it without a second’s pause. “Please, oh god, please.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for but his palm slaps against your skin with reckless strokes. Your spine curves back, head going with it until all you see is the night and burning stars and everything in this palace that belongs solely to him. You let go. You cum with an errant hand flung out, fingers skimming across the water, the rest of you pinned beneath him. Uncontrollable.

His smile is sadistic as he leans over you, still fully clothed in his royal robes as he watches you tremble. “Think the guards can hear you?” You want to shake your head but all you do is grind your hips into him. “If they turned their heads, they’d see you like this. Needy. Desperate.” He spits the humiliating words through set teeth. “Why don’t I call them over and show them what the esteemed physician is really like?” His cocksure grin stretches even wider when he feels you clench in response. It seems to make up his mind; he doesn’t extract his fingers even though bliss has turned sharply into soreness. Just fucks you through the last of the aftershocks and then some until he brings you to peak for a second, noisy time.

Only then does he draw back, swiping his tongue slowly up his soaked hand. His eyes never leave you, even as he strips enough to pull his thick cock from the folds of gilded silk. You don’t get much of a glimpse before it’s sheathed in you, much fuller than his fingers. Your overstimulated cunt reacts despite the sensitivity, wetly clinging to his shaft as he bottoms out. He doesn’t stop to savor, doesn’t even let you catch a breath before he’s moving forward. His thrusts now, angry and quick and deep - they’re for him.

The low grunts of effort drop alongside sweat down his neck, topknot bobbing back and forth and he keeps going, nimble hips pistoning with none of the precision of his swordplay. Where that is beautiful, controlled movements, he finds himself the exact opposite when he’s inside you. A damn slave to the pleasure surging through his body, and he seems to hate that he needs it. A loathing that he leaves in the bruises on your ass every time you smack to the floor. “Always this tight for me,” he mutters in a low register.

You’re trying your best to hold on, and survive the acute ache of him battering against your deepest core because you could never ask him to stop. Your fingers cling to the stone boundary, holding you to solid ground when everything feels like it’s been tossed clear up into the air. You almost can’t bear to look at him like this. It’ll make you believe in the intimacy shared between lovers when this is—

He snarls your name, draws your attention back. “Say it.”

“J-Jeonha…!”

He must like what he hears and finds in your gaze, for he smirks. “You’ve become a nice little whore for me, haven’t you?”

And that’s it. That’s when you feel the hot sting behind your eyes finally overflow. It’s a word that’s you’ve become well-acquainted with these past few months but to hear it from his lips is... The tears slide backwards down your cheeks, rippling the pond but he doesn’t notice. Or if he does, maybe he pretends they’re of pleasure. If only you could follow suit.

He takes two almost-unbearably deep strokes and then, suddenly, you’re empty. He’s gasping, surprisingly undone as his hand slides frantically on his own cock. Sticky cum soon splatters all over your stomach, staining your skirt with his conquest. Panting, he looks at you through loose strands of blonde hair and doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans forward. For a moment, you forget yourself and expect him to kiss you. Instead, he hauls you up from the brink with a sweaty hand on the back of your neck.

“What? Want something else?” He snaps when he finds your puffy eyes staring at him.

You think about asking him if he’s alright. Maybe he would listen if you tried again, just once more time. But your body is sore, your thighs and core between them especially so. A lingering reminder that this is perhaps all you are good for in his eyes. Whore.

“No. Nothing.”

He stands, wiping dust off his sleeves, but otherwise not bothering to fix much of his wrinkled robes. “Then you are dismissed,” he says, then walks off. Likely to his private quarters, the back entrance connected to this garden.

Alone on the floor, you curl yourself up and still feel the emptiness, a dissatisfaction. You hadn’t noticed it before, but a songbird has been singing, marking the terribly late hour. On a sigh with fingers trembling, you pull the scraps of your jacket around your nakedness and try to shield yourself from the wind.

#ficswithluv #bts smut #yoongi smut #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts angst #yoongi x reader #daechwita #historical au #rain writes #moonlit throne #'drabble' i said... 2k words later... lol

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elijahs-wife · 4 years

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Sick Day

Requested by @hellotvshowtrash: “Hi I just really love your Elijah fics. Can you do on that’s about Elijah taking care of the reader after an injury or while they’re sick?” I’M SORRY THIS TOOK AAAGES TO POST! Life has been kinda nuts lately and it was hard to find motivation and time to write. I’m not 100% happy with this but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless <3

Like/reblog if you liked reading this and want to see more from me!

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1810+

Warnings: none that I can think of

The harsh noon sunlight streamed in through the gap in the curtains, burning against Y/N’s eyelids and disturbing her sleep. She stirred awake, blinking a few times to clear her sleep-fogged vision, while the headache from last night returned, only this time it was magnified and coupled with a runny nose and a sore throat. Touching a hand to her forehead, her suspicions were confirmed – she was running a fever as well. There was no air conditioning in her room, one of many testaments as to why the rent was so cheap, and it was far too hot to go back to sleep. Flinging the covers off of her, she slowly and reluctantly rolled out of bed, and reached for her phone on the nightstand. Crap, it’s almost 12.30, she thought as she noted the time on the screen, but she definitely didn’t have the energy to care too much. Besides, it was a Saturday, so at least she didn’t have to go to work. Rummaging through the drawer below, she discovered that she was clean out of Advil. Perfect.

She shuffled into the living room in her pyjamas, immediately slumping onto the couch. It was extremely old and had come with the apartment, but its age had made it soft and comfortable. After fumbling around between the cushions for the TV remote, she switched it on and found a channel playing a Harry Potter marathon. The pain in her head was as though someone was repeatedly banging her head against the wall, not to mention the constant sniffling and the feeling of having blades in her throat every time she swallowed. Well, if I have to die today, at least I’ll get to see Malfoy get punched in the face one last time, she thought, laughing to herself. Taking a proper look at her phone for the first time, she saw 3 missed calls and a few texts from Elijah and remembered that she was supposed to be at the compound right now, spending time with him like they had planned. Obviously, that wasn’t going to work out now. She started dialing his number to explain her absence, when she heard the slow click of the front door opening. Instinctively, she grabbed the first thing she saw as a weapon and shrunk into the couch in an attempt to hide – she wasn’t an expert with hand-to-hand combat and rushing in guns ablaze would certainly result in injury. However, a more than familiar voice called out her name. “Y/N?”

“Elijah?” she exclaimed, sitting up to look at him properly. His face, clouded by worry, did a double take when he saw her. “Might I ask why you were crouched on the sofa holding a candlestick?” he asked, utterly bewildered. “Well, I thought you were an intruder! You didn’t exactly make yourself known”, she grumbled, still disoriented by his sudden appearance at her place. Elijah tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “You thought a candlestick would be your best weapon against an intruder?” She shot him a dirty look. “Don’t snark me. I’m too sick to snark you back”, she sighed, laying her head back. In a second, he was beside her, taking in her haggard appearance – reddened nose and tired, glassy eyes. “Baby, you look exhausted”, he murmured while cupping her face gently, the concern obvious in his voice. Y/N melted against his touch; his silky voice so soothing that she could have sworn the headache faded for a moment. She then spotted the large plastic bags at his feet. “What’s in the bags?” she questioned, gesturing at them.

“Well, it’s all for you”, he replied, pulling them up to show her. “I wasn’t sure what medicines you had lying around so I bought a bit of everything: NyQuil, cough drops, ibuprofen for the headache. And I took the liberty of buying some groceries. You’re sick, and I’m going to take care of you”, he declared almost smugly. She was beyond confused now. “How could you even know I was sick? I literally woke up fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet,” she admitted, immediately regretting her outburst of truth. His expression remained amused as he replied, “You were supposed to meet me two hours ago, but you never showed, so naturally, I was a little worried. I came here and compelled your landlord to let me in. You were fast asleep, of course, but when I saw that you had a fever, I thought I would stay here to look after you till you got better.” His voice softened towards the end of his sentence.

“You know, some people would find that creepy. I, for one, find it extremely normal”, she mused sarcastically, to which he simply rolled his eyes before giving her a playful kiss on the nose. “Oh God,” she groaned, covering her face with a couch cushion, “It is too early on in our relationship for you to see me looking this gross”, she said, her already nasal voice muffled through the thick layers of fabric. He burst out laughing, and gently removed the cushion from her face. “My love, I’ve been alive for over a millennium. Nothing that I see today could be ‘gross’ to me. Now”, he said, pulling back her hair and securing it in a ponytail with the scrunchie that was on her arm, “why don’t you go and brush your teeth while I make you something to eat?”

The way that the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her was so adorable, she couldn’t help but smile back. Elijah had always been kind to her, even before they started dating, but ever since they did he had been nothing short of perfect – sweet and caring, and unfailingly loyal, always willing to go above and beyond to make her happy although his mere presence was enough. That’s just the kind of person he was. “Alright”, she replied, forcing herself up and trudging her way to the bathroom to freshen up.

Elijah heard her leaving the bathroom, the soles of her fuzzy slippers shuffling against the wooden floorboards. She pulled her fluffy robe tighter around her body to help with the chills, while a familiar, comforting smell drifted through the air. Although she was hungry, Y/N headed straight for the bag of medicines on the counter to find the Advil – her head was still throbbing, and she desperately needed some relief. It wasn’t easy to find, given that he had evidently bought the entire pharmacy and fit it all in one bag. After finally finding it, she noticed that Elijah had already put out a glass of water for her and glanced at him in silent appreciation. Clearly, his thoughtfulness knew no bounds. Looking around the tiny kitchen, she saw a large pot on the stove that he stirred from time to time. After gulping down a pill with a swig of water, she plodded back to the sofa and sat lengthways, taking up more than half the space to get comfortable while waiting for the painkiller to take effect. “So, what’s on the menu today, Chef Elijah?” she teased.

He scoffed humorously, “Making packeted soup hardly makes me a chef, Y/N. But, when you are feeling well again, I will gladly demonstrate my skills in the kitchen.” She watched him work over the back of the couch, appreciating the view of his arms in rolled up sleeves. “Can we get ice cream later?” she piped up hopefully, a sudden hankering for it coming over her. He looked at her sternly. “Ice cream will only aggravate your symptoms”, he said firmly. “Perhaps later.” She pouted at him and turned away in a huff as he gave the pot a final stir before switching off the gas. “The soup is now done”, he announced, already ladling some into a bowl and bringing it to her. She took it gratefully – the last meal she had had was yesterday’s dinner, and that was many hours ago. The first spoonful felt like heaven: rich, savory, and hot, it numbed the pain in her throat, at least temporarily.

For a while, they quietly sat in front of the TV while she ate, watching the movie, his arm loosely wrapped around her shoulders. Setting the empty bowl aside when she was done, she blew her nose unceremoniously into a tissue. “Sorry", she muttered with a grimace, her physical discomfort far overshadowing the desire for self-preservation. “There’s nothing to be sorry about”, he said, gently stroking her hair, “but clearly it’s time for more medicine.” He stood up and was back in less than a second with all the medicines he had bought and a large glass of water. He examined all the boxes closely, making sure to read all the fine print, deciding which ones to administer. Even in her poorly state, she couldn't help the amused giggle escaping her lips as she watched him hunched over, reading intently.

“Something amusing?” he asked dryly, not looking away from the bottle of cough syrup in his hands. She shook her head silently, trying to suppress her laughter which immediately faded when she saw the assortment of capsules and pills that he handed her. Examining and identifying them herself, she decided that they would all help her symptoms. So even though it was the last thing she felt like doing, she swallowed all of them, finishing off the glass of water. “More water?” he asked. She shook her head, starting to cough in short painful bursts. He tried rubbing her back gently, which only helped a little. “My throat hurts really bad, Elijah.” Grateful that he had read a few articles online about food for flu patients while at the pharmacy, he rushed to the fridge and back, holding out a yogurt.

She looked at the carton with a quizzically raised brow. “It’s supposed to soothe the throat”, Elijah explained. “It’s cold so it will calm your throat, and healthy for you. Full of good bacteria.” He stared expectantly, waiting for her to eat it. “I don’t see why I couldn’t have just had ice cream”, she complained, digging her spoon into the plastic cup with contempt before eating it. He was right though; it did calm her throat down. Laughing gently, he pulled himself closer to her, wrapping his arm around her a little tighter. She relaxed against him, leaning her head and shoulders on his chest. “Thank you”, she said, her voice coming out smaller than she had intended. “For taking care of me.” Y/N felt him smile above her. “Well, I had to. I’m kind of in love with you”, he said, his feigned nonchalance making her giggle while she pulled away to look up at him.

“I’m kind of in love with you too.”

#elijah mikaelson #elijah x reader #elijah imagines #elijah one shots #the originals #the originals fanfiction #i swear im going to write for more characters also can you tell i hate titling fics #it literally makes me scream

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 1)

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: You've woken up being hunted by an Alghoul. You were in a death race and hollered for help. Though, it seems like the human you've first seen didn't exactly appeared to look human all through out as his eyes glowed beneath the moon light. You've talked to him but he didn't seem friendly at all except for his awakened friend. The words coming out of their mouth seemed baffling because they were acting like they didn't live in earth, and deep inside you were in denial because they really weren't.

Warnings: Monsters? The word 'whores' and cusses? Blood? A lot of modern references because reader lives in modern day era in earth.

Words: 3,800+

A/N: Hello! Yes, this is my first Geralt fic! There will be eventual smut in the future chapters. I can just tell. LMAO. I ain't good with medieval things but I'm trying! I hope this isn't a failure nor a disappointment, spuds! 😅 Reader lives in modern day earth in this fic but magically woke up in The Witcher’s dimension, alright? This turned to be comedic because of the modern references from the reader. 😂🤣🤣 I had fun writing this! FOR REAL!

TAGLIST IS OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS FIRST PART! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters and said monsters aren't from moi as well. (GIF taken from Tumblr!)

MY WORKS ARE NOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

Tweaks of branches echoed around the unspecified woodland. The satisfying crack of the frail wood felt on the soles of your feet which wore some nasty pink Havaianas slippers as the night sky became colder than from what you were accustomed with.

You were running away from god knows what as you've heard a loud thud beside the tree you've woken up with. Taking a trip down the memory lane, your forgetful mind could only recall a lake in which you were drowning in and the sudden flash of lightning occurred above you as the water rested upon your face.

Then after that terrifying nightmare, you suddenly woke up in the middle of nowhere. A slightly dead looking forest before you've heard the rustle of some twigs and leaves beside you.

Having a vacation in the forest of Switzerland has never been a dream and considering how God smacked you in the head unconscious and teleported you in Switzerland was entirely bewildering from the start.

Your heart was hurriedly pounding out of your chest as you sprinted as fast as you can. Abnormal shrills whistled with the wind that made you mewl as you ran for your life. There has been cuts and bruises across your knee from how you've stumbled upon a large log that hid beneath the earth-like soil. No pain has been sent to your nerves yet because of the adrenaline rush rising in every part of your veins with the need for the hushed voices to stop.

"Ah!" Another loss of one's footing, you've tripped over a large rock and fell face flat. Face now covered in grime and soot as you've heard the intangible whisper of words for the tenth time.

"Leave me the fuck alone! If this is a prank, it's not funny because I'm hurt!" you shrieked in the night and no one in particular. Limbs were turning feeble and shaky, but you've offered all your will power to survive in the damn forest if you were about to get murdered and be found after a year where your body has already been eaten by some wild animal.

The hushed voices were coming closer to a definite scare that took your heart out of your chest. You've pushed yourself up and began sprinting with a limp as you saw the end of the forest; like a meadow was waiting for your damn demise as you won't be outrunning the murderers behind you.

You stood in the middle of a grass field. So, this was the end for you. The voices inside your head spoke as you've scanned the whole area and saw a peculiar wooden house in the middle of the vast area.

The wooden house seemed to be made of Hazel twigs, daub and wattle. Its whole structure was darn weird to be seen in the era you knew you were in. Year 2020. It looked medieval, old and superannuated. The house's structure had a timber frame with a light glowing inside the open panels of its windows.

Human. Someone can help you. Based on the clothes that hung on the sides of a wooden fence in logs, you knew there was someone living inside the peculiar looking house.

Then, you've heard a loud roar. It was enough for you to spun on your heels and see who had been chasing you like a wild boar.

Yet, it wasn't a normal wild boar that could calm you down just a slight because it was just an animal.

The one chasing you didn't seem a murderer nor an animal. Its body appeared to live on the ground, like a zombie who came to life and had no lower body. Though, it had a large stomach and uses his burly arms to chase you down the forest. With Bright cardinal eyes wrathfully staring you down as you stood rooted on the ground in the middle of the field; your heart seeming to run out of oxygen because of what you were witnessing.

You didn't know if it was an alien or a zombie. Proper thinking thrown out of the window as you were running away from the nightmare that was bound to kill you in your sleep, if you were even sleeping.

Your feet ran a trek to the house; looking behind. Focal point completely at the fast carcass crawling to where you were, tons of disgusting looking saliva dripping out of its eroding jaw and you were screaming for help as you skedaddle away.

Until your head hit a hard wall, but not enough for you to fall unconscious.

Vision falling like a kaleidoscope world, you blinked repeatedly and squinted you eyes up at the wall. Though, you were met with a clothed robust chest and a strong warmth he radiated through the crispy, cold Autumn wind. You've scanned him from chest to face and noticed a coin-like silver necklace just a meter away from your face that had a symbol of a wolf.

You didn't know if you were just still dizzy from your newly awakened-self but it was as if your world spun around you as the brawny, marvelous man towered over you like a lion over a mouse. His jawline impressively great enough to cut a bitch; a prominent, cleft chin that can be quite tempting to poke at and eyes that were glowing in Aurum like a star in the night sky or a pot of gold in the other end of the rainbow, with majestic half-tied hair that ended below his shoulders tinted in ivory that stood upon the Tartarean night.

Though, despite of how dashing, grimy and haggard he appeared before you. The scowl on his face was enough to take you to step back from how disturbed he looked like.

You've seen him somewhere. In the movies back in your laptop when you were having a marathon of something.

Lord of the rings. Right, you were dreaming about it in the middle of being chased in your nightmare. That explains why he appeared.

You clapped excitedly as you lifted your chin to stare into his beautiful blazing gold eyes. The grumpy looking man cocked his head to the side as he scrutinized and studied your filth-filled face and you couldn't help but notice the concealed scrunch of his nose if you weren't staring a little bit too closely.

"Hmm," it was the first word you've heard from this intimidating man standing in front of you and hearing such an impossible, low timbre of a hum that vibrated from his chest could get your knees weak from such a tone because you didn't know if it was scaring you or telling you to run for the hills instead.

"Legolas?" your voice croaked out loud, voice turning small when you've received only a grimace that wouldn't be considered as a fake smile, much to your dismay. Your scrutinizing eyes noticed something different from one of the Lord of the Rings character and it was the maturity of his face, "--a middle aged Legolas! Help me! Use your arrow thingy--" he pushed your shoulders to stay behind him, making you stumble from the impact but not enough to ignite another bruise to your knees. Your eyes staring weirdly at his back as you studied the long metal knightly looking steel wrapped around his thick, large, powerful looking palms.

"---Oh, a sword would suffice." you muttered, suddenly uninmpressed because you wanted him to have an arrow instead of a sword to live in your fantasies and continued to hid behind the large build of his body, taking a peek as you saw the bizarre looking creature who screeched so loud that it echoed all over the meadow. You've unconsciously held onto the hem of the wool sweater behind the first human you've ever encountered other than the creature who planned to eat you alive.

"There's a zombie!"

Geralt felt the hand tugging at his sweater. He was close to jumping from the sudden physical touch because of how sudden you've reach out for him regardless of meeting him just tonight. His eyebrows in a tough knot and expression unreadable as he eyed the Alghoul running towards you. The hand holding the hem of his clothing was instantly right out of your hands as he prepared his stance and tread towards the critter like he was confident enough he could eliminate him.

He swung the sword, aiming for the head using just one hand as he lifted it with no trouble; like it was his own weapon and you couldn't help but watch the whole scene unfold before you. The Alghoul jumped using its arms but he was stronger, faster, braver and definitely had no sweat with the upswing of his sword as he slashed the head off the creature with one blow.

Well, he was great. Too great with the sword indeed.

Black blood spurt as he'd cut his head off with no remorse, some of its blood flying off to your grimy sleeveless top and face as you winced from the gore and stared at the head rolling on the ground till it hit your toes.

You just wanted to scream out loud but it seems like your jaw has been stuck and you had no voice to start.

The man seemed to be unruffled at the fact that he just cut the creature's head off with his sword, turning his back at face front that you saw black fluids on the smooth wrinkle of his forehead and cheeks.

"It's an Alghoul," he abnormally grumbled so deep that you mistaken it as a growl. You could feel your tongue stuck in your throat and heard his heavy footsteps coming close. Your eyes still focused at the monster's head scratching your feet that you haven't realized that the man who saved you was actually in front of you already, grabbing its head and throwing it away to save you from another nightmare.

Faded set of footsteps came echoing in. Lighting up a startle from you as you heard a door swish out loud in the open. Until, a budding pitch of a man has said the name of your gory savior in the middle of the night.

"Geralt?" Jaskier hesitantly stepped on the creaking, wooden porch. Eyes still weary of sleep and fatigue as he blinked to the both of you who stood at each other in just an arm reach.

Your savior mumbled another distasteful hum as he observed the short woman before him who seemed to be in total shock; staring at the ground where he'd took the head of the Alghoul away before sighing and taking a step back and away from you to take a look at his bloody sword. "Why, who is this adorable, small grimy lady here in the middle of the night?" the light tone of the man's voice made you blink twice; snapping you out of your reverie.

You turned your head and studied the somnolent man standing outside of the porch, hair disheveled like he'd been disrupted by such a beauty sleep. He looked younger, like he was in his 20's and had a youthful beam with lean muscles beneath the white undershirt wore under a Tunic. Jaskier placed both hands on his hips before pointing a finger at you, sending you a bright smile other than the moue you've received from the man named 'Geralt,' "You came here for Geralt, I suppose? One of your..midnight sashays with him?"

Geralt didn't need to look at his friend and ignored everything he said by walking towards a beautiful brown horse, "Jaskier," he lowly reprimanded as he eyed his horse with an indecipherable expression of his.

Jaskier deeply sighed, his shoulders going up and down from how he did and you eyed him with a baffling twist of your eyebrows.

"First and foremost, you ruined his nap and now he can be as grumpy as an--an Alghoul! An amputated Alghoul!" he blinked in surprise, peeking behind you to see the creature who had its head cut-off laying on the muddy ground.

Geralt continued to pet his horse as your eyes snapped to him, his back on you as you heard his horse neigh, the man named Jaskier still rambling about the creature who laid dead on the ground.

"Alghouls appear in old necropolises and crypts," he scratched his temple with a finger, walking down the path till he was studying the corpse on his foot, "It's a miracle that they've hunted you down. They seldom appear in the forest! Also, they knock down their victims and eat them alive. Right, Geralt? You've taught me these!"

Geralt ignored him and continued petting his horse.

You eyed the man named named Jaskier and watched him walk back to you, a solemn smile on his face because of your unfortunate experience with the forest. Suddenly, realizing about the information he'd uttered, you were sure it was just like those creatures in the movies like Resident Evil or The Walking Dead.

"So, it's basically a zombie!"

Jaskier stared at you like you've eaten a dead mouse. Forehead creasing as he tried mouthing the word you've said, giving his friend a once over as he does, "A zom--what? please do enlighten me, Geralt as to what is a Sombre when I can see with my own splendiferous eyes that the monster he'd killed is an Alghoul--"

You've huffed and bit the insides of your cheeks, fists tightening on either side as you stubbornly bantered, "Z O M B I E. Zombie."

Thus, at the retort; Jaskier had his hands on his hips with his chest puffed out like he was trying to intimidate you. But, it was a failure because he never looked intimidating from the start, "A zombie. Alright. I understood you but not entirely, dirty maiden. Geralt--" he looked over his friend who was now already on the side of you, startling the both of you and sky-scraping from your side as you lifted your chin to see him oddly closing his eyes, breathing you in.

Was he smelling you?

You eyed Jaskier like you were finding it peculiar and he just gave you a shrug, "Your scent..It's...It's...otherworldly, " Geralt uttered, completely resonant and low-pitched that vibrated your calming nerves, "It attracted the Alghoul," he continued with a frown and another sniff before humming in disdain.

"Very out of the ordinary," the latter muttered beneath his chest, a snarl coming out of his mouth as you swallowed the butterflies wanting to come out of your mouth by how monumental he was and you feel so small, "Who sent you?"

You took a step away from the man, eyeing him weirdly as he stubbornly took a step close like personal space wasn't known to the world you are in, "Uhm, no--no one?" a pathetic stutter came out of your lips and felt the tremble of your fingers because of a thought running in your mind that he was also as dangerous as the Alghoul they were saying; maybe even more treacherous, "I came out from my mother’s reproductive organ? You know what, Geralt--"

Jaskier suddenly cut you off, crossing his arms behind him as he watched his friend tower over you, an amused grin etched on his face because you were actually crumbling like a rat before the ginormous cat, "Geralt. A letter G. Not a J. G E R A L T---"

"---Alright, GERALT!" you stopped taking steps back and declared out loud, mocking their accent that you couldn't distinguish. Your palms were outstretched in front of you, ceasing Geralt from pushing you away but not enough to be touching his torso. A pleading look in your eyes that made him breath out of his nose, "---Just please tell me where the airport is and I'm off to my country,"

The man in front of you stared you down, completely uncanny at what you were voicing out. You winced and realized you wouldn't get an answer from him and tried to ask help from his friend instead, but Jaskier was fast to distract you and criticize the clothes you wore, "What even is that clothing?"

You blew out air out of your mouth loudly, not believing their words. They were acting like they weren't actually living in earth at all, "It's casual! Don't judge!"

Jaskier also gave a huff, not believing the outlandish behavior from a lady and continued complaining to the Witcher who seemed to never have the decency to give you space, "Cas--what? Geralt, this woman is foolish. Don't even attempt to ravish her in any way. Utterly not worth it! She's a cuckoo with that flimsy short trousers, an odd looking footwear and a thin top like the Alghoul has taken all of her silk. Unless, this woman is actually your type, well--I wouldn't judge you for your taste in women because most of the time it is utmost round the bend--"

His spouts were cut short as you managed to get a proper look at the strangely, beautifully rugged man before you, giving him one of those tired, puppy eyes that made his frown much less more like it as he waited, "I just wanna go home," your voice sounded so vindicated and you were sure his eyes were really glowing under the night sky, "---please tell me where the airport is and I'll go, or you can probably help me with my wounds first before you shoo me away,"

You've felt the burns from your wounds and ungracefully tried to avoid those glowing eyes that seem to suddenly make your heart pound. Damn you and your horrid types, "Do you...have a car?" you asked no one in particular as you watched the stars that also seemed to be peculiar because of how many they were.

His horse neighed from a distance which gave you an idea that their house didn't have a garage nor do they have a car. You peeked behind Geralt and saw his horse standing behind the stables, "Oh, you have a horse. A beautiful brown horse, I take it we're in a province, I see."

Again, no response from him other than Jaskier's sighs. It was like taking to the wind, but actually talking to a corpse.

You could feel the heat of his stare and it was making you conscious of how you actually looked like, so you continued to avoid his eyes and looked at anywhere but him, "We're in Switzerland right? Or in a province in the U.K, Scotland or Australia considering your accents?"

The only response you've gotten from him was a mere seven word that made you scrunch your nose by how weirder they get, "You aren't from here, I can tell."

"Way to tell her that she's a woman and not a man, Geralt. Stop stating the obvious,"

You ignored their utterance as they've also ignored your question. All you needed was an airplane to get you back to where you came from and escape from this madness. Yet, they seem like to be beating around the bush which began to slightly irritate you because you were sounding like a broken record, "So where's the airport, gentlemen? I still need to feed my cat at home and I'll tell the entire universe that its the end of the world with the zombies. Gotta' tell them a zombie apocalypse is happening--my phone!" you patted the pockets of your shorts and felt your Android phone inside. You've fished it out and pressed the home button, the bright light gleaming beneath the night and both men couldn't help but stare at you in oddity.

"Your what?" was the only thing Jaskier has muttered, looking at what you were holding. Geralt observed the unfamiliar looking thing in your hand and squinted his eyes shut at the bright light, "It's--there's no signal! Where are we?" you tapped on your phone repeatedly and found the GPS not working as the results were indefinite.

Jaskier marched till he was beside his friend, clasping a cold hand on his burly shoulders, cocking his head to the side and clasping his other on his own hip as he gave you a look, "Not just simply absurd but also a strange one, Geralt. You definitely pick the best ladies, First was Renfri; the rebel princess, second is Yennefer; that cunning beautiful mage in which you’ve been in love with and the other hundred are your whores--"

Geralt cocked his head to the side, an unexpected small smile lifting his lips as he continued laying his golden eyes on you, "Year 1268. In the far north kingdom of Kaedwen,"

You nervously nodded, crossing your arms at how exposed you feel from the man before you especially that your clothes were also thin for a weather you were in. Fingers were feeling like ice and you couldn't help but shiver, "Kaedwen? Padawan? Star wars references, I see. Okay, okay, this is getting out of hand and I know you're still in character but please tell me that this is a prank and you're just fond of cosplay,"

"Hmm," His smile was quick to fall, like it has only been a hallucination of your imaginations. Geralt studied you from head to toe. Your breath catching in your throat at how barren you felt with just a simple scan of his eyes and also by how beautiful he looked. Such a pain but soothing for the eyes. He caught the bruises and wounds all over your body and heavily sighed another one before turning his back away from you and letting Jaskier lightly stumble on his feet after giving him a manly tap on the shoulder.

"He's letting her in," Jaskier mumbled to himself and watched Geralt walk away, completely amused as he couldn't believe it, "He really is!"

He scratched his disheveled bed-head and huffed another one, pointing at the retreating man who entered their wooden cavern. "Based on how long I've been a friend with this grumpy Witcher, that answer was either a yes, or a no."

"---Unfortunately, it seems like a no because he took off without a word," he gestured with a finger and used his other to welcome you like a humble gentleman giving way for a princess, "---but also an approval that you can stay in our humble abode to cure that wounds you have which is oddly strange because he never lets anyone in, yet here you are. A grubby ground breaker,"

He eyed the Alghoul's blood on your top and face, his face morphing into disgust as he pointed a playful finger at you, "---And you, small rat. Need a bath," before waggling them around to tell you his point, "---However, you don't get to take my bed,"

The hopes of having your sleep or tightly shutting your eyes, repeatedly wishing inside your head to wake up on your mattress back at your apartment would definitely be a difficult task especially from what you've witnessed. Though, maybe closing your eyes shut and having a nap was the only cure to the nightmare you were living in; taking note at how long this dream of yours have been occurring. It was technically a nightmare full of magical creatures and magic that promised you would only be a mere dream of yours.

That is, when you've opened your eyes after repeatedly wishing up at the sky to wake you up in your dream and saw Jaskier walking in, leaving the door open for you to make yourself at home completely answered your questions.

You weren't dreaming and it appears to be like you were in a different dimension.

"Oh, I'll be damned,"

A PART 2? YES? Y’ALL WANT THIS TO HAVE A SECOND CHAPTER? HEEEHEE!! TELL ME WHAT YA THINK ABOUT THIS!

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rosepyrearchive · 3 years

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𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an experiment of posting a drabble a day, from a few sentences to a paragraph or more. i posted them on my old blog, now i’m going to compile them all here !

fingers carefully shift the lavender crystal in betwixt her thin fingers. for years, it had remained faithfully at the base of her throat, the way wolves protect each other’s most delicate parts; her father always did the same. now, there’s somewhere else she’d like to place that power, that protection. what color would the crystal turn, when placed in anakin’s palm ? blue, like his eyes, or red, like the blood he sheds ? the choker she once wore, pastel colored velvet around her neck, has an empty slot where she’d pulled the gem from, and now it finds a new home on a long chain of beskar; where she imagines it will press right in the middle of his chest, beneath his tunic & tabard. no matter what becomes of him, or what tries to hurt him . . . the chain and crystal will remain.

ii.

in her mother’s arms, she is just a daughter, a doll. on stage, she is better than a mortal girl, or even the immortal one she became; she’s a ballerina in tufts of pink & tulle. i am a good girl, even now when they’re all in the ground. now that the curtains of earth & velvet have fallen, though, who is she ? who does she become, without the pale pink ribbons & tight bodice of her costumes ? the voice, the visions, the hallucinations seem to answer for her; a ghost, a hazy, obscure daydream who cannot truly exist. who is she ? where does the camouflage, the eagerness to please end ? serena supposes it doesn’t end at all; and in that, she is a russian doll of nothingness.

iii.

she’s never seen him without his helmet. no one has, serena imagines — not in this state of his life, where removing it means deprivation and vulnerability; the simple act and thought is filled with an intimacy serena knows she could never earn from him, but … the yearning doesn’t stop, nor does the longing and curiosity to see his pallid skin, scarred & tainted, the marks that must cover his cheeks and chest. where do they end ? are they like ripples in waves or a pattern ? and … when she stands near him, does he ever look at her ? the blackness of his shield hides it all, and it does it’s job in making her nervous; serena can never stand still in his presence, thighs shaking and nails digging trench tracks into her soft palms. darth vader is terrible, awful, even cruel … so what is it that allures her so deeply, and why ? then again, if she knew, perhaps the shimmering butterflies would subside and she could see clearly, see this for what it was. he wasn’t even using her — and she is the very picture of devotion.

iv.

to what end does the fae steal a fair maiden ? or is it truly a crime, when the victim is so terribly willing ? allie’s feet move so mesmerizingly, around & around while flowers and mushrooms bloom from beneath her soles; her palm is so open – ❪ come to me, serena ! ❫ perspiration of late summer sticks to serena’s forehead, betwixt her rosy fingers, ❪ 𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ? 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙰𝚈 … ❫ and without a regret, she lays her hand in the other girl’s. she sups on honeyed milk, gives her name. the fairies covet gold, and what is serena, if not well - dressed in a golden shroud, from her crown to the hem of her long dress ? what does she have to fear, when she is magic all on her own ? allie’s hand lifts both of theirs high as she twirls serena amidst the flowers, and she swears she can feel grass grow from her steps.

calloused fingers dig deep into serena’s sweet, soft dimples; and from her jaw, trickles of sweet wine drip, down her neck, like spilled rubies on her pale skin. you hurt me, she wants to say. you’ve hurt me, and i am the one who’s sorry. hollis draws his thumb down to her chin, leaving perfect smudged fingerprints across her the way one would drag their fingers across a fogged glass. his eyes are a dull, venomous green as he calls her a name that doesn’t belong to her. that isn’t me, serena wants to cry. non, mon rêve, you’re much prettier than she ever was, hollis would reply, because this isn’t the first time. he squeezes bruises into her little arms as he kisses her, and serena thinks she kisses him back.

vi.

allow the camera to pan upwards, from her pale pink ballet slippers into her soft cotton dress, her feet turn out in first position as she raises her hands into fourth, pulled up by soft silk strings by an invisible puppeteer. the stage is her church, a massive, all encompassing world of history & grace, and then the world becomes it’s own stage; and serena’s performance is all consumed, like an apple in the garden of eden. isn’t she so lovely, so flawless, our little ballerina ornament ? serena doesn’t know who, or what, controls her actions – her lies, her pliés. some entity who refuses to present themselves, only bothering to choreograph her life & watch her from behind the scenes; she is both fresh as a flower, brought up in springtime, & as broken as skeletons that have long withered to dusk in their caskets. even in her most secluded moments, she does not feel alone – not truly. this puppet master is always watching, writing their script, judging her arches and how gracefully she can slide across the floor in her pointe shoes. when she takes her final bow, it’s only the studio mirror that gazes back at her, her own doelike brown eyes, her own slim form – there’s no cables attaching her to the ceiling.

this life is so very boring, so unlike the dreamy world she longed for as a foolish girl. i had long ruined my own life with my own dissatisfaction before someone else destroyed it for me.

viii.

longing lurks deep behind a golden - brown gaze / what comfort can she take in the jedi code, when it’s cold, hard … and ben’s hand is warm, all encompassing ? the code, the code … the temple is a stage, and the council pulls her strings, but the one thing they can’t take from her is her mind; in there, she is strong, stone. they encourage compassion: but no attachments. what is that, to her ? what is it compared to the sunlight she feels in ben’s eyes when he leans down to kiss her temple, or the delight serena can see in him when she enters the room ? ❪ because love is the death of duty, as wiser men say ❫ in many ways, she is greater than other girls; a doll - like padawan, bright, intelligent – but in the end, she is still human, and she finds no love within the code / only does she find the serenity it speaks of in ben’s embrace, and the way he bends over at the waist to hold her, and he is all around her like cologne. that is a glory & a tragedy worth dying for.

viii.

fear has always cut deep within serena’s soft skin; it was easy to pull her apart like a pomegranate, see the little pin - prick razors of fright, but nothing had made her so afraid since meeting the jedi. she’s a fragile heart wound tightly in red ribbons and strings, each tied to the pinkie finger of every person she loves. some of the ends are cut, some fray towards the latter, but she doesn’t forget. she doesn’t let go, not in her deep heart, where they are safe. the jedi don’t agree; and her body wracks with guilt as she resists placing ribbons on their fingers. they cannot love me, she knows / so why isn’t it enough to stop her ?

ix.

every part of my body aches. serena sits on the hard bathroom floor like a stain on the tile, the tulle of her practice skirt shimmering in the dim fluorescents. the plastic stall divider is freezing against her shoulders, and it hurts when her head falls back against it. the bathroom is empty, but the room is loud. DISGUSTING GIRL. IT HURTS. what hurts ? I CAN’T FIND IT ANYMORE, IT’S SPREAD LIKE A POISON. she finds sanctuary in her own little white lies, and this stall where none of the other ballerinas go – she’s a soloist, a prima; she is special. allegedly. she barely notices the wine - red trickle of blood that spills from her nose, gravity pulling it down her perfect pale face. the relief is nearly instant, whatever ache she’d had seems to fade away / her eyes hone in on the empty plastic bag, only remnants of white pill powder left. the same resin seems to linger on the tip of her pointe shoe, that she’d used to crush it all up. the urge to smash the wooden end of her slipper into the stupid godforsaken plastic container as hard as she can and see how much damage she can do washes over her; but she’s too shocked by the sudden violent urge to act on it. instead, serena lets the clarity & ability to focus drown out the voices that scream in her tender head, and brings herself to stand.

❪ 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊 ❫

pink silk shimmers in the early morning sun; her blush is just as pretty, sitting across from her father at the iron balcony table. he is her king, her first love, and serena revels in the attention her father lavishes on her. everything is still so new, so beautiful, when she’s young – serena dreams of the future, of white veils and cotillions. her distance isn’t yet defensive, but a sweet daydream, of romantic notions & hopes. serena dreams of the far away, of paris and rushing crowds. you have the carlisle look, julian had told her, once. your brother has it too. someday, this world will be wrapped around your little finger. be kind to it. serena had smiled so lovely at that – let the world be kind. let it show her kindness.

xi.

❪ 𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘 ❫

this is a private moment; but serena can feel the hidden camera lenses on her, seeking that million dollar photo of palpable grief, or the bullet hole in her father’s chest, as if it weren’t hidden from view behind his favorite suit. she won’t cry. serena had already emptied herself of every golden tear when she’d cleaned her father’s face, when she’d combed his hair. she was the one who’d laid his arms over his chest, with her favorite stuffed animal between them to keep him company. august pulls all her curls behind her head, and lays his hands on her thin shoulders, squeezing just enough to be a reassurance. a million questions ran through her head – every single one beginning with why.

her fingers drift, softly, for the last time, over her father’s cheek. she pretends it’s warm with life, and not chilling to the bone. if he could be killed, then no one is safe.

xii.

❪ 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ❫

be kind to the world. serena’s innocence had died screaming, yet she still remembers the words her father had told her. sunlight streams through the trees above, but she is too stiff to move just yet; so she lies there in the grass, flowers having bloomed over the years of her sleep through her hair and around her body. a new era has begun, everything she knows is gone. everyone she loves is gone. maybe it’s the haziness of first waking up after a half - century, but there’s a determination beneath her silk skin, her ivory bones. serena has become something new, just as the world has – beneath the porcelain, her ribs have grown steel. she will not be so breakable ever again.

xiii.

in the movies, pearls are always being yanked from necks, the precious little beads clattering to the hardwood floor in bunches. serena allows the pretty necklace to drift through her fingers, remembering the time her mother had wrapped it around her neck. she’d felt like such a little madam in her maman’s pearls. there’s a little secret: those pearls in films, dramatic as they were, were fake. maman’s were genuine, and the little pieces were knotted in between, meaning even if she’d ripped them from her throat, only one or two at worst would go missing. her mother was too much of a lady, anyway … prone to melancholy and hurt, but not quite fits. what a complicated love, the one between a mother & a daughter … serena finds herself missing her mother’s arms more often than not these days, and the security that came with them.

xiv.

valentine’s day has always been a non - affair romantically; her favorites were dinner dates with her family, the men being the gentlemen, and the one day her maman would let her wear her red lipstick. the couples on the street below her balcony make her feel something, but is it jealousy, or nostalgia ? her palm cradles her jaw as she leans against the iron barrier. a man kisses a woman, and why does her heart lurch for something so impossible ? to love, to be loved … she would never be capable of it, her last boyfriend had told her so. adam had as well. anyone who would want to spend this day with her is dead, and no one else could accept the things she’d done, the person she’s become beneath the lace and ribbons. hallowed, broken.

xv.

i hate the dirt. i hate the grime that i can’t wash away, and the fingerprint i leave on the pristine envelope that the postman gives me, his gaze apologetic. until i look at the handwriting, i don’t understand why. it’s been a week since he could last reach us on the battlefield, to give us some form of comfort and relief, and he only gives me a single letter. there should be more. serena writes to me every day, there should be at least six or seven, all beginning with my dearest brother; but even the single letter isn’t from my sister, but my wife. i should be excited for that, but i’m not – not when i can’t fathom why there’s only this one letter. when i tear into it, a picture falls out: my wife, holding our son. this is a happy moment, and i can feel pressure build behind my eyes, but it’s distracted, because serena should be in this photo. she isn’t, because for some godforsaken reason she’s here in europe – and that’s enough to push the tears from my eyes. i should be there, and serena should be holding her nephew and accepting our request to be his godmother.

but she isn’t, and i’m not either.

xvi.

the streets of new york now aren’t so different from the streets of new york in my childhood. the fashion is different; women wear shorter skirts, deeper cuts to expose their collarbones, and these are changes i like. the buildings still creep into the clouds like pillars of divinity, and the sidewalks are crowded, but no one pays too much attention to anyone else. the men dress differently too, and those changes i don’t like, but if i sit and close my eyes … it’s still all the same, and i can picture the cars, the pretty women and handsome men … even my silly little girl friends, the ones who would walk with me during breaks in ballet when we had so little else to do. when i close my eyes, it doesn’t feel like a lifetime ago.

xvii.

it happens gradually, then all at once, like the impatience of waiting for a rose to blossom. one day you wake up, and it’s simply bloomed, petals spread wide in the sunshine. in that case, serena wonders which moment it was that made her realize her feelings for ben had flowered ── was it the time his fingers grazed hers on the piano keys, and he played the wrong note to make her laugh ? or perhaps when he smiled at her so earnestly, all white teeth and curled lips that met the crinkles by his eyes ? she can’t pinpoint the exact moment she realized she loves ben kenobi; serena only knows what she feels now, the safety of his warm hugs, the way the word ‘graves’ slips between her teeth and she doesn’t choke trying to reel it back in. home was something impossible, turned to ash & bone, but then she finds herself sitting at their table in the coffee shop & she thinks perhaps a home can be rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer used to come first thing in the morning, a mantra spoken breathlessly to open air. it’s not an ideology that serena subscribes to anymore ❪ part of her wonders if she ever did ❫ , but old habits had died hard. she wants to enjoy a new one. ben is there, barely awake while thick raindrops smack against the balcony doors, and serena shimmies his boxers down his thighs. she’s already asked him nicely, with her polite manners and pretty mouth ── and she tries to mask her eagerness with languid movements, laying her cheek to his hip and letting her long curls fall over his body. serena knows he can feel her by the way he shudders when her eyelashes flit over him, her rose - petal fingers everywhere and nowhere because they aren’t exactly where ben wants them. you should tell me what you like, serena offers with a wicked little smile, dragging his hand until he can grip her curls, holding sunshine in his palms.

xix.

when the legs beat against each other in the midst of a jete, it’s a battu jete … beaten. everything is more beautiful in french, and serena thinks it’s true of herself as well. she had been her company director’s little princess, sliding into his queen; she would’ve been the youngest prima ballerina in history. she would’ve had a life. she would’ve had a brother. orson does so much for her, and serena can hardly find it in herself to be grateful, can hardly repeat the pleasantries and manners she’d been taught to sing since she was a little girl letting words tumble from her mouth. instead, serena tries to create a peaceful world, she jumps at the chance to redesign the building he buys, create a setting of her own making; only to lay under the covers, sleeping next to a pillow she pretends is august.

xx.

disgusting. vile. serena watches august rip a newspaper in half, once, twice, then three times, letting the pieces fly onto the floor and cover the coffee table. the headline had once read about her, calling her a top three debutante in new york’s uppercrust society. not just in the top three, but ranked number one. shouldn’t we be proud ? serena asks him. shouldn’t i be flattered ? august had fallen to his knees in front of the chaise where she sat after that, holding her little hands in his own. he squeezes them so tight serena winces. tell me, he begs. tell me if anyone ever touches you. tell me, and i’ll kill them. with all the naivety in the world, serena giggles, shaking her head. nonsense, my darling brother. the only man i love is you; and the only man who shall ever touch me is not here yet.

xxi.

the sunlight doesn’t seem so bright, but the city is just as bustling as the last time she’d seen it. what year had that been ? somewhere around nineteen forty, serena thinks. her old ballet studio has moved; it’s previous location now just another parking lot in new york city. everything about it gives her whiplash. it’s all the same and all entirely different. she almost expects to see august across the street, handsome smile & hair swept back, but she knows she won’t. he’s dead, and so is everyone else she ever knew. there’s a pressure on her shoulders, wondering when someone will notice the imaginary blood seeping out of her core, or when someone will realize she’s half - dead. little walking dead girl, schrodinger’s girl, dead and alive.

xxii.

photographs from another era are spread all across the wooden table serena sits at, glimmering and shining in their black and white glory, sepia, and even a few colored ones. they all had a touch of grain to them, the consequence of new, unperfected technology, but serena adores them. after all, in every photo she sees the face of someone she loves. her grandfather royce, cradling the toddler version of herself in his arms, and then them at a later age, serena with her arms wrapped tightly around him. in another photo, serena sits in his lap, while her grandmother, the woman for whom she was named, hugs them both from behind. so many lost smiles, shining with no idea of what’s to come. her finger traces along another photo, of her mother posing with her in her first pair of pointe shoes. she’d been so proud that day, and serena can’t help but smile back at her. these little moments are all she has left now; what if she forgets it all someday ? at least she ��won’t forget their faces. serena glues the back of the photos, pasting them into a scrapbook. there are new people she doesn’t want to forget someday as well, and for them, serena glances at a newer camera. she doesn’t have to forget.

xxiii.

moy lebed. my swan. mr. nikolaev calls her that, from the first moment he saw her complete the thirty - two fouettés in odile’s coda. serena sighs into the open studio. the sky has long gone dark, and every other dancer and crew member has gone home — but she remains. this is the dedication that will make me the prima, serena reminds herself. this is what sets me apart. she counts the steps in her head until she loses herself to the imagined music, eyes closed while she moves her arms and tip - toes across the floor. serena is the very picture of a music box ballerina when she kicks her foot up, finding her north star and turning in pirouettes. not even the quiet opening of a door interrupts her focus. august takes her little waist in his hands and helps to give her the extra momentum. then he hoists her over his shoulder, telling her how mother is so worried, and she has to come home right away… all spoken with his hidden, wry smile.

xxiv.

i had never tried to impress anyone the way i’d tried to impress mr. nikolaev, my ballet master and choreographer. my every waking moment was spent under his scrutinizing gaze, attempting to dissect his utter dissatisfaction with the world for it’s lack of grace and beauty and what he felt towards me specifically … all in a leotard and tights that would only leave the color of my skin to our imaginations, and mirrors on every wall reminding me of that fact. i don’t know if i tried harder to gain his attention in the first place, or if i would have killed myself trying to keep it. no girl is ever more beautiful than they are at sixteen, and though i didn’t realize it, perhaps if i had lived to see him again in my later years he would’ve been impressed with my freckles, my dimples, and my big eyes at the age of twenty – i’ve heard i don’t look so different. still, i was even more girlish then than i am now, and three times as shy ; ballet was all i could use to get him to look at me, to make him pay attention & perhaps remember why he took this job in the first place after his own short, but famed career. i would be perfect ; not just for him, but for myself. it didn’t hurt anything that i was his little prima prodigy. he smiled for the first time when he called me his moy lebed, his swan, and i can’t remember the last thing, even now, that had made my heart soar so much.

xxv.

‘are you ready?’ on the cusp of spring in the midst of march, lies serena’s birthday. thirteen is such a special age for a girl ; not quite a woman yet, not quite a girl anymore, but leaving the throes of childhood behind. august’s question comes with an excited edge to his voice and a slim box in his hands, with pink wrapping paper and white ribbons. the other guests at the party had long dissipated, and serena sits on the edge of her bed, feet swinging back and forth to dissipate a bit of the thrill she feels. ‘i’ve been waiting all day!’ is what serena replies, taking the gift into her lap. her brother sits down next to her ; he’s twenty, seven years older, and a man grown, but it’s as if there’s no difference between them as august wraps his arm around her waist, matching brown eyes gleaming as he watches her carefully pry apart the paper to reveal a box of velvet. ‘it’s sentimental,’ august had said, as to why he couldn’t let her open it amongst the guests. private, serena thinks. her brother was always a private man. when she lifts the lid, and august uses his other hand to fold away the white paper, it reveals a precious, heart - shaped golden locket. he pulls it out by the chain, letting the pendent rest in serena’s palms. ‘it’s the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,’ serena says, eyes glimmering. august’s fingers snap the clasp, and inside, a photo of himself on one side, and then a photo of their parents from their wedding day on the other. serena beams as august closes it then places the necklace around her neck, the pendent falling just at her collarbones. ‘it’s beautiful, my wonderful brother,’ she says, and august kisses her crown. ‘it’s almost as lovely as you, my sweet little sister, and you deserve lovely things. this way, we’ll always be with you.’

xxvi.

julian’s wedding band was like him ; it was a simple golden band, with ivy growing around it, interrupted only by a diagonal line of diamonds. when serena tilts it back, she can see her mother’s name engraved in it. eirene’s was a little flashier, with a bigger diamond in the center. it wasn’t because of her personality, though … in that, serena can still see her father, wanting to impress her, wanting to give his wife the world. julian’s ring occupies her left thumb ; she couldn’t bear to get it resized for her dainty hands, so it’s the best she could manage. he’d had a lithe frame, and for that she’s thankful – serena remembers sliding the ring off of his finger when she’d crossed his arms over his chest, holding it between her fingers. she had to have it. her mother had worn hers until the very last, until she had slipped from serena’s hand into the ocean’s embrace. serena had only been able to just clasp the ring, before it too could fall from her grasp. now, it rests on her index finger, where at least on her hands, her parents could still be together.

#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐔𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ the sweetest flowerets gleam.#◞ ⁽ ⠀ ♡ ⠀ ⁾ ⠀ ⠀ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 ⠀ ⠀ —— ⠀ ⠀ may these memories break our fall.

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firelxrdsdaughter · 5 years

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The Hand of Kyoshi | Preview Chapter

Hey guys! So for the past few months I’ve been steadily working on two pieces for the @avatarbaang!

We are fast approaching our posting dates, and so I thought to give you guys a treat I would post the first chapters of both of my pieces here so that you can have a read through and see what you’re in for. xD

The Hand of Kyoshi follows Suki when she has first made rank in the Kyoshi warriors, and fills in the blanks about her history before we ever meet her in canon. Hope you guys enjoy!

The Hand of Kyoshi

synopsis: The hand of Kyoshi no longer stretches so far as it used to.

When Suki is little, all she thinks about is her Island and the people on it. Her mother (the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors), and her mother’s friends, and the villagers are the only family and the only thing that she has ever known. The world outside of Kyoshi Island seems like a distant fairytale told by travellers visiting for trade. It’s certainly not something that could invade her home and make things change.

This is all challenged when news of the Fire Nation’s growing influence in the Earth Kingdom reaches their ears. It soon becomes apparent that they cannot stay out of the fight forever…And her mother wants to do something about it now.

Her footsteps thud heavily against the dusty dirt road, and her breath is noisy in her ears. The earth is packed down from the passage of hundreds of pairs of feet, jarring through her small frame at each pump of her legs in her steady jog from the marketplace and back up the steep mountain incline toward the dojo that she calls home.

Beneath the sound of her breath her heart thunders, buzzing with her excitement.

The girl barely feels the weight of the basket of supplies which pulls down on her reedy arms and at her back and neck.

A bright grin peels back her cheeks, the wind whipping past her in her progress toward the dojo at the North edge of the town which she has called home since birth.

The precious jars that sit at the bottom of the basket, ensconced in the bright green fabric of her freshly made kimono and hakama, still manage to clack against one another with every impact of the soles of her sandals against the ground. They jangle like bells calling her forth to the battlefield. She feels them sing inside of her blood.

“Slow down or you'll hurt yourself!" Kenji’s chesty voice comes out to greet her as she passes his estate. She looks over her shoulder briefly with a nod of deference to the town’s elder. He peers back at her anxiously from the open gate that stands before his house.

“I’ll be careful,” she promises as she returns her attention to the road before her, not once breaking pace. She can almost hear him shaking his head and mumbling about young people and their inability to slow down and take the world a little bit at a time. Always in a hurry.

It doesn’t take long to reach the dojo despite the distance. The roofline climbs up over the crest of the hill as the girl ascends, swooping out like a dragon’s wings. The earth tones of the building’s wooden exterior contrast with the blazing autumn colours around it, stark and familiar. She smiles, her lungs expanding and contracting comfortably despite the exertion of her run.

The girl follows the familiar path down to the entrance of the main building, toeing off her sandals before she pounds barefoot across the wood of the deck and stops to bob a quick bow to the small shrine at the head of the room before she speed walks across the soft tatami to where the familiar figure of her mother sits before it, lighting incense methodically.

Mio is not a tall woman, by any means, nor is her appearance all that remarkable. Her chestnut hair hangs low on her back, collected partway down into a soft, green, piece of material to keep it out of her way. Her kimono is practical and well worn. Dark forest green contrasted with a simple obi in dusty rose.

“Mom I’m back!”

The woman turns to face her, her soft, narrow, middle-aged features almost unrecognizable without the signature warpaint of Kyoshi. She smiles at her daughter.

“Suki, welcome home.” She rolls to her knees, turning around on the mats to face the twelve-year-old and her burden.

“You got everything?”

“Yes mom,” she answers obediently, immediate, beaming proudly.

A small, amused, smirk tucks itself into her mother’s cheek before the woman reaches out her hands for the basket, finally relieving Suki of its burden.

Her mother grunts at the weight.

“You carried this all by yourself?” Mio seems almost surprised, and Suki flushes.

“That’s how it’s supposed to be done,” Suki points out, stomach fluttering, “isn’t it?”

Another smile spreads across the Kyoshi Warrior’s face, warm and slow.

“Yes, that’s right.” There’s more her mother wants to say. Suki can see the desire behind her blue-green eyes, but as per usual the Captain of the Kyoshi Warriors is silent on anything further to do with the matter.

“Are you ready for tonight then,” Mio questions.

Suki’s heart rate rises once again and, breathless, she nods her head in agreement.

“Yes, mom.”

Her mother’s expression remains soft. Suki thinks that there is even something sad behind the look in her eye. Something that Suki herself cannot name. All she feels is excitement.

Nerves.

She’s going to prove herself.

“Good,” Mio finally says, “remember that you’ll need to rest. There’s no use in wearing yourself out,” her tone is pointed at Suki’s flushed cheeks and shining eyes, “not when there will be plenty of that this evening when you take the next steps on your journey.”

Suki tries to put on a serious face, and she presses her lips together, nodding her head decisively.

“Yes mom, I know.” But it’s difficult, she thinks, to even consider standing still. A warrior must be able to plant themselves like a tree; serene but always ready to bend with the changing wind. Her whole body is abuzz with energy. Suki thinks she could keep going for days and days with all of the energy that courses through her.

She wonders if it’s the same for all of the girls who are about to become fully fledged Kyoshi Warriors. She wonders if even the women that her mother trained were the same. She wonders if her mother was the same.

“Mom —?”

Her mother pauses in the midst of getting to her feet, basket in hand, looking expectantly at Suki.

“…What was your ceremony like?”

“Mine?”

“Yes…Yours. Do you remember?” Suki thinks it was probably so long ago that maybe her mother does not recall what it was like to go from novice to master.

The woman snorts, standing fully and resting the basket at her hip with ease.

“Of course I remember. I think everyone does.” She gestures at Suki with her free hand. “Come on, we’ll walk and talk.”

Suki follows her mother eagerly from the training hall and into the hallway in the interior building, the two of them slipping their feet into grass slippers before they make their way down the hallway and toward the kitchen.

The smell of wood smoke permeates the space, drifting from rooms where other Kyoshi Warriors are living, boarding with them rather than going home to their families on the other side of the island. For some, it is worth saving themselves the three hour trip by foot between the far larger settlement that the dojo inhabits and the smaller one on the Northern side of the island.

Paper screens obscure any hint of what might go on beyond them, but here and there, where one of the women has opened her second door onto the outside, a shadow can be seen. A silhouette of a figure going about their morning routine.

Like a play put on with shadow puppets.

Suki’s eyes dart back to her mother who has pulled ahead of her somewhat, and she hurries her steps to catch up, matching her mother’s stride after a moment.

“So?”

The woman looks down sideways at her, an amused expression in place on her fine features, full lips parting after a moment.

“I was nervous,” she says, “but excited.”

Suki nods. That’s exactly the way that she would describe her own feelings on the matter.

“I wasn’t as young as you are,” she admits, “but I was young enough. My own mother didn’t really think I was ready, but the others convinced her that I was prepared for my trial. I’m glad that they did. I think that, even if I wasn’t quite ready, it helped me move forward with my training. It was the next step in my journey. I learned a lot merely going through the trial itself. From the mentor who I battled, and about myself.”

Suki smiles brightly at the thought. Learning about herself. She likes that sentiment.

“Mio?”

Both Suki and her mother turn toward the voice that comes from one of the rooms at the end of the hall. Her mother’s second in command, Haru, has poked her round face out of her door, and she looks expectantly at the two of them. Mio turns with a smile to face her more fully.

“Yes?”

“When you have a moment I had wanted to speak to you about the preparations for tonight,” Haru says seriously.

Suki sees her mother suppress a sigh before nodding soberly at the other woman.

“Of course, Haru. I will be back to speak with you soon. Will you still be in your quarters?”

“For now, yes.”

“Alright.”

Both Mio and Suki turn from Haru, starting on their journey down the hall once more.

They reach the quieter interior of the large building that their family has kept up for generation; it feels homier here, in Suki’s opinion. There is less of the hustle and bustle of the every day.

Sometimes, as a child, she had wished that she could have siblings to fill up the interior halls too. She had wished that it wasn’t so quiet. Now, she appreciates it. The idea that she does not have any siblings to take their mother’s attention off of her on a day which is so important for Suki.

It would have been nice to have her father though.

In companionable silence, the two of them reach Suki’s room, and her mother pulls the paper screen away from the opening, kneeling and settling the basket on the soft tatami floor before entering and beckoning for Suki to follow.

She kicks off her slippers, lining them up perfectly alongside her mother’s on the hall floor, and comes to kneel in the interior of her room, sliding the door closed again before she returns her attention to her mother.

The commander of the Kyoshi Warriors has moved to the center of Suki’s room and is taking the contents of the basket out to lie on the floor.

The green wool kimono that they’d sent to the tailor for two weeks previous, stitched with expertise. Suki had managed to take a look at the work before she’d got home, and she knows well enough that the stitches are so small in the seams that one can barely tell that they’re even there at all.

She wishes her own sewing were so skilled. Alas, it isn’t her strong suit. The kimono is followed by the deep green ceremonial hakama. Her mother lays them both out cleanly, smoothing away the wrinkles of transport.

They’re followed by terracotta jars, painted with lacquer and gold leaf. Their war paint is contained within. The chalky scent of the white and red face paints will follow her everywhere today, once she has been readied. A smell that she has always associated with her mother and her aunties.

Suki kneels, waiting patiently for her mother to finish with her task, trying not to fidget. A warrior can remain completely still and serene, calm even in the face of battle.

“In an hour you will take the sacred bath,” her mother says as she puts the finishing touches on her display in the center of the room, “and wash away your impurities. Then you will go to the temple and meditate until sundown.”

Suki knows all of this, of course, but it is her mother’s duty to remind her, and it is her duty to listen. She takes a deep breath and settles where she is sitting, nodding seriously at her mother’s instructions.

“No food or drink will pass your lips until the feast tonight, to remind you of the hunger that those we are meant to serve suffer.”

This, of course, is symbolic too. Their people do not suffer from hunger like in the old days, and the hand of Kyoshi no longer stretches outside of their island. Suffering, however, is meant to be understood by a good acolyte of Kyoshi, and Suki is willing to suffer the hunger that is required of her for her trial.

“Yes, mother.”

Mio’s expression softens again, and she reaches forward, taking one of Suki’s hands between her own. She sighs heavily.

“Look at you, growing up right in front of me.” Mio turns her head away, retrieving one of her hands to wipe at the corner of an eye.

Suki smiles back at her mother, her chest feeling fit to burst.

“Don’t cry, mom.”

“I’m not,” Mio denies, grinning at her daughter when she turns back to her. A wet trail runs down her cheek.

“Yes you are.” The girl gets onto her knees and shuffles toward her mom, bringing her hands up to wipe her tears away. “No one can stay a kid forever.”

Her mother laughs. Suki wishes she wouldn’t, but at least it isn’t tears.

“That is very true,” she says, taking Suki’s wrists between her fingers and turning her face to kiss her palms.

Mio stands, releasing her as she goes.

“One hour,” she reminds Suki.

“I know mom.” Suki smiles back at her, face turned upward as the other woman makes her way back to the door of her room.

“We’ll all be waiting.”

Suki feels her heart racing in her chest, the clack of the door closed behind her mother sounding more final than she had ever thought possible. She takes a deep breath.

Suki had never thought that meditating for the better part of a day could leave her so tired and disoriented. She can barely think straight as her tabi’d foot slides onto the tatami of the dojo floor, soft and silent.

She doesn’t feel like the same person.

Her skin itches under her layers of makeup, and her shoulders and middle feel overly weighted with the traditional armour which covers her uniform. In the silence of the room, filled to the rafters with people come to witness her test, the only thing that Suki can hear is the tinkling of her headgear.

She comes to kneel before her mother, and the two other warriors situated at the front of the room, before the shrine to their predecessors. Suki bows low, forehead pressed to the backs of her gloved hands.

The rustle of fabric as everyone else in the dojo bows as well is deafening.

“Suki of Kyoshi Island,” her mother begins, voice booming in the silence which follows, “Avatar Kyoshi calls you forth to begin your trial. Do you accept her call?”

Suki straightens to look at her mother, still half-bent in her deference.

“Osu!” Her assent echoes around the room, resounding in her ears. Confident. Suki bows again, forehead touching the mats.

She straightens.

“Do you accept the responsibility of defending our people and all innocent people who cannot defend themselves from harm, as is our way?”

“Osu!” Another bow. Straighten.

“Do you understand the gravity of the power which will be handed to you should you succeed in your trial, and receive the golden belt which will brand you forever more a Kyoshi Warrior?”

“Osu!”

“Then please stand, and let the trial begin.”

Suki is glad for her empty belly, though it pangs with every movement. She thinks that if it had been full, she might have thrown up. Suki closes her eyes and breathes, bowing again before she moves to the center of the room. She forces herself to grin, falling into a ready stance.

This part of the ceremony, like the rest, is relatively predictable. Weeks before she had been assigned an opponent to take her trial with — an elder who she wished to follow in the footsteps of once she has been granted her status as a warrior of Avatar Kyoshi. Riko, one of the younger warriors, with a broad smile and a cheerful disposition, had volunteered to be her mentor.

So Suki waits for her to rise from her seat at the side of the room, and to join her on the mats to test her skills.

“Challenger,” Mio announces, her voice ringing through the quiet hush that has settled over all of those who have come to spectate, “please proceed forward.”

Suki glances her way only briefly before returning her gaze to the empty space before her, hands free and up in a defensive position, ready. Riko shifts in her seat, ready to stand, and then stops. She looks wide-eyed at the front of the room. Suki looks again, frowning.

Her stomach drops as, from the assembled commanders at the front of the dojo, Haru stands. Her heart starts to thunder in her ears.

This is unheard of.

Her mother looks at Haru, but in the end she says nothing. Suki can see that she is not pleased with Haru’s actions. A scowl pulls at her features, making her look more severe than usual.

The girl trains her gaze forward again, feeling herself begin to sweat in her uniform. She tries to guess what this means, but most of all, she doesn't know how to proceed. Haru is not her partner or her mentor, Riko is. Does this mean that she has been ousted? What will happen if Suki fails against Haru?

What will —?

There is precious little time left to consider the ramifications of what is about to happen. Haru comes to a stop before her, her arms outstretched, mirroring Suki’s position.

No signal is given to start their match. Suki looks owlishly at Haru even as she chooses to attack her from the front.

One on one competitions like this one usually have a structure. A technique that is meant to be practiced over and over until it is ingrained in the muscles. The challenge that Suki faces now, however, is up in the air.

Of the hundreds of techniques that she knows, she must draw on her knowledge and use it to her advantage to win the fight. Suki can barely think, let alone act, and a frontal attack looks deceptively easy.

She acts.

Suki flows with the strike, pivoting all the way around, the weight of Haru’s knuckles brushing against her palm before she takes a firm hold of Haru’s wrist.

Her toes dig into the soft grass mats. She shoots forward with her hips. She throws the other woman well across the room with the momentum of their shared movements.

Suki’s mouth hangs open.

Haru rolls, spinning on her knee to face Suki once more. She looks — determined.

Haru launches herself back toward Suki. Suki meets her head-on, catching her in the crook of an elbow, sending her back onto her rump once again.

Haru grabs her ankle, foot hooking behind Suki’s knee.

The girl falls as well. The other warrior scrambles to get atop of her, fist ready to strike down at her face. Suki cocks her hips, grabs onto the wrist of the hand twisted in the front of her gi.

They roll backward.

When they recover, it’s Suki straddled on Haru’s chest. Her elder looks surprised, if only for a moment. Haru bucks. Suki tries to dig her toes into the mats. She feels her body tip in the unseating.

She rolls out of the way. Back on her feet. Suki thumbs at her nose. Maybe a little too cocky. The older warrior’s face could have been flushed under her makeup. Suki cannot tell…But there is a familiar set to her jaw. as though she is frustrated; annoyed with Suki’s show of confidence.

The two of them breathe harshly in the quiet of the dojo.

There’s tension from the crowd. Suki reminds herself to ignore them.

Haru strikes from overhead.

Suki feels her heart jump in her surprise. Muscle memory takes over. She catches the strike, leading hand on Haru’s elbow. She twists, pushing the other woman back. She grabs her hand and pivots. Turns back. Haru collapses backward with but the twitch of Suki’s hand against her own and she moves to roll the other warrior to her belly.

Her grip is not what it should be.

Haru catches Suki behind the knees again, the two women crying out (Suki in surprise) as once again the younger finds herself on her back. There is noise from the crowd. They’ve started to get excited. Suki breathes out sharply.

Haru allows her to stand, and the two of them pant, facing one another, hands at the ready. Haru seems calmer than before. It makes Suki uneasy.

Haru falls back into a defensive stance. Suki changes her own stance, gaze hardening in resolve when she realises that she is being invited to attack first.

A Kyoshi Warrior must attack as well as defend. This is a foundational principle.

Ready for anything. Stop the situation before it gets out of hand.

Suki comes forward, chopping down from the side with the blade of her hand. Haru catches her. Solid. Suki just manages to block the fist that comes toward her face to distract her. Haru’s other hand brushes her attacking arm away. The second in command comes in close, her dominant arm heavy against Suki’s chest. She feels her spine strain. Her body is pulled back by Haru’s hand at the nape of her neck.

Her body sways left. Haru throws her right.

Suki rounds her back, breaking the fall with a slap of her arms against the mats, but it is resounding anyway. Her chest feels tight for a moment before she has recovered and flipped herself back onto her feet. She pivots as Haru comes toward her in another attack, catching her arm and letting the momentum of the other woman continue to propel her forward passed Suki’s position and precariously close to the assembled warriors knelt to the side of the dojo mats.

Suki’s hands come back into a ready position, her blue eyes trained on Haru as she recovers.

The older Kyoshi Warrior laughs. It sounds pleased in spite of her apparent determination to…Well, Suki’s not sure what. Haru grabs hold of a wooden staff, hidden from Suki’s sight by the group of other warriors. She dances out of the way of the first swing of the wooden weapon toward her.

To the side. Step. Down as she swipes at her head. Step. Suki bends back out of the way of another swipe, this time at her throat. She feels her momentum backward. Rolls rather than fall on her rump.

She finds herself close enough to the extra weapons that they house on the far wall of the dojo that she can reach out and grab her own short staff.

She catches Haru’s next strike with a backward swipe of her weapon. It turns in her hand. She strikes out, stopping short of Haru’s throat.

Her mother’s second in command stops abruptly, eyeing down the length of Suki’s weapon. She lets out a burst of breath through her teeth, and swipes the staff aside with her own, backing off.

Suki falls into a defensive stance with the staff once again, stepping back with each strike of Haru’s weapon against her own in the thick silence of the dojo. Suki feels the turn of the battle’s tide as it happens. Her spine strains, her balance off as she retreats.

Haru bears down on her until Suki cannot keep hold of her weapon any longer, disarmed by an expert thrust and parry. Sent to her back again with a sharp strike to her stomach which winds her. Suki struggles to draw in breath even as she raises her hands in front of her face, trying to shuffle back. She digs her heels into the mats to propel her away from Haru.

The second in command is not deterred. She makes to strike again.

“Enough!”

Haru’s weapon stops before it can descend, and Suki feels the tension in her own limbs lingering even as the second in command looks over at her mother, lowering her weapon and stepping out of her offensive stance.

“The trial is over. Warriors, back to your marks,” she instructs firmly, levelling a glare at Haru.

Suki sits up in a flurry once Haru has backed down, scrambling wearily to her feet, hearing a ringing in her ears. She sways but stays standing, at the ready. Mirroring one another the two of them fall to at ease and then bow. Haru exits the mats. Suki cannot help but catch the brief, satisfied, tug of her mouth into a smile before she has schooled her expression again and turned back to the gathered audience, sitting back in her assigned place.

Suki turns to face the front of the room and her mother.

“Candidate Suki.” Her mother’s voice has softened again, her expression too. Suki is glad for the makeup that obscures the flush she feels rushing to her cheeks at the marked difference. “You have done well. You are free to wash and take some time to yourself whilst we deliberate on the outcome of your trial. Please, be excused.”

Suki bows again, her heart even louder in her ears than before, if possible. She walks steadily from the dojo, but she feels faint. She will not faint. She will not make a fool of herself. She will not —

Safely out on the terrace, hidden behind the paper shoji that obscures the majority of the dojo, Suki allows overwhelmed tears to slide down her painted cheeks, streaking her makeup further than her sweat has already done. Something inside of her knows that the test was more than just a simple test to see if she is ready. She knows that Haru meant to hurt her, if she could get away with it. That she wanted to prove something to her mother and had used Suki as a vehicle to do so.

Perhaps it is simply to show that Suki is neither ready nor skilled enough to earn her gold belt yet. Perhaps that she will never be ready?

Will she ever be ready?

Her thoughts reeling, Suki finds her way to one of the many empty public courtyards in close vicinity to the dojo and sits on the bench provided there, taking in sharp breaths, trying to even her pulse and stop the sobs that threaten to be loud enough to wake the island’s very dead.

A dull scrape sounds behind her. Suki jumps, turning to see who might be lurking, remembering her eyes and wiping at them ineffectually. All it serves to do is smudge red and white all over her gloves. It’s Kenji.

The old man shuffles his way over to her, silent until he occupies the space that sits empty beside the little girl, grunting out almost dramatically as he sits. His knees crack loudly.

Suki looks sidelong at him again, bowing her head, shame heating her face once more.

“That was an impressive display in there,” he begins conversationally, “you’ve worked so hard and come so far, Suki. Imagine a young girl like you holding her own against a seasoned warrior. Your mother must be very proud.”

Suki sniffles, brow furrowing.

“I didn’t — “ she protests. He interrupts her.

“And with Miss Haru not holding back like that — she must have been so frustrated to find that you would not go down so easily. Or maybe she was impressed.”

Suki’s brow furrows yet further, but her blue eyes fix on the elder, hands fidgeting in her lap.

“You think so…?” she asks hesitantly.

Kenji smiles, the gaps in his teeth stark.

“I think so.”

“I don’t really think that Haru likes me,” she admits then, turning her face back toward her lap, and smoothing out the dark green fabric of her hakama.

“Haru’s always been a grump,” Kenji says with a harrumph. “She’ll get over it, and she’ll warm up to you for it too. I can guarantee as much.”

“If you say so,” Suki agrees reluctantly.

Kenji smiles again, reaching over to place his arm around her narrow shoulders. He hugs her tight to him, and breathes in deep, looking up at the dusk sky where the stars have already started to appear in pinpricks of distant light above them.

“Your dad would be so proud too.”

“My dad?"

“Yes. Ryuichi was smitten with your mum because of her skills as a warrior. Amongst other things. I bet he’s beaming with pride in the spirit world for what you’ve accomplished today. His own little girl.”

Suki’s face scrunches a little, and she feels the urge to cry sticking in the back of her throat once again. She swallows, working the tight ache of it away. She smiles. She feels her limbs soften.

“Thanks, Uncle.”

#ooc #The Hand of Kyoshi #my writing #short fic #the entire thing's about 25k #and honestly I never thought I had it in me to write that much when it came to fan work but #here we are #:DDD #Suki #avatar: the last airbender #fanfiction #this chapter's long so my apologies to your eyes. xD #theavatarbaang

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kollache · 2 years

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9 Types of Footwear Every Girl Should Have in Their Life

“A Woman with Good Shoes isn't Ugly'' - Coco Chanel.

A famous saying left within the hearts of fashionable women. Fashion is about understanding what to wear to match the occasion. This is often why the list of women’s essential shoes should be longer and more extensive than men’s.

For years, it's documented that shoes play a crucial role during a person's image. This is often only one pair of shoes. It’s an enormous impact on your appearance.

Here are Some Styles You'll Control:

High Heels:

Wearing a pair of high heels is like having confidence in your appearance, because only people that are sure of what they're wearing can enter high heels! High heels will never be the news. Whenever he seems like he's gone, he'll make an excellent debut again and are available back to the competition during a stronger way. Additionally to its appearance on your body, it also helps to enhance posture and highlight your physical characteristics. What are you waiting for? Put your feet on those high heels tonight!

Sandals:

Sandals have always existed and maintained their credible characteristics. Simple, elegant and cozy. Words of wisdom: wear them on jeans rather than dresses. It helps balance leisure and elegance.

Slippers:

Slippers are underestimated due to their matching effect with clothes. It just oozes "effortlessly" and we all love it! A pair of bohemian slippers, cute shorts and a headscarf can make your look perfect on any day.

Sports Shoes:

Shoes are must-have pair of sports shoes during a girl's wardrobe, which may be worn all year round, like the comfort of ballet shoes, and is a perfect companion for leisure days. Sneakers are very comfortable to wear and look amazing.

Clogs and Mules:

Clogs are wooden shoes traditionally worn by the Dutch. They’re still collected as novelties and tourist souvenirs. A mule may be a shoe with closed toes and an open heel. They are often flat or high heels or somewhere in between. If you've got an open toe, it's more appropriate to call it a slide.

Snow Boots:

Snow Boots are so fun! Contrary to what some might think, you'll definitely wear cool clothes. Customize your outfit, usually including turtleneck sweaters, coats, trousers, high boots, etc. you'll include elegant boots, scarves, wallets, hats.

Wellington:

Wellingtons below the knees or above the ankles protect you from rain, dirt and dirt. Made primarily of rubber, PVC, PU (polyurethane) or a mix of rubber and neoprene. Unlike over 100 years ago, Wellingtons are rarely made from leather. The foremost important thing is to be waterproof and protect yourself from rain, puddles and dirt.

Loafers:

Loafers are slip-on shoes. Different slip-on slippers from sports shoes, loafers are often worn with or without socks. To them, there's nothing more just like the sort of socks. Both of them are pretty. These are tightrope walks between formal and casual wear, making the transition look seamless. You’ll match it with jeans, chinos, pants, or maybe Kurtas. They’re unparalleled costumes.

Flats:

Flat footwear make the entire area of the shoe larger than the heel and sole. Giving yourself more stability also will cause better posture and stop your neck from hurting. They're also very suitable for very lazy people, because your clothes don't have to be high-end exotic, you'll mistake it for other mice.

Shop all types of women's shoes and choose the one that suits you best. Purchase fashionable, comfortable and fairly priced women's shoes at the Kollache store. If you're lucky, you'll get tons of discounts. Kollache follows strict safety procedures and measures in manufacturing facilities, warehouses and delivery processes to make sure that each one Kollache products provide #SafeToTouch for you and your family.

#footwear for men #shoes #footwear #online store #girls

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strawberrymarshmallowstories · 7 years

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Oneshot | An Evening in November

Title: An Evening in November

Pairing: Hoseok/Reader

Word Count: 1445 <3

Rating: SFW guys, it’s all safe!

Summary: It was just one of those days, but Hoseok always turned those kinds of days into something special.

Masterlist

~~~

You closed the glass door behind you, stepping out on the wooden porch that was your spot to be during beautiful summer days. Today, months later, you could feel the cold seeping through the soles of your slippers as the chill pinched slightly at your nose. Even when you had to pull the cardigan tighter around yourself to combat the chill that did not wish to spare you, you liked the crisp evening air.

Days ago one of your girlfriends had raved about a meteor shower, a rant that passed through from one ear and went out from another. But as it was getting darker by the minute, you had a sudden urge to look upwards, towards the moon that was supposed to be at its fullest.

It was one of those little things that was yours to enjoy, which would be there wherever you went, and there was something magical and alluring about the full moon that made you feel free, like the whole world was yours to explore. In these moments there was nothing else more important than you and the air that vibrated gently around you, and these brief evenings to you were a chance to withdraw between the walls of your mind, enjoying the peace that you found.

You heard the door click behind you.

'The sky looks especially lovely tonight,' you said and you heard an agreeing hum before a set of arms snaked themselves around your waist. The heat at your back was appreciated as your body relaxed against his within seconds. You let your head lean back against his shoulder and revelled in the contrast between the warm and the cold. Your mind was clear, thoughts held at bay, and the warmth of his strength had a way of making you feel safe - no matter where and when. Hoseok was always warm, his presence a medicine for your stress and it had your whole body buzzing with contentment.

This moment was perfect.

All the stupid things running through your mind during the day were gone by now, leaving you alone with yourself as your ego took a step back into the shadows. There was nothing else in the air around you but you and him, and maybe a couple of birds inhabiting the area that did not care. It was quiet, only a rare cicada added some melody to the moment and you guessed it must not have received the memo that summer evenings have passed for this season.

Hoseok must've been cold but he said nothing - and neither did you as the lure of the moon was enchanting and you just couldn't look away.

You placed your hands over his and felt him shudder slightly.

'Your hands are freezing,' he whispered but embraced you even tighter. You felt a small smile tugging at your lips as your thumb absently stroked slow circles over the back of his hand, your eyes still on the white bright unearthly circle in the sky that made you feel full and hollow at the same time. The soft skin under your hands, the heat of his chest against your back and the velvety sky above you - it was all you could ever wish for.

But then it was gone and in surprise you turned your head only to be guided to face him. And you did, willingly, as watching him was your favourite thing to do. The way his hair fell on his forehead, how his eyelashes fluttered as he blinked, his every breath, his every smile and dimple that came with it.

'Do you believe in love at first sight?' He asked and you let him draw you in closer until there was only a couple of inches between the two of you. His eyes locked on yours and you didn't even bother to stop a grin that was forming on your lips as a memory interrupted the flow of your thoughts.

He always liked to joke about your first meeting and it was one you would never forget - it was something that hadn't felt magical in the moment but which as a memory was beautiful and something out of a story book. Because if you hadn't been there at that moment, if you had given in to your jetlag and had decided not to go sightseeing, none of this would've happened.

You wouldn't be there. With him.

'May I have this dance?' He asked, his eyes locked on yours and you couldn't look away, didn't want to look away, ever.

'Yes you may, my kind sir,' you responded, finding your voice breathy and soft as you lifted your right hand in the air. It was in his a second later when a hum fell off his lips, and then you two moved to his tune. Nothing overly showy, slow steps here and there, but in sync without hesitation. You let yourself fall deep into the moment, your body moving on its own in a way it remembered, in a way that followed Hoseok without a second guess.

He most definitely was a dancer, you noted as even with minimal moves, the way he carried himself was mesmerising. His every motion was effortless and graceful and you wondered if he knew how handsome he was this evening, under this moonlight that cast its light in the most beautiful ways it could. He moved with his instincts and you let your body follow his lead.

His eyes were remarkably clear, like the deepest ocean, and there was an emotion underlying in his gaze that spoke to you in a million of different ways for which words would never be enough. It spoke of things he didn't say, and as you looked at him, his soul spoke to yours and you felt so much gratitude and love that years ago would've had you running away in fear. But you had learned to accept this, to give in to this.

When the melody stopped, the two of you ended up in the middle of the porch, illuminated by the light from indoors and the moonlight from up above. But neither of you saw anything but each other, there was nothing else but you and him.

His gaze briefly flickered to your lips and you knew he wanted to kiss you, but just as you, he enjoyed the moment, prolonged but calm and you melted in the light of his small smile. Your breaths were short and shaky as you waited for him, letting him decide what he wished to do. And he took his time, his sweet time while you noted something that burned at the backs of his brown eyes which made you wonder what he was thinking.

His hand came up to your face, brushing aside a strand that had been tickling your cheek. There was tenderness in his eyes that almost hurt you, and if you had been any less confident, you would've been scared of hurting him, would've been afraid of commitment his eyes spoke of. His palm came to rest on your cheek, his thumb slowly caressing your skin. But he did not move in closer nor did he move away, and you could feel your lips tremble as you waited.

'You're such a -,' you whispered, not once losing the track of the mischievous glint playing in his dark orbs. You had always yearned for this kind of closeness, this kind of a connection that felt perfect even if you two just stood there, doing nothing but enjoying the proximity and the presence of each other.

He smiled again, 'A handsome and a wonderful man, I know.'

This desire for true closeness had been awakened from the day when your eyes fell on him, when you saw his eyes that spoke to the depths of your soul, a deep sense of knowing a quiet but a sure throb in your heart that had once stunned you into silence.

'Such a tease,' you corrected as you leaned forward to brush your lips against his.

Your dance was perfect, everything from breathing to how you moved in sync. He understood you and you understood him without needing any words translate your feelings and thoughts. He was the only one that made you feel complete - made you laugh your heart out, made you want to learn more of him with each passing day, was there when it had been hard, and made you feel love that touched your soul in ways you never knew could be reached.

If by the end of this dance your breath was taken away, you would know the exact reason why.

#sfwbangtan #jhope.network #bts #hoseok #hobi #jhope #j-hope #bts fanfiction #btsfanfiction #btsfanfic #bts fanfic #strawberrymarshmallowstories

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eksbdan-blog · 4 years

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New Post has been published on https://passingbynehushtan.com/2020/02/11/when-i-survey-the-wondrous-nace/

When I Survey the Wondrous Nace, part 1: A Prophetic Think Tank

When I Survey the Wondrous Nace?

You know that old hymn When I survey the Wondrous Cross? Its a standard. It almost represents the Church itself. It’s comfortable and peaceful, like a sit by the fire in an old pair of slippers. Like going home and getting a hug from your mother. The words are also true, that before peace, when you think about the Cross and know what its all about, you get hammered by a Truth, resulting in an essential disconnect from the world and its cares, setting them only on what really matters.

But I take that back. Not when you survey the Cross. The real Cross when surveyed, the symbol of the Church everyone, is only like the song because they both are about a wondrous thing that is also a device of execution for the least deserving Person imaginable. What is a truly wondrous Cross is the only thing you can think about which can take you out of here, the Nace, which is alone wondrous, and alone is capable of setting our sights on our true home where wonders come. The Nace is essentially the historical object of the Cross but turned to a sharply foreign, non-contingent, spiritual and miraculous aspect of view that you will never get by the motivations of pedestrian or historical church culture.

The Cross. That symbol of torture and death. The altar on which was the Messiah immolated, died and atoned for sin. That innocent and simple shape comprised of one horizontal and one vertical beam, which provokes such revulsion and such reverence. On this site, the insignia of Christianity speaking of its power to divide the human race into those aligned toward a love of spiritual truth and those who only horizontally oriented to the world.

Only one problem if we love the truth and want to raise a banner for the faith of the Messiah accurately: nix the horizontal beam, leaving only a bare pole. The word “cross” is not in the Greek New Testament, but “pole” is, leaving us to wonder what the traditional shape of the cross has really stood for all these centuries. Not the shape of a piece of wood, the shape of the real Christian faith motivation.

It is very well known. I am not by any means serving up some new revelation here. And that is what makes it all the more damning of us. Nothing is standing in our way of knowing the answers to the most profound questions of the ages. Our problem is we prefer half-truths because the whole thing is just too much to bear.

Superficial Survey

The word translated “cross” in the Greek is stauros. In every Greek lexicon stauros means, as in Liddell and Scott’s Greek-English Lexicon:

“Wood cut and ready for use, firewood, timber, etc. . . . piece of wood, log, beam, post . . . cudgel, club . . . stake on which criminals were impaled . . . of live wood, tree.”1

In Acts 5:30 and 10:39, it states that on a tree was hung Jesus. The word “tree” in Greek denotes a simple upright post, as in Strong’s Greek Dictionary:

3586. xulon xulon xoo’-lon

from another form of the base of 3582; timber (as fuel or material); by implication, a stick, club or tree or other wooden article or substance:–staff, stocks, tree, wood.

This word xulon is put for staves or spears, as in:

And while he yet spake, lo, Judas, one of the twelve, came, and with him a great multitude with swords and staves, from the chief priests and elders of the people. (Matthew 26:47 KJV)2

It turns out that there were four basic types of crosses that the Romans used to carry out crucifixion.

The Crux Simplex: a single, upright piece of wood.

The Crux Decussata, or St. Andrew’s cross. This was in the shape of an X and was used extensively in Britain by the Romans during their conquests.

The Crux Commissa, or St. Anthony’s cross. This was a capital T shape, without the beam overhead.

The Crux Immissa, or Latin cross, or traditional t shape.

It is interesting to read all the objections raised to the notion of Jesus having been crucified on the simple upright stake, or stauros, of which the New Testament speaks. Some maintain that the “sign King of the Jews” could not have been affixed over the head of any type of post other than that of the Immissa. These arguments almost invariably fail to mention the crux simplex as one of the four possibilities. Others say that it would be impossible for a man to survive more than 6 hours nailed to a plain upright post, with both hands nailed together overhead and both feet nailed together below. Yet, I have never read a medical analysis, credible or otherwise, supporting this claim.

Denominational Survey

Interestingly, the traditional cross shape is not described graphically or scripturally by the church much before the time of Constantine, who officially adopted it as the symbol of the new state religion. Historical data is overflowing which details the Roman and Eastern Church’s adoption of pagan thinking and practices leading up to Constantine’s time, which were used quite effectively to bring into the church scores of polytheists by making Christianity less alien to them. Crosses were certainly used in at least two prominent pagan religions at that time.

Although Protestants agree wholeheartedly about the pagan influences that came into the church, they do not even want to consider that the cross might be one of them. It seems that the traditional cross has become such a focus of reverence over the years it’s just not open to discussion, rational or otherwise.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses have claimed for years that the Crux Simplex was the instrument of crucifixion. But don’t blame me because those wacky folks believe this as well. I am not wrong because I happen to agree with one thing with the J.W.’s. As the saying goes, even a stopped clock is right once a day? They have so many anti-biblical doctrines how difficult would it be for them to get one thing right?

Although they never take up the question seriously unless in the oblique, neither the J.W.’s nor the mainstream church has it right about why one type of cross or another best serves the Christian message. What is clear is that one type of cross is not wrong simply because it might be pagan and another wrong simply because it’s not traditional.

Interrogative Survey

OK, then, what does make one type of cross wrong and another right in the most profound and consequential way we can think of?

First, we can use the fact that, beyond trivial historical research, commending to wisdom instead of only extra-biblical historical data, an option does not honestly present itself for Christianity to adopt symbols of their faith based on evidence gleaned primarily from sources other than the text of the bible. One can understand the Catholic apologetic for the Immissa since Catholicism does not use the bible as their sole rule for faith and practice. Their wild doctrines don’t need any biblical backup, as Catholic tradition, they say, has equal authority. The Catholic Church has had its reward. The J.W.’s too since it’s not the bible that is their rule of faith, but gratuitous iconoclasm. But what about all these “protestants” who are supposed to be fiercely Word-centered? If the symbol for their faith is the Latin cross, it makes one wonder what they were, or are, really protesting.

You might say, “hey, what real difference does it mean whether or not the shape of the cross is accurately represented. It’s just a symbol. The heart of Christianity is its root of truth, not its branches of mere outward expressions in symbolism.” I quite agree. It does not matter a brass farthing whether the cross looked like an Immissa or a Simplex. How is a symbol going to hurt anyone? Except, of course, if there is something biblically profitable to be learned from a plain, upright stake as opposed to an upright cross. Except if the absence of an operational symbol for the essential nature of righteous faith in the Messiah, and atonement through it, is more biblical than the use of any symbol. I think in our time the bible is certainly prophetic about the absence of that symbol in our form of Christianity.

What makes one cross wrong and another right is not its traditional or pagan appearance, but whether or not the substance of that cross as a reason for righteous faith in the Messiah that the church professes is 1st century-traditional or pagan.

Prophetic Survey

Let us first consider the fact that the word “cross” is used to convey a double meaning: one, the actual piece of wood and, two, the atonement of Christ. This is a great expression of the dual streams of scriptural revelation and dual streams of meaning that any symbol is made to convey.

The “p’shat”, as the ancient Rabbi’s called it, was the meaning of a biblical text that presented itself without need for deep meditation. In Ruth, the scene where Ruth obeyed Boaz’s command to dip her bread in the sour wine was simply that: dipping the doughnut in the coffee is a way to get the pleasant taste of your meal and drink in one bite. It makes the meal more interesting, more pleasant. I have also heard that in the case of the Jews this was an invitation to Ruth by Boaz feel welcome and at home, to sit down and enjoy the meal instead of feeling like a starving outsider who is scrambling to gather some leftovers from underneath the masters table.

But the rabbi’s also recognized a “remez” in scripture. This was the meaning under the surface text.

The Midrash Ruth Rabbah states that these verses really mean something prophetic about the coming Messiah:

“‘Come this way’, refers to King Messiah, ‘Eat from the bread’, means the bread of royalty, and ‘dip your morsel in the sour wine’, refers to the sufferings of the Messiah, as it is written, ‘but he was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities.”3

Also:

“It will be with the last deliverer,(the Messiah), as with the first (Moses); as the first deliverer revealed himself first to the Israelites and then withdrew, so also will the last deliverer reveal himself to the Israelites and then withdraw for a while.“4

Please go to the next page…

The bible is a book of stories and exhortations which have all sorts of social, historical and moral import. We can read it like a newspaper or a self-help book and glean great expressions of love, great reasons for justice and peace, great reasons to live a clean life free of the filth and degradation of the world, resulting in greater happiness in this world and a model for spiritual life in another. We can run an honest political campaign on the lessons found there. We can use it as a basis of civil law. We can use it to guide us in knowing how to treat our spouse and children. We can certainly use it to get a good idea of how God expects us to behave if we are His children.

But, most importantly, the bible is a book of prophecy. It exists to certify God’s righteousness in His faithfulness to promise and precisely fulfill. It demonstrates His sovereignty over all time and space, and discredits the claims of other “gods.” It exists to activate and maintain a certain quality of faith propelled by a love for spiritual truth. In this sense, it can’t do a thing for the world, the flesh and the devices of men to benefit them because those things have a limited life span. It works indirectly only as for secondary benefit for societies and individuals to build a world that is at peace and at least tolerant of evangelism, but a primary benefit, a “remez”, to prove the existence and nature of God for those who look at the world primarily as an evidential means to righteously believing in Him, not an end in itself.

The idea of the cross as a dual meaning is one of a simple shape of wood and a theological idea and belief. Jesus hung on a piece of wood with a vertical and horizontal beam and Jesus made atonement. But is this as far as we can understand the cross as a p’shat and a remez, going on without a nagging conscience about the shape of a true cross or the nature of real theology? Or, is both the whole modern plain and theological and understanding of the cross a p’shat awaiting a real remez?

Which is a superior translation of stauros: cross or pole? If we are stubbornly Word-centered, as we should be, we start by looking at the words equivalent in Hebrew. That word that most closely matches stauros is nace. Not only in definition but most importantly in spiritual meaning. Hold on, because this will get very disturbing for those who act like the shape of the cross, its p’shat, is more important to the Christian faith than its remez.

Nace in Hebrew, or נֵס, according to Strong’s Hebrew Lexicon, is:

a flag; also a sail; by implication, a flagstaff; generally a signal; figuratively, a token:–banner, pole, sail, (en-)sign, standard.

Another word form is:

nacac (naw-sas) – to gleam from afar, i.e., to be conspicuous as a signal (the idea of a flag as fluttering in the wind); to raise a beacon; lift up as an ensign

The word carries three primary meanings:

A pole, staff, or flagstaff.

The banner raised upon a pole.

A sign, particularly a miraculous, prophetic sign, as we will see, particularly that of the Messiah.

In accord with # 3, nace means “something lifted up.” It means exaltation. Let’s go through the OT and see how the word and meaning are used in a few typical instances when what is lifted up is the prophetic of God’s word. Ultimately, we are asking something like “how is God lifted up.” Then, we are asking, “is this the reason and way we lift Him up today?”

When used to signify a pole

And the LORD said unto Moses, Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole (נֵס): and it shall come to pass, that every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it, shall live. And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole (on), and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived. (Numbers 21:8-9 KJV)

When used to signify the banner

How long shall I see the standard (נֵס), [and] hear the sound of the trumpet? For my people [is] foolish, they have not known me; they [are] sottish children, and they have none understanding: they [are] wise to do evil, but to do good they have no knowledge. (Jeremiah 4:21-22 KJV)

Thou hast given a banner (נֵס) to them that fear thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth. Selah. (Psalms 60:4 KJV)

And he will lift up an ensign (נֵס) to the nations from far, and will hiss unto them from the end of the earth: and, behold, they shall come with speed swiftly: (Isaiah 5:26 KJ

When used to signify a prophetic sign, particularly the sign of the Messiah

And the earth opened her mouth, and swallowed them up together with Korah, when that company died, what time the fire devoured two hundred and fifty men: and they became a sign (נֵס). (Numbers 26:10 KJV)

And in that day there shall be a root of Jesse, which shall stand for an ensign (נֵס) of the people; to it shall the Gentiles seek: and his rest shall be glorious. (Isaiah 11:10 KJV)

And he shall set up an ensign (נֵס) for the nations, and shall assemble the outcasts of Israel, and gather together the dispersed of Judah from the four corners of the earth. (Isaiah 11:12 KJV)

And he shall pass over to his strong hold for fear, and his princes shall be afraid of the ensign (נֵס), saith the LORD, whose fire [is] in Zion, and his furnace in Jerusalem. (Isaiah 31:9 KJV)

Thus saith the Lord GOD, Behold, I will lift up mine hand to the Gentiles, and set up my standard (נֵס) to the people: and they shall bring thy sons in [their] arms, and thy daughters shall be carried upon [their] shoulders. (Isaiah 49:22 KJV)

Go through, go through the gates; prepare ye the way of the people; cast up, cast up the highway; gather out the stones; lift up a standard (נֵס) for the people. Behold, the LORD hath proclaimed unto the end of the world, Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh; behold, his reward [is] with him, and his work before him. And they shall call them, The holy people, The redeemed of the LORD: and thou shalt be called, Sought out, A city not forsaken. (Isaiah 62:10-12 KJV)

The word that the LORD spake against Babylon [and] against the land of the Chaldeans by Jeremiah the prophet. Declare ye among the nations, and publish, and set up a standard (נֵס); publish, [and] conceal not: say, Babylon is taken, Bel is confounded, Merodach is broken in pieces; her idols are confounded, her images are broken in pieces. For out of the north there cometh up a nation against her, which shall make her land desolate, and none shall dwell therein: they shall remove, they shall depart, both man and beast. In those days, and in that time, saith the LORD, the children of Israel shall come, they and the children of Judah together, going and weeping: they shall go, and seek the LORD their God. (Jeremiah 50:1-4 KJV)

You can see that if we were to settle on one definition for nace, it would certainly be a prophetic sign. We must also remember that a prophetic sign is not only a prophetic promise but the actual person or event which fulfilled it. The person who speaks in the Bible is put as the equivalent of what he speaks and believes, particularly as a means of certifying that person morally. We do the same thing today when we say “he is a person of His word,” “a man is only as good as his word.” A person’s word is a moral sign. The Messiah is also a sign and the ultimate sign at that! He is prophesied, and his person appearing among men is a fulfillment of the promise, the Word of God. Jesus was Himself called a sign (miracle, sign, token, wonder). Giving one of many examples from the New Testament:

For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel. And Joseph and his mother marvelled at those things which were spoken of him. And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary his mother, Behold, this [child] is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (Luke 2:30-34 KJV)

In Jeremiah 4:21-22, you might think that only a flag or banner is indicated, but it’s not. Go back a moment, and we see this:

Then said I, Ah, Lord GOD! surely thou hast greatly deceived this people and Jerusalem, saying, Ye shall have peace; whereas the sword reacheth unto the soul. (Jeremiah 4:10 KJV)

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What is the sword that reaches into the soul? The flag is a signal that the prophecy of the Babylonian invasion is underway, and that God’s word is in the process of fulfillment. They don’t want to see the signal because their lives or way of life are set for destruction as God said would happen. In fact, the people of Jerusalem even go so far as to say that God has deceived them for promising peace and giving, or allowing, destruction. They forgot that God promised them that their foot would slide (Deu 32:35, Due 18:18-19) and that all this would come upon them because of their unbelief in his word. Their concern is only for their flesh and the world, and if God does not for any reason give it to them and maintain it, then he has deceived them. In short, the flag and the sound of the trumpet that the people do not want to hear is prophecy itself, and therefore God. This is the reason for their destruction.

In Numbers 26:10, the kind of people under destruction is typified by Korah and his gang. Here, nace is used exclusively for a prophetic sign of those unbelievers whom God said he would destroy.

In Psalms 60:4, what does the banner stand for? “Thou hast made the earth to tremble; thou hast broken it: heal the breaches thereof; for it shaketh. Thou hast shewed thy people hard things: thou hast made us to drink the wine of astonishment. Thou hast given a banner (on) to them that fear thee, that it may be displayed because of the truth. Selah” (Psalms 60:2-4 KJV). I think this is obvious.

In Isaiah 5:26, are we talking only about a flag, or a person?

Isaiah 11 contains one of the greatest messianic prophecies. It’s clear here that the ensign is Jesus Messiah

In Isaiah 31:9, the ensign that the people will fear is a person.

Isaiah 49:22 has a Standard lifted up to the people. Who or what is it?

Jeremiah 50:2. We have “standard” the parallel of “publish.” The standard that will be displayed is a declaration that God’s prophecy of the destruction of Babylon is headed toward fulfillment.

In Isaiah 62:10-12, the standard is indisputably messianic prophecy: “lift up a standard for the people. Behold, the LORD hath proclaimed unto the end of the world, Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh; behold, his reward [is] with him, and his work before him.” But it does not stop there. Who is this Messiah? What is his name? The word for salvation here is none other than a variation on the name Yeshua, or Jesus. Reading this part again, we have: Behold, thy Yeshua cometh; behold, his reward [is] with him, and his work before him.

Survey of Christ

All three meanings come through clearly in Numbers 21:8-9, where Moses lifts up the brass serpent on the Nace. The brass serpent is, of course, a symbol for Satan, sin, and judgment. But this is also a prophecy of the Messiah hung on the cross. It’s a very difficult problem. Most say something like “the Messiah, in the guise of sin, would be lifted up on the pole, and whoever looked upon Him in faith would be not be struck by the serpent and the penalty of sin.” One thing we know for sure, Moses is lifting up a prophetic sign for the people. But I saved this for last because these verses if properly and honestly read, would cause an earthquake to the popular forms and fashions of bible exposition over the previous 1800 years. We are not reading deep enough:

There was a man of the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews: The same came to Jesus by night, and said unto him, Rabbi, we know that thou art a teacher come from God: for no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with him. Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God. Nicodemus saith unto him, How can a man be born when he is old? can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb, and be born? Jesus answered, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born of water and [of] the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit. Nicodemus answered and said unto him, How can these things be? Jesus answered and said unto him, Art thou a master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness. If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe, if I tell you [of] heavenly things? And no man hath ascended up to heaven, but he that came down from heaven, [even] the Son of man which is in heaven. And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up: That whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For every one that doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved. But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be made manifest, that they are wrought in God. (John 3:1-21 KJV, emphasis mine)

There is a huge amount of information here, but take the italics as words begging for a particular definition as a consequence of the real subject under discussion.

First, let’s remember what Jesus did and said that prompted Nicodemus to approach him.

Then answered the Jews and said unto him, What sign shewest thou unto us, seeing that thou doest these things? Jesus answered and said unto them, Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up. Then said the Jews, Forty and six years was this temple in building, and wilt thou rear it up in three days? But he spake of the temple of his body. When therefore he was risen from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this unto them; and they believed the scripture, and the word which Jesus had said. Now when he was in Jerusalem at the passover, in the feast [day], many believed in his name, when they saw the miracles which he did. But Jesus did not commit himself unto them, because he knew all [men], And needed not that any should testify of man: for he knew what was in man. (John 2:18-25 KJV)

Notice the oracular emphasis here. Jesus speaks of a prophecy uttered by the prophets about the crucifixion of the Messiah and gives prophecy himself, saying that his disciples will believe the “scriptures,” the Old Testament testimony about him, after he rises from the dead. It goes on to say that many believed in his name because of the miracles he performed, but Jesus knew that they are motivated by the show and not the scriptures and did not commit himself to them. This is also the story of Nicodemus and Jesus’ problem with his faith.

I also contend that the appellation Son of Man, from the astounding vision of Daniel 7:13-14, is a symbolic reference to the messianic oracles themselves. Jesus was running the money changers out of the temple. The Jews wanted to know by what authority he was doing these things. If he were Messiah, he would have the right to do what he wanted with his own house. They asked him for a sign, and Jesus gave them one. But Jesus did not give them some flashy miracle. Jesus steadfastly refused to put on a supernatural show for the Pharisees, because expressly because a miracle can be believed for itself without any incorrigible prophetic associations, but messianic prophecy cant, which promises the miracles and is a miracle when its fulfilled. The miracle is the fulfillment of the prophecy, a dependency, and if you don’t know the scriptures, then you will not feel responsible for fundamental spiritual motivation. It is a belief from and then through the fulfilled prophetic signs that save. He gave them the sign of the temple, which stood for His body. He gave them the sign of the resurrection: They would destroy his body, but in two days, he will rise from the dead. All of this is well established in prophetic scriptures. If they cared about the prophetic signs, they should have known that the Messiah would die by murder, killed by piercing and that his soul would be through this an offering for sin (Isaiah 53, Psalms 22). They should have known that God would not leave His Holy One to see corruption (Psalms 16:10).

The Jews, of course, thought He was talking about the literal temple. They are spiritually blind to the prophetic word of God, both in its letter and importance. So was Nicodemus.

Nicodemus was impressed and motivated by Jesus’s healing power. However, Nicodemus did not even think water into wine at Cana and the other miracles certified Jesus as Messiah, evidenced in the phrase “we know that thou art a teacher come from God: for no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with him.“ The wonders also were not regarded by Nicodemus as prophetic signs of the Messiah. Otherwise, he would not have merely called him a teacher sent by God. And this is from religious leadership! Jesus’ response was that Nicodemus had to be born again to enter the promised Kingdom of God. Nicodemus, just as the unbelieving Jews in the temple, still thought He was speaking only in naturalistic terms and wondered how he could re-enter his mother’s womb.

Now, indeed, being born again refers to a miraculous spiritual rebirth through faith, transforming one in spirit as a little child. But, perhaps, more importantly, are we not also talking here about people going back and starting over in the way they were looking at scripture through the phenomenon of its present fulfillments by Jesus? Going back to a faith built exclusively on a trust that God is faithful in promising and keeping His promises, of which Jesus was the ultimate example? Faith through the signs of scripture?

Jesus rebukes Nicodemus’s unbelief by effectively telling him that he should be ashamed to call himself a religious leader in Israel and did not know or believe in messianic prophecy: Art thou a master of Israel, and knowest not these things? Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen, and ye receive not our witness. If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe, if I tell you [of] heavenly things? The “earthly things’ refer to Jesus speaking of the literal temple and physical birth. The “heavenly things” refer to something about spiritual things gleaned through knowledge (We speak that we do know) and direct experience (and testify that we have seen). Therefore, “heavenly things” are the proofs of Jesus Messiah through the Word confirmed and fulfilled through His miraculous signs, just as the Temple is a sign of the prophesied Messiah. Jesus is not complaining that Nicodemus or the Jews did not believe that he would build the temple in three days or that one could physically be born again. That would be foolish. He was complaining that these people would not take his miracles and words as pointers to the wonders of fulfilled prophecy in scripture and that his death and resurrection were among them.

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If you think I am way off base here, consider Jesus’s next astounding statement: And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up. Jesus is again speaking in two senses of lifting up: One, what must lifted and, two, why. What is that part of the nace which is the Messiah, whose sacrifice will atone for sins.

Why it/He should lifted up is that part of the nace upon which supports and displays the What part of the Nace. Why is because of the faithfulness of God’s promises to man, expressed through the prophecies. Yes, Jesus Messiah is set up high as a banner upon the pole of the oracles of God. This is the only pole upon which he can be lifted to be Messiah among the people, to faith, and this is the only reason, the only nace, upon which God accepts faith in Messiah to be supported. The light which Jesus speaks, and from which the unbelievers flee, is the light of the p’shat of scripture and Jesus Himself.

When I survey the Wondrous Nace.

We all know that old song “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.”

When I survey the wondrous cross On which the Prince of glory died, My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride.

Exactly. I share these feelings. Big Time. I became dead to the world and the world to me. But you will never get that when you survey the Cross, only a Cross which is a Nace.

What Christ died on and for is not a piece of wood. Not upon anything you can think of that is natural to the world or natural to human sensibilities, intellect and priority. It’s not anything upon which you can divine divinity in which your view of the divine is controlled or created by you. Vertical but meant to be applied horizontally to your spirit. A burden and the only source of illumination that we can put our hands on. It lifts up Christ for the world to see and believe or it’s a specially designed tool of debasement, disrespect, rejection, revulsion, apathy, and ignorance applied to Him. A real Cross is as infinitely a transgression against Transcendence as it a means of infinite forgiveness. For one, nothing, or a whip, or a bludgeon, or a mock laugh, and to the other a reason to live and to die. The Nace is the Revelation of Jesus of Nazareth, Messiah, fulfilled by him and foretold by the prophets. And, yes, it really is a wonder far beyond a hug from your mother.

How would Bible exposition change with the insistence that Messianic prophecy is the only single legitimate reason for faith in Christ and the only ordained content of evangelism? Upon what scriptural axiom or basis will be the next reformation, the only possible reformation? What is Christianity all about, really?

If there is to be a real reformation, it will not only be by the What of scripture, its p’shat. Not feelings of sorrow for a man in pain. Not the guilt that one feels that Jesus had to go through so much so that we could live. It’s not a deep commitment to accepting the precepts and moral code of religion. It’s not the personal benefits of riches in heaven or the personal benefits of a prayer object or a belief object. It’s not decisions based upon hunches and feelings about the truth of Christ in the face of an onslaught of all kinds of good reasons not to believe. It’s not “by grace through faith alone” or any other pious theological idol that one can believe fervently in, yet such belief can’t substantially benefit one spiritually. It is not through things about Christianity that show up in any other religion, and therefore not through things upon which a common, unrighteous faith can find nourishment.

It’s the Why of scripture, the remez. The Immissa cross is not an object of faith because it’s too complicated: there is one added horizontal beam that should not be there. It should be a simplex. It should be a nace. It should be messianic prophecy alone as the only path to truth, and the only path to which Truth can reach the heart of those who love the truth and want more of it.

Not that the Immissa cross has no meaning at all. It’s is full of meaning:

“I have declared the former things from the beginning; and they went forth out of my mouth, and I shewed them; I did [them] suddenly, and they came to pass. Because I knew that thou [art] obstinate, and thy neck [is] an iron sinew, and thy brow brass; I have even from the beginning declared [it] to thee; before it came to pass I shewed [it] thee: lest thou shouldest say, Mine idol hath done them, and my graven image, and my molten image, hath commanded them. Thou hast heard, see all this; and will not ye declare [it]? I have shewed thee new things from this time, even hidden things, and thou didst not know them. They are created now, and not from the beginning; even before the day when thou heardest them not; lest thou shouldest say, Behold, I knew them. Yea, thou heardest not; yea, thou knewest not; yea, from that time [that] thine ear was not opened: for I knew that thou wouldest deal very treacherously, and wast called a transgressor from the womb.” (Isaiah 48:3-8 KJV)

It symbolizes the hard-heartedness of man.

Well, it really doesn’t matter what the real shape of the Cross was. The only thing that matters is what the wood that Christ was lifted up on ultimately means.

It’s like the ten commandments monument controversy in Alabama. This battle over only a symbol has itself come to symbolize, even among the combatants, the essential disagreements that Christianity has with the world: one group wants the monument to stay because it represents Christian values. Another wants it to go because it represents Christian values. The substance of Christian values, not the symbol, is that God has proven to Man that Jesus of Nazareth is the divine Messiah through the prophecies and is the preeminent reason for righteous faith in Him and the preeminent reason by which God would accept his faith to salvation, has been lost to those who place symbols above it.

When You Survey the Wondrous Nace?

When I survey the Wondrous Cross? Take up a survey of that which has the first purpose not of proving your own fitness for heaven, but to prove the only way that God’s morally exists to faith. Only then can you say that you surveyed the Wondrous Cross and know God, not just some song.

Here is the next article in this series: The Meaning of the Cross and the Lord’s Prayer, part 2: Passing by Nehushtan

What is the Word of God?: Passing by Nehushtan

An Analysis of the Brazen Serpent Imagery: Passing by Nehushtan

Oxford, 1968, pp. 1191, 1192 ↩

https://www.bibletools.org/index.cfm/fuseaction/Lexicon.show/ID/G3586/xulon.htm ↩

https://www.amazon.com/Servant-Jehovah-Sufferings-Messiah-Should ↩

https://www.amazon.com/Moses-Fourth-Gospel-T-Glasson ↩

#meaning #nehushtan #nehushtan meaning

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bloomsoftly · 7 years

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take your time (in a hurry), ch. 3

happy birthday, @ragwitch!! i love you. ❤️❤️❤️

read: part 1, part 2

Chapters: 3/? Relationships: wintershieldshock (Darcy/Bucky/Steve), Darcy & Tony Rating: T (for now) Summary: Darcy is the bastard daughter of one Anthony Edward Stark, who was banished from New York for getting a girl pregnant out of wedlock. Now that her grandparents have died, she embarks on a quest out west to find her long-lost father. Twenty years later. Should be a piece of cake. (old west!AU)

There was no warning, nothing. Later, Darcy and Maria would look back and see the little hints of escalation—the increasingly-frequent attempts by Mr. Zola to coerce the young woman into speaking with him, the rapidly-growing pile of letters that sat unopened and ignored on the corner of her grandfather’s desk, the fact that Darcy had to stop leaving the house because the odious man would show up with uncanny timing as soon as she returned—but at the time they just considered them to be annoying inconveniences. Creepy, perhaps, but certainly not dangerous.

After it was all said and done, Maria would remember catching a maid in the process of gesturing to Mr. Zola’s men, the garden door unlocked and cracked open. She dismissed the girl on the spot, ignoring her sobbing pleas; any woman who was willing to sell out another of her gender for a bit of coin was not someone Maria was willing to trust around Darcy. Not even with the chamber pots. And thus, the door was locked and barred against Zola and his henchman for another night.

She intended to pen a letter to Mrs. Carter and inform her that Zola’s schemes were getting more and more underhanded and unhinged. But then a servant accidentally set off one of Howard’s numerous mysterious inventions while packing up the study and shrieked loud enough to rouse the whole house, maybe the whole street. So, Maria hastily shut the door, barred it, and hurried up the stairs. The plans to move out west were hard on Darcy, even if the young woman claimed to be excited; Maria could see the wear of it at her eyes, her mouth, the lines of her face. And between her fears and the grief of losing her grandparents, she had enough on her plate. Which meant that Maria was even more determined to keep the process moving as seamlessly as possible, to save her precious girl what trouble she could.

If the servant hadn’t knocked into Howard’s mechanical figurine—a harmless one, thankfully, albeit extremely noisy—and Maria hadn’t had to race to shut the damn thing off, she might have noticed the rockaway parked on the other side of the street. It was hidden in the shadows, and the figure inside observed as the men came so close to gaining entrance to the house, only to be blocked at the last minute. As Zola watched the scene, the vehicle practically shook with the fury of his rage. He was denied access to the Stark bastard once again.

If Maria had looked out the window, she might have seen that something was off. In the way the henchmen slunk back to the vehicle, like dogs expecting to get hit, or the way the driver nervously shrank away from the passenger’s seat. If she had, she might’ve been able to prevent the fire. But she was busy dealing with Howard Stark’s mischief from beyond the grave, and she had no time to stare at shadows or darkness or any such nonsense.

And three nights later, someone set fire to their home.

Darcy woke up to a strange scraping sound, oddly like the creak of the garden gate as it pulled over the cobblestone path—the damn thing sagged at one end and always made the most awful, high-pitched noise—and it was entirely out of place in the middle of the night. Her room overlooked the garden, true, but never had she heard it this late; it was too heavy to open on accident, even with gusty wind. She laid perfectly still in her bed, holding her breath so as not to make a single sound in case it happened again, listening for the creak of the gate or the scuff of a boot against the stone path. But nothing happened. The garden outside her window was silent, though she could hear the creak of the wooden floor outside her bedroom as a maid moved through the hallway. Still, she waited.

Finally, deciding it had been a figment of her imagination, she rolled over and tried to drift back to sleep. It was most likely just a fragment of a nightmare that had followed her into consciousness, she decided; her worries over Zola and his schemes had taken over her brain, haunting her even in sleep. And now he was ruining her rest, too, keeping her awake with fear of what he might do. The thought of him having such power over her made Darcy angry, and she punched her pillow a few times before determinedly closing her eyes. Taking deep breaths, she started to silently count backward from one hundred—a technique that Maria had taught her as a child, when her brain was too active to shut itself off. She reached the number seventy-two before her mind went fuzzy, coaxed into that soft space between wakefulness and the peaceful lure of deep sleep.

The explosive sound of glass shattering against the foundation of the house startled her upright. With her heart pounding in her ears—she knew that she hadn’t imagined that, it wasn’t possible—she threw back the covers and sprinted to the window. The wood of the floor was harsh against her bare feet, but she paid it no mind. Throwing back the curtains, tossing aside modesty and caution in favor of haste, Darcy was blinded by the unexpected bright light that was overtaking the garden. The brilliant yellow and orange hues seared her eyes, and it took her a second to realize exactly what she was seeing.

(read more link here)

Turning away from the window, she screamed bloody murder. “Maria! Someone’s set fire to the garden.” There was a series of scrambling and frantic fumbling noises all throughout the house, and she knew that her warning had been heard by at least someone. But they might not wake fast enough to stop the flames from spreading. And with that thought in mind, she raced to the wardrobe and grabbed the first dressing gown she laid her hands on, shoved her feet into some slippers, and headed for the door. Maria was already running down the hall toward her bedroom, disheveled and sleepy and altogether panicked.

“Are you alright?” she asked frantically, examining Darcy from head to toe, as if somehow she might’ve gotten hurt from inside the house. If the situation had been any less dire, Darcy might have laughed at the overprotective concern. Right now, there was no time for humor.

“I’m fine,” she assured, and together they raced toward the stairs. “But we have to hurry. Someone threw a glass lamp at the house, and the fire is already spreading.”

With a dark scowl, Maria asked, “Did you get a look at the person who threw it?”

Darcy felt so stupid. Stopping in the middle of the stairs, she confessed, “No, I didn’t. Maria, I’m so sorry. I was panicking—”

Maria seized her arm and continued on down the stairs, forcing her to snap out of it and keep up. “I was just asking, Darce. I don’t blame you. At all, alright? The blame for this lies solely with the pigeon-livered, shoddy excuses for men who did this.” Her face was bright red with fury, none of it directed at Darcy, and it was clear that they both knew who was responsible.

A cluster of servants waited for them at the bottom of the stairs, near the kitchens and the hallway that led out to the garden door. “Should I call the firefighters, Ms. Hill?” one of them asked. It sounded like Anna.

Someone thought to light a lamp, and she saw that it was Anna who had spoken. Her face was pale and scared, and her frail shoulders trembled with fear. Somewhat hysterically, Darcy wondered what they were all doing loitering at the base of the stairs when the house could be burning down around their ears. Maria clearly had the same thought. “Don’t be daft, Anna. The house would burn down anyway, and we’d still have to pay them off. No. You,” she ordered, pointing directly at Tom, “fetch water. Keep it coming, as much as you can. Anna, Philip, get buckets. I want everyone else outside, working to douse that flame. This house is not burning down. Not tonight.” When everyone stood in place, staring at her, she clapped her hands and growled, “Go!”

They scattered. At the last second, Maria commanded, “Beth, wait.”

“Yes, ma’am?” She looked like a rabbit who’d just been scented by a hound, as if Maria was a predator who wouldn’t hesitate to gobble her up. Not that Darcy blamed her; Maria was ferocious even on her calm days. At the moment, she strongly resembled a raging goddess of fury from one of the old pagan religions.

“Hurry over to Peggy Carter’s home, girl, and tell her that someone tried to set fire to the Stark mansion. I don’t care what you have to do to get a message to her. Go, and do it quickly. And quietly, if you please.”

The frightened girl offered a jerky nod and was gone. Without wasting any more time, Maria headed for the garden. Darcy followed, hot on her heels.. The smoke lingered in the air, and the smell of burnt grass and wood reached their noses. But it wasn’t so thick as to choke, and she wondered if they’d somehow gotten lucky. Maria stalked to the door, then suddenly seemed to remember that Darcy was with her. “Darcy, stay in the house.”

Her cheeks were hot, and not from the flames in the garden. “This is my house too, Maria! There’s no way I’m staying inside like a good little girl while my home burns down around my ears. I have two arms, two legs, and I can help put the damn fire out like anyone else.”

Maria opened her mouth to protest, or to reason with her, maybe, but Darcy was already marching out the door.

The scene was not as chaotic as she'd thought it would be, which was strange. And a bit disorienting, honestly. The fire was confined to one side of the garden—the side directly underneath her window, which gave Darcy the shivers—and the servants seemed to have it mostly under control. They'd formed a sort of assembly line: Anna passed the full buckets of water to Tom, who traded her for an empty one and passed the water on to Philip, who focused on dousing the flames. Darcy moved to join the process, gravitating toward Philip’s end of things, drawn like a moth to the flame. Though smaller than expected, the flames of the fire burned bright and harsh. The reds and yellows battled fiercely against the dark shadows of late evening, so intensely that the colors burned the backs of her eyelids even as she turned away to protect her eyes from the blaze.

A hand caught at her elbow, keeping her from getting too close, and Maria was suddenly between her and the fire. The smoke stung her eyes. The housekeeper’s silhouette blurred and shimmered in front of her, and Darcy had to blink away a stream of tears. She didn’t know how Philip could stand to be so close; her eyes already burned with a fierce pain. With the hand at her elbow, Maria turned her body away, so that they faced the garden gate. For a second, Darcy thought she saw something move in the dark, in the shadow of the outer wall. But then she blinked again, forcing away the film of moisture obscuring her vision, and nothing was there.

“Are you alright?” Maria asked, leaning in to her personal space. The other woman practically had to shout for Darcy to hear her—she’d never known that fires were so loud. She hadn’t known a lot of things, clearly. The sound of glass shattering against brick echoed through her mind, and she fought not to cry real tears. Someone had tried to seriously hurt them, to destroy her family’s home. It wasn’t abstract anymore.

When she didn’t answer immediately, Maria grabbed her shoulder and shook her a little. “Darcy!” she shouted.

That no-nonsense tone brought her back to herself, as it always did. Darcy had learned very young that when Maria used her stern tone of voice it was best not to ignore her. “I’m okay,” she mumbled, raising her eyes to meet the other woman’s. Maria’s expression softened slightly when she saw the irritated redness of Darcy’s eyes, the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She steered her away, back toward the door to the house. “We are of more use over here, sweet. Philip and Tom have a rhythm going, and we’d only disrupt it. They’re stronger and faster than we are, and your hands are not used to the coarse handles of the buckets. No need to injure yourself when it wouldn’t do any good anyway. Come this way,” she said, drawing Darcy over to where Anna was hurrying back and forth to fill up the buckets. “You fill them with water, Darcy, when I hand the empty buckets to you. Anna will pass them along.”

It was good to feel useful, and the steady rhythm—take the empty bucket from Maria, fill it up as quickly as possible with water, then pass the now-heavy weight back to the housekeeper, who passed it along to Anna, and so forth—took Darcy’s mind off the actual circumstances from the fire. She lost count of how many buckets she filled with water, or how long they worked. Her arms grew sore and tired, unused to such physical labor. And just as Maria had warned, her palms grew blistered and red, swelling so badly that she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the work. She stared down at them, defiant and angry and wondering how she was supposed to survive out West if she couldn’t even handle such a simple task.

Maria watched her with growing concern, eyes flicking back and forth between her swollen hands and her frustrated expression. But the housekeeper said nothing, and Darcy knew that her help was badly needed. She soldiered on, ignoring the pain with sheer determination, until finally one of the men let out an excited holler. From inside the house, Darcy couldn’t tell which one it was.

“Ms. Hill, we did it! It’s out!” The three women raced out the door to survey the damage for themselves. It was Tom who’d yelled, and he didn’t lie. There were scorch marks climbing halfway up the wall, practically Darcy’s height, but all the flames had been extinguished. The men were jubilant and practically vibrating with triumph, for all that their faces were tracked with tears and their hands and clothes were streaked with soot.

“Hush,” Maria hissed, though the line of her mouth was not nearly as harsh as usual. “We don’t wish to wake the neighbors, you hear?” That got the men’s attention, and they stared at her with curiosity.

“Go on inside and wash yourselves off,” she said. “You’ve done well this evening, putting out the fire before it could do much damage.”

Darcy cleared her throat, causing four pairs of eyes to swing her way. “Who knows what would’ve happened without you,” she said, trying not to choke on the ash in her throat. Her voice was quiet, but carried through the air with an authority she hadn’t even known she had. “You’ve earned a bonus, and then some. Get some rest, and we’ll settle on an appropriate reward in the morning.”

They looked at her incredulously—well, Maria’s expression was stoic, but she was always stoic—before Tom, Philip, and Anna’s faces broke out into wild grins. There was a chorus of “Thank you, Miss” and “Just doin’ our job, Miss,” as they stumbled over each other to get into the house. She knew that part of the reason for their haste was that they were worried she’d change her mind, and the thought made her angry. How many times had Grandpa Howard promised to reward them, only to forget or take it back later?

“Wait.” Maria’s voice was low but commanding, and all three turned back to look at her with trepidation. For a single, disbelieving moment Darcy thought that the other woman was going to overrule her wishes, but instead she said, “Don’t tell anyone about this, not yet. I want a chance to speak to the police first, before anyone catches any gossip. Am I understood?” Her gaze was heavy and expectant as it rested on every one of them, and each nodded without hesitation. “Good. Go on. You’re relieved of anymore duties until tomorrow.”

She waited for the door to shut behind them before reaching out to cup Darcy’s elbow. “We need to get a good look at the lamp that started the fire, and collect the pieces if we can. Who knows what could disappear overnight.” Her meaning was unmistakable, and in tandem they turned toward the scorched earth of the garden. The moon was bright and there was a faint light still coming from Darcy’s window—in her haste, she’d forgotten to blow it out—and they had just enough light to search for the broken glass without drawing any more attention to themselves.

Moving slowly and methodically over the grass, they hunted for the glass pieces. After a silent minute of searching, Darcy finally found one, but Maria stopped her before she could try to pick it up. “No, it’s still too hot. Just nudge it over there, and keep looking.”

Eventually, they’d managed to compile most of the broken glass. It was a lamp, as Darcy had thought, but there was something about the sight of it that caused Maria to frown. With pursed lips, she murmured, “There’s something not right about this. Why here? Why would they start a fire that wouldn’t—” Her eyes grow round and troubled, but whatever she was about to say next was cut off by the creak of the garden gate.

Maria’s face changed immediately, sharpening into a terrifyingly dark glower. As Darcy turned to look behind her at whoever had come through the gate, the other woman reached into the pocket of her dress and drew out a sharp, wicked-looking knife. “Darcy, run!”

She meant to, she really did. But her body was tired from the effort of putting out the fire and her feet seemed to get tangled up in her skirts immediately. Not that it would have made much difference. The men were already there, herding her back toward the wall of her house. She tried to run anyway, and Maria stepped forward to protect them both with her weapon—a distant part of her wondered whether the housekeeper actually kept a weapon on her at all times, even during the day when she was working around the house, and at another moment she might’ve found that image completely hilarious—but she was too far away.

One of the men snagged Darcy by her braid as she tried to sprint past him, tugging on it painfully. His other hand came up around her waist, gripping and groping and ripping a hole into her dressing gown like it was made of flimsy paper. She opened her mouth to scream, but he let go of her hair to shove his hand over her mouth. Maria was fighting off the other brute, keeping him at bay with her knife, but she too was hindered by a dress and stumbling in the dark.

The man holding Darcy started to drag her backward, toward the gate and out of Maria’s reach. With a muffled scream of terror, Darcy bit down on her captor’s hand and struggled against him, stomping on his foot and trying to elbow him in the ribs. He let out a howl of pain but didn’t stop; her slippers were soft and useless against his boots, and he was much bigger than her. She continued to thrash, pulling away from him as hard as she could. Her eyes never left Maria’s form, even as it got harder to see in the dark. If only she could get to Maria.

When they reached the gate, she struggled even harder. If he got her away from the house, she knew, it would all be over. But she couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t find a place to dig her fingernails into soft flesh—and then suddenly the weight behind her was gone. His grubby hand was gone from her waist, and his hand fell away from her mouth. She was almost too terrified to move, until she heard his body hit the cobblestone path behind her. She was free.

There was no time to waste; Maria was still fighting a man twice her size with nothing but a knife. But as she stepped forward, a hand ghosted over her shoulder. “I’ve got this,” a soft voice murmured, and a lithe shadow slid past her in the dark. The person was too small to be either of the henchmen, and had seemed too friendly, anyway.

Within seconds, the man accosting Maria was on the ground, either unconscious or dead. It was unladylike, but Darcy couldn’t bring herself to care all that much about his possible demise. He’d been trying to hurt the person she cared most about in the entire world, after all. And, of course, he’d been party to an attempt to physically force her into an unwanted marriage. There was no doubt in her mind that Zola was behind all of this.

Darcy stepped close, eyeing the stranger warily as Maria and the unknown person stared each other down. “Thank you for your help,” Maria offered cautiously, stepping sideways so that she stood between Darcy and the newcomer. Her knife was still drawn.

The stranger folded their hood back, revealing the striking face of an amazingly beautiful woman. “It’s not a problem,” she replied with a faintly Eastern European accent. The flickering light from Darcy’s window illuminated the striking color of her hair. It reminded Darcy of the flames they’d put out at this very spot, not even an hour before. With a wickedly amused grin, she revealed, “Peggy said you were having a problem. She sent me to help.”

#wintershieldshock #darcy x bucky x steve #darcyland #darcy is tony's daughter #happy birthday queenie!#queenie and bloom forever #old west!au #fic update #take your time in a hurry

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