#like the tragedy was woven into them right from the start

[lyinginthesnow]

something about childhood in succession.. the way it casts its shadow over the entire narrative, the rotten root of the roy siblings’s pain, all wrapped up in Logan’s power and abuse and love. The opening credits are filled with images of them as kids, beginning every. single. episode. by emphasizing the importance of their childhood: the siblings posing for a photo, playing sports, standing on a manicured lawn, riding an elephant, etc. and then the shots of logan, in which he is always shown from behind, or far away. It is a childhood the viewer never gets to see in any other context, since there are no flashbacks in the show, and therefore as integral as it seems, we know almost nothing about it. What exactly happened? What are the details? We feel its presence, we can tell how it informs their relationships, we can put together the pieces of incomplete and contradictory memories expressed through dialogue, and if we trace their struggles and dysfunction back far enough we know it leads there, to when they were kids. But there is so much empty space we can’t fill in. It’s almost like their childhood is presented in that horror technique where you never get to see the monster clearly straight on. It’s always in darkness, and chopped up into close-ups so that the viewer’s imagination is forced to invent something, however vague, and that is far scarier than it would be if we could actually see it — a monster that is terrifying BECAUSE it’s unknown. The roy siblings’s childhood is a major force behind so much that happens on screen, but what specifically occurred is out of the reach of our understanding. We are shown the monster’s shadow but not the monster, we are shown the frightened faces of the characters as they look at something behind the camera we never get to see, we are shown the running or the fighting or the blood but never the true, bigger-picture, clear details of the horror itself

#sorry succession as horror scratches an itch in my brain and the idea of their childhood makes my brain explode <333 #just!! even showing this shaky blurry footage of mundane childhood moments feels ominous to me— #it’s like. a documentary abt something awful that begins with #a ‘before’ montage of seemingly benign family life #and of course when the videos were taken they seemed meaningless. but now looking back at them we can see they mean so much #like the tragedy was woven into them right from the start #eeeeeeeeeee i need to be sedated i think #roy siblings #connor roy #kendall roy #roman roy #shiv roy #logan roy #succession #ruby (unfortunately) watches succession #succession as horror

[roguelov]

(Not) Cursed

Summary: After a rough week of nothing going right, Dream pays you a visit tries to cheer you up

Word Count: ~1.8k

Reader: Gender Neutral

Warning: Minor angst (general inconveniences and small outburst), mostly fluff

Requested by anon

The universe - in all of its grandiose schemes and of its intricate woven tales of fate - had ultimately put you on a path of misery.

Or at least, it seemed to be.

You were destined for a week, a tortuous long week, of the world completely set against you.

It all began with work - a simple retail job in a local clothing shop. Of course, like all jobs, there were ups and downs, however, this week was unbearably stressful. Firstly, the most volatile and rude customers seemed to have rallied together bombarding the shop and made it near impossible to help them or get a word in otherwise. So while other coworkers tried their best with customers, you decided to try to restock and reorganize the display shelves, which ended in more agony. You only succeeded in tripping and sending all the clothes all over the floor, and also managed to knock over a mannequin thus breaking one of its arms. After cleaning up said mess, you moved to work at the cash register. But, tragedy struck again. You were simply scanning in items, pressed a button okay a credit card, and the system completely crashed on you. It wouldn’t work no matter how much you pleaded, and your manager had to take over to complete the transaction.

You swore a curse was inflicted upon you. Whatever you touched would be ruined.

And your theory only proved to be more and more correct.

After a draining week at work and other unfortunate mishaps you encountered - traffic jams, spilled drinks, torn clothes, etc, you had to do some grocery shopping and decided to splurge a bit. You saw a tasty new recipe and bought all the necessary ingredients, along with a few other things to treat yourself with. But, the curse had already decided your next victim: your dinner.

Stumbling with groceries, you unlocked your apartment and fumbled inside. A few bags slipped from your grasp, and tumbled all of its contents out onto the once clean floor. Apples bruised, cans dented, and a bottle of soap busted leaking all over the floor.

You let out a frustrated groan. Setting the other bags onto the counter, you begrudgingly started to clean another mess added to this miserable, terrible week. You mumbled every curse under the sun as you cleaned up.

Damn this.

Damn everything.

After cleaning up the mess - and nearly slipping in the soapy bubbles - you put away everything and prepared to make dinner. But, your curse continued. A few more items were dropped and spilled in the process, which furthered your growing white hot anger. You gritted your teeth as your throat squeezed as you pushed back the need to cry and scream.

Fuck, it’s okay. I’m okay.

You chopped vegetables and began to cook them in a pan. You haphazardly moved around the kitchen collecting spices and seasoning while trying to put in the correct measurements.

Shit, what else? What am I missing?

You glanced over to your phone on the counter, rereading the recipe for the umpteenth time. You practically knew it by heart at this point, but you had to double check.

1 teaspoons, 1 ½ tablespoons, and okay -

You scrunched up your nose in disgust. You tilted your head back, inhaling deeply. An awful aroma filled the air, assaulting your senses. You wanted to choke. It was an awful aroma you knew well. Your eyes widened as you whipped around. Smoke clouded the air. The vegetables - your poor vegetables - were burning.

You scrambled over, turning off the stove and rushed the pan to the sink. The resound clang of the pan banging into the sink was your final straw. You numbly stared down to see your burnt diced vegetables. Burnt and ruined.

Ruined just like this week.

You sniffled then quickly squeezed your eyes shut.

Why? Why is everything going wrong?

You were so focused on drowning in your misery and distress, you failed to notice a peculiar thing happening in the living room behind you. Shadows stretched from underneath furniture and out of corners, pooling together. It swirled and swirled until it formed a mass. Stepping out of the shadows, with the sound sand pinging on the ground, a man appeared.

A man you knew dearly, and loved more than anything: Dream of the Endless, your loving Morphues.

Morpheus cocked his head, seeing your hunched figure in front of the sink. Your hands white knuckled the rim, nearly cutting into your palms. A faint scent of smoke filled his nose, but he thought nothing of it. There was no fire. So, his attention was solely on you - you and the dark cloud looming above your head.

“(Y/N)?”

“Fuck! What the hell do you want?” You hissed. But, you instantly froze. You blinked, realizing the source of the voice. You slowly spun around to see Morpheus now in your home. His eyebrows knitted together slightly given your outburst. Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, Morpheus, I am so sorry about that, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Morpheus’s expression subtly returned back to its typical neutral state. “It’s okay. I startled you, I should have called before arriving.”

“No, no,” you sighed, rubbing your face. “I lashed out. I was frustrated and you popped in, so I unintentionally took it out on you.”

Morpheus strolled forward. His eyes casually peered around you to see the sink littered with charred ingredients. There was one explanation for your outburst. His eyes moved back to you. You still held your hands over your face as if blocking out the world. But, there had to be another reason. One mistake usually did not elicit such a response.

He reached up, and gently curled his fingers over your wrists. He slowly dragged your hands down so he could see your face. Tears prickled in your eyes. He frowned, a twitch of his lips. With his thumb, he carefully brushed away the tears that slid down your face.

“What bothers you?” He spoke softly, trying to comfort you.

You immediately leaned into his kind touch. “It … it has just been a rough week.”

“Tell me.” Taking your hands, he guided you over to the couch. He sat down first - measured and precise - while you flopped down in a huff. His hands, however, never left yours. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the back of your hands. “What has happened?”

You scoffed, a breathy sarcastic laugh. “What hasn’t happened? For starters, work has been awful. I swear everything I touched broke, not to mention all the rude customers that came through the shop.”

You sniffled, your throat constricted as you fought ferociously against the wave of tears. Morpheus - your sweet Morpheus - said not a word, listening intently and watching as your expression slowly fell.

“Then - then I had a list of chores I needed to do. But, the dishwasher - the stupid thing - broke and I hand-washed everything only to break more plates and bowls.” You dropped your head, and gripped Morpheus’s hands tighter. Fuck. Don’t cry, don’t cry. “Then I tried to make dinner only to burn it and - fuck.”

It truly all sounded idiotic and childish out loud.

Morpheus cupped your cheek with one hand, delicately tipping your head back. Seeing your red rimmed eyes, his heart clenched. How can he fix this? “It’s okay,” he repeated the same words from earlier, although it tasted sour on his tongue. It held no true weight. “Mistakes happen.”

“But, it feels like I can’t do anything right,” you mumbled bitterly. “It’s like I’m cursed, everything I touch breaks.”

Morpheus smiled softly, slightly amused by your statement. He knew how to fix this now. He took both of your hands, and brought them to his lips. He gently kissed your knuckles - soft butterfly kisses. His eyes flickered up, watching you intensely with those vast twinkling baby blue eyes. “Have I broken, love?”

Your heart skipped at his piercing gaze; yet as love and adoration flowed through, it was quickly followed by confusion as his odd question ran through your head. “Well, no, I guess -“

“No, I have not,” he assured you. He maneuvered your hands, showing your palms to him. He bent down, kissing them. “You, my love, are not cursed. My dear sibling has simply destined you for minor inconveniences for a short while. Nothing more, nothing less, and most definitely not a curse.”

You grumbled a bit to yourself, but a smile started to tug on your lips. With each of his kisses, your anger and sorrow melted away. The tension in your jaw vanished and the tears started to dry up. Oh, how simple gestures from him could render you into a puddle. Oh, how easy he could make you forget all your worries.

“In fact,” he kissed your inner wrist, “I would say these hands have the capability of healing and fixing, not breaking.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together. “What do you mean?”

Morpheus leaned in towards you, staring deeply into your eyes. “They have healed me.”

Your cheeks warmed under his gaze. “Morpheus -“

“It’s true.” He cut you off. He grabbed your hand, laying it on his chest - on his beating heart. “You know the misery I have endured, you know of my past, and yet you welcomed all those broken pieces.”

His words warmed your heart, such a dizzying and absolutely wonderous feeling. You turned your head, beginning to feel bashful.

Morpheus delicately grabbed your chin with his thumb and forefinger, guiding your attention back to him. “You are capable of many things, more so than you can imagine. Please, forgive yourself for your mistakes and allow yourself to breathe.”

He leaned in slowly, kissing you softly. You hummed, falling apart at his touch. Short, but oh so sweet and all-consuming. He pulled away from the brief kiss, smiling at you. His thumb gently ran over your bottom lip then moved up your face as he cupped your cheek again. Your eyes were filled with love, the same love reflected in his endless eyes.

Morpheus kissed the tip of your nose, and pressed his forehead to yours. “I will be here whenever you need help.”

You smiled at him, a bright and full smile. A smile you had not shown in over a week. “Thank you.”

Morpheus’s heart swelled at such a beautiful sight. His love who pulled him from a dark time, his love he would greatly return the favor. He kissed your forehead.

“Anytime, my love.” Any frustration you held was gone, only love stayed. Your tears now long dried, and if they ever returned he would wipe them away as always. “Do you want my help in making dinner?” He offered.

You paused, considering it for a moment. However, you shook your head. You twisted around, pressing your back into his chest. You tugged his arms and wrapped them around you. Sighing in relief, you snuggled into his chest, grateful for his warmth. “In a minute. I just need a moment.”

Morpheus smiled, leaning back into the couch with you safe in his arms. His love, the one who holds his heart. He kissed the top of your head. “Of course, take all the time you need.”

You closed your eyes with a smile on your lips. Maybe this week has finally turned around.

#the sandman #sandman dream #dream of the endless #Morpheus #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #dream x gn!reader #morpheus x gn!reader #gn!reader #gender neutral reader

[ashisgreedy]

Ruler of Hell - Garreth Weasley

Obsessed | Possessive | Adoring | Generous

He becomes obsessed with a human woman, falls in love with her, and can't stand the idea of her dying. So he drags her to hell, and gives her the world. He lavishes her with his riches and his mansions. He does everything in his power to get her to fall in love with him all while she's trying to convince him to let her go back to the land of the living and live out her life in the natural way.

He's almost convinced, but he's worried that her karma may not send her to hell when she dies. He can't stand the idea of being separated from her for all eternity.

He agrees, under one condition. They are both must be reincarnated, born anew, and twist their life plans to meet one another at a pinnacle point in time. Their meeting is solidified by Fate and woven into their life plans. The only catch when being reincarnated, you must start your life as a human with no memory of your past lives.

She agrees, and she restarts her human existence while Garreth begins for the first time. Soon after she's born tragedy strikes something outside of her life plan. Both her parents passed away.

Gareth is born and chooses to be part of a large family since being the ruler of hell was extremely lonely. He becomes obsessed like his hellish counterpart and hyper focuses on different hobbies growing up. As he gets older, he finds Potions to be his favorite.

Something is wrong with her incarnation. It wasn't agreed upon with the light side of the universe and her existence is cursed.

But because of the twist of fate woven in both of their lives, fate awoke something inside of her that would have never naturally occurred. She could wield and see ancient Magic.

Because of her new found magical abilities at the late age of 16, she's taken to Hogwarts where Garreth Weasley is already a student.

He's mischievous and adoring over her. They both feel it when they first meet some sort of snap into place. After the events of her first year, she absorbs the repositories of Magic and becomes much stronger than any one in the magical world.

Fate twists yet again bringing the two of them together and awakens more powers inside of Garreth. He has access to elemental powers more so than others. He's able to produce and control fire, pyrokinesis.

Together the two of them rule The wizarding world in their own way, twisting the rules and bending them until they feel they are fair for everyone. The choices they make aren't always what's right, but it's what's right in their minds.

They marry eventually, and live their lives to the fullest. In their old age, they find a secluded place to live out their days in peace.

At random times of their life, they both had glimpses of their past agreement. The closer they got to death's door the more they remembered their agreement to each other.

In their human forms, she finally agreed to stay with him in hell, their karma surely sending them there, and he is elated.

In death, he regains his mantle as ruler and she takes his side as ruler as well, so they can do it together.

#I have no idea what this is. I just generated this really cool picture and started typing. I did not mean for this to turn into anything 😅 #garreth weasley

[aguacerotropical]

tell me about vnc. the existence of your google doc full of references intrigues me (<- guy who has been studying vampire media for a While now). what is it about this manga series that compels you so. and what is it like, tonally. it does not look like horror but perhaps it is

oh DAMN now that’s a question that’s a bit hard to answer. Sorry for the huge almost-essay. It is my fave series after all.

First off, please start with the manga: https://thecasestudyofvanitas.com/ The pacing and tone is better. Newer chapters can be found on MangaUp and the raws are in some people's blogs. Just DM me.

Now, I don’t want to give too much away, although if you checked out my doc, there’s already a lot of spoilers and theories there. (There will also be a blog for references soon).

The manga is essentially a memoir, presented as a “case study” of Vanitas, a man who wavers between vampirism and humanity. He, we are told in the first issue, has been killed by the author, Noé, after, it is implied, turning into something not-human. Noé is a vampire and coded to be gay. Vanitas is heavily coded to be bi and queer gender-wise. They are both obsessed with each other to a degree that is unhealthy, fascinating, and not very straight.

(and there are many other queer characters, including nonbinary vampires and canon sapphic vampire couples who are key players in the series. It is weaved into the narrative).

The manga diverges from other stories in the fact the vampires do not need blood to survive and are more like reinforced humans. But there is an illness that creates uncontrollable bloodlust and results in beheading of its victims by other vampires. The cause is the main mystery. Vanitas, one of our two protagonists, is a vampire doctor who saves vampires from this disease with the help of Noé. So that’s a huge inversion of traditional tales right there, since most of them are about killing vampires, not saving them.

but while it inverts it in that sense, it follows up with almost every iteration of vampirism, including extremely fucking obscure references. Like, do you know what a Kresnick is? (if you do, i am in awe of you!)

And like my fantastic mutual @neversetyoufree (link) highlighted recently, there is the presence of vampirism as most of its past versions: disease, objects of prejudice, racist aristocrats preying on others, queerness, corruption of natural death, sexual assault, eroticism, psychic vampirism etc.

The neat thing about all these references is that they are well-thought out and woven into the tale. It isn’t BSD where it’s just There without any deeper meaning.

With regards to the tone, I wouldn’t say it’s quite straight up horror, but it does have many horror elements, as can be seen in the themes above. Like there’s various civil wars, characters have been abandoned and/or lost someone in horrific deaths, etc.

I guess it’s mostly presented as a tragedy. There’s exploration of griefs in all its forms.

And it is very very campy. It gets very silly and comedic sometimes, in between the fucked up parts of course. Tbh, that put me off at first, but I grew to adore it.

Personally, I find the queerness, the campiness, the takes on vampirism, the rabbit holes caused by obscure references, and (mostly, because I too lost someone) the explorations on grief to have been the parts that got its claws into me and never let go.

If you are interested in delving into it, please read the manga first. The anime is good, but it leans more into comedy, which is fine, but I think you would enjoy the manga’s tone more. The pacing is also much better. Newer chapters are on MangaUp, and there are blogs here that provide the raws.

Sorry for the essay, it is my favorite series! Hope you pick it up and enjoy the nonsense and chill fandom around it!

#vnc #vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas

[shireness-says]

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (4/5)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don’t fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~13.4k. Also on Ao3. On Tumblr: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

A/N: It's back, at long last! Thanks to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan, and to @ohmightydevviepuu for all her help with the tarot stuff. And, of course, a HUGE thanks to my artist, @eirabach. She made me a gif for this chapter! A gif! How freaking cool is that! Lastly, thanks to the ladies of the IAS for their support as I poured blood, sweat, and tears into this. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Stay tuned later tonight for me to post a short epilogue, and this one is done.

Tagging those previously interested: @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @wistfulcynic, @iverna, @stahlop, @cssns

Enjoy!

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

Nick sees things - things other people don’t see. He always has. Sometimes they’re things that have already happened, and sometimes they’re things that haven’t happened yet, but they’re there. He knows them, the way he knows what he had for breakfast and what his sister’s face looks like. True, unchangeable things, no matter what anyone else does or doesn’t see. 

(People don’t always believe him, of course, but that’s alright; Nick doesn’t need to be believed. Whether or not people believe what he sees does not have any bearing on the truth of the matter.)

A long time ago, Nick had seen Henry at the Circus. He’d told Ava that much; by the time Henry had shown up that second time, the year they’d turned sixteen, they’d known to expect him, and known that his fate was tied inextricably to the Circus and to themselves. It’s one of the reasons Ava had asked Henry to stay - that absolute certainty that he belonged in the Circus, grounded in the things Nick had seen. 

It hadn’t been the right time. Nick didn’t say it, but he knew all the same. The future only ever comes in flashes - a crude ring, towering flames, a sense of cold and stillness, and Henry, somehow in the middle of all of it, still young but grown, a few short years in the future perhaps. It’s unmistakable. It’s fate, of a kind that is yet to occur. 

If there is one thing Nick knows, it is that not all futures yet to come should be spoken aloud. Henry Mills’ entwinement with the Circus, whatever it yet may be, is one of them. 

Still - as Henry and his sister mourn the early train from miles apart, Nick smiles to himself. 

This story, whatever it may become, is far from over. 

———

Knowing the nature of this competition doesn’t make things any easier, Emma discovers. In fact, it only makes things harder. 

Maybe, at a certain level, she always knew it had to end like this. Maybe she just didn’t want to face it - Regina’s pointed silence on the subject, the increasing weight of this endeavor as the years had rolled on, the way Regina and Gold both had tried so hard to establish a divide between her and Killian. Now, however, is the era of facing this hard truth.

Mulan is right; falling in love with Killian made this an even greater tragedy than it already would have been. Winning was always a distant concept, but now it is simply unthinkable - knowing that her winning would mean his death. 

It does not help knowing that he would say the same thing. 

The Circus weighs heavier on her each day. It’s been nearly twenty years since they welcomed their first visitors, and even longer since this whole endeavor started. On the surface, Emma may still look like a young woman, but she feels each of those years in her mind and her body and her soul as the days tick by. Knowledge of how this must end only makes her more aware of the burden.

Some days, she wonders if it would be easier to just… give in. Accept the inevitability of the extent of the magic she carries. It would spare Killian, for certain, physically if not emotionally. What stays her hand each time is all the other lives tied to their competition now. Dozens of lives and livelihoods rest on her shoulders now, a thing she doubts anyone considered at the beginning of this all. What would happen to everyone whose lives have been put on hold if she lets go? What other unimaginable fallouts might come to pass?

No answer is immediately evident. No matter how much Emma searches her books, she fears the outcome will be the same: that there’s no way to minimize this damage, no matter how much she tries. 

———

Henry is 18, and the world has lost much of its shine and glorious possibility. 

He’d been an imaginative boy, and an imaginative young man, but those kinds of thoughts seem impossibly far away now. More than anything, Henry wants to learn, to go to telegraph school or maybe even college, but that just feels like a foolish dream most days, when he trudges down to the shipyards for another day at work, barely making enough pay for a little bit of lunch and the rent for his boarding house’s landlady at the end of the week. It is grueling work, constructing cargo ships and ocean liners, and Henry won’t pretend he enjoys it, but they’d been hiring when the sisters had made it clear he’d need to find his own way in the world and he couldn’t afford to be picky. Besides, he’s good at this; Henry may not be as strong as so many of the men he works with, but he’s quick and wiry and precise, able to wiggle into tight spaces when needed. This is not the life Henry ever imagined for himself, but that’s living, he supposes - settling, making do, focusing more on the business of surviving than any lofty goals.

Still, in a box under his bed at the boarding house filled with the little treasures he’s collected over the years, lives a single white glove, still soft and pristine after all these years. On nights that Henry indulges himself in dreams, he pulls the glove out and remembers the circus, all the lights and the smells and the people, the kind vendors who’d slipped him popcorn and Emma the magician and especially Ava, who’d kissed his cheek under the autumn sunlight and made him feel like he could be somebody. 

We’ll see each other again - I promise, she’d said, and Henry had believed her. Even now, six years of heartache and disappointment and waiting later, there’s still a part of him that believes. It’s why he’s stayed here, within easy distance of the old fields where the Circus had unfolded, when he could find a better job with the railways. He can’t leave, not when they might still come back. After all - Ava had promised.

Henry will wait, and remember. But each day, it grows a little harder to dream.

———

There is a bonfire at the center of the Circus.

Bonfire, perhaps, is too mundane a word for the structure before you. The flame itself dances in unnatural ways, higher and then lower, swirling in patterns you’ve never seen fire take, tendrils periodically flashing with brilliant bursts of color before settling to a brilliant orange again. Surrounding the marvel is a cast iron cauldron, delicately constructed and appearing brilliantly strong for the contrast. Everything else spirals out from there - every path, every tent, every performance. Every bit of the Circus, with that fire throbbing at its center like a beating heart. 

You’d come years ago, too, when the Circus was still young, and the bonfire had flared at its center then too. Something is different now, however, you can’t help but feel. There’s something more… intense, about the flames, something more demanding and frantic and pressing. Where the fire had once lapped gently, like waves against a wrought iron shore, it burns furiously and desperately now, higher and higher. It speaks of something imminent, that might yet still be terrible or glorious. 

You step away, trailing back outwards along a silver-paved path. The bonfire seems now to mix wonder with fear, in a way you didn’t notice before. 

But then again - what else will a fire do, if not burn?

———

Belle - 

You told me, once, several years ago, to be careful - that change was coming, was in the air and in the cards. You also told me, in an entirely different conversation, that love was entirely too risky and wonderful to let pass by. 

Who would have thought that both those warnings would come together at the same time, and in the same person? I think, perhaps, you may have been bright enough to see the writing on the wall. I, for one, was not. 

Love is beautiful, Belle. She is beautiful, and brilliant, and so bloody good that it takes my breath away sometimes. Is this how you feel, with your Will? This overwhelming love that makes me willing to do anything, give up anything to make sure she’s happy? It is powerful, and terrifying, the way I wake up each morning willing to throw it all away if only she asks - maybe even before. Perhaps there’s an irony in the fact we’re meant to be competitors, diametrically opposed in every way - or, perhaps, the forces that set this all in motion never stopped to think that the very ways in which we were opposed made us more compatible than any other two people in the world. 

In truth, I’m writing to you today, Belle, because I think I know what needs to be done, and I don’t want you to worry. This is my choice - and I will always, always choose her. Things are changing, and I’m not entirely sure where that will leave me at the end of this. But as you once said - I’m choosing to believe that change is for the better. 

With all my love,

-Killian

———

Belle Scarlet, nee French, likes to start her day with a cup of tea and the paper and her correspondence. This morning brings a letter from Killian, and with it, more questions than answers. Her old friend’s words are simultaneously joyous and desperate in tone, leaving her puzzled more than anything else. 

Belle doesn’t read her cards very often, anymore. There’s no real need to. The years of telling visitors a never-ending string of futures had been some of the most joyous of her life, but she’s enjoying this quieter existence. Killian’s words, however… it’s enough to send Belle for her personal set in her desk drawer, to see if the universe will be any more forthcoming. 

The cards… the cards are a mess. Belle struggles to find any sense in what possibilities they present. She’d read for Killian, or she’d intended to, but what she sees in front of her speaks more to the Circus instead, like the two have become too intertwined to separate. Swords and their conflict flash throughout, the Lovers, the Devil and the Chariot and Judgement. The message is unclear, but there’s an undeniable urgency that speaks to her. At the center of it all is the Hanged Man. Belle knows this card, and its many meanings; knows how often it should be interpreted as events churning forward without one’s control. But it sits there, ominous in its depiction anyways, spurring Belle to action. She’s almost out the door, coat in hand, when she remembers something. Doubling back to the same drawer that keeps her cards, she retrieves the small, velvet pouch Mulan had pressed into her hand the day Belle left the Circus. 

If Belle isn’t mistaken, she’ll finally have cause to use it. 

It’s been years since she visited Killian in his apartment, but Belle still remembers the way, his address imprinted on her mind as the place this all began. It had always been an unassuming little set of rooms, never the kind of place you’d expect to find a powerful magician. Maybe that makes sense, in a way - the possibility of finding magic in the quietest, least likely places. 

When Killian opens the door, he looks exhausted, more than Belle has ever seen. She can’t be certain what has happened the past two years, her friend’s letters always rather vague on specifics, but she can see how it presses down on his shoulders. Behind him, the apartment is in disarray in a manner she’s not used to seeing, books abandoned still open on every spare surface. On his desk in the middle of it all sits a paper model of one of the Circus tents; if Belle isn’t mistaken, it’s one that belongs to Miss Swan, the illusionist. 

Oh, Killian.

“Tell me what’s happened,” she says gently. 

He gestures her in, though sitting space is at a premium, books and scraps of paper taking over every space. As Belle gently rearranges things to perch on the arm of an armchair, Killian himself collapses into the seat behind his desk. 

“It’s the competition,” he tells her. “I finally know how it ends.”

“And?”

He tilts his head in her direction, smiling sadly. “It’s a test of endurance,” he finally says after a heavy pause, “not of skill. The last one standing wins.”

Killian’s words set off a chill down to Belle’s bones as their truth sinks in. It is unsurprising, somehow, after years of mystery and deflection, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying. “And you love your competitor,” is all she can say in the end. 

“Aye. I do.” Killian’s hand fumbles for a glass of dark liquor on the sideboard, taking a long drink. “To lose, after all this time, seems unthinkable. But to win… that would be even worse.”

“A situation in which no one wins, really. Except, perhaps, your benefactors.”

“Exactly that.” He takes another drink before Belle rises to gently pry the crystal out of his hand. There’s a fire in his eyes as he looks up at her, a sort of determination, but the tragedy still lurks just behind his gaze. “I know what I need to do, Belle. I do. But there’s the Circus to consider, and even then… I don’t know that she’ll ever forgive me.”

“Does she love you, as you love her?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Then she’ll forgive you,” Belle says simply. “She’ll understand. But something is at hand, Killian, something with the Circus. Something immediate, that will not be ignored.”

“Something that will have to happen without me.” Killian’s gaze is distant as he looks out his window overlooking a very English street.

Belle pulls him into a hug as her mind churns. She’d had a suspicion when she came here that her intervention was necessary - it’s why she’d grabbed Mulan’s gift, after all - but it’s another thing to face the moment with certainty. Whatever is about to happen, she knows it will be the last she sees of her friend. 

(Surreptitiously, she slips the Hanged Man into his pocket. When she’d first seen the card, she’d thought it heralded doom, and perhaps it still does. The Hanged Man, though, represents so much more: sacrifice for a cause, and surrender to greater forces, and letting one phase end for the sake of a new beginning. A merciful death with eyes wide open. 

Some fates are unavoidable. And some endings are necessary to usher in something more.)

“Not necessarily,” she tells him, stepping back out of their tight embrace.

“Not necessarily? Belle, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but if I don’t even know what’s going on, there’s nothing I can do from here. Whatever’s about to happen - I can’t stop it. It’s not possible.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sighs fondly. You know, it’s funny - there’s no reason to make this moment more dramatic than it already inherently is, but after all of Killian’s own dramatics over the years… it feels fitting. Belle carefully draws the little bag out of her purse. Inside is a fine powder that Mulan had promised could transport someone back to the Circus if the time was right and the circumstances necessary. Unlike so much of the Circus, the powder is a shining gold, fine and soft when Belle tips the pouch’s contents into her hand. “You’ve forgotten one important thing,”

His face draws into a suspicious expression as he watches her hands move, seemingly cluing into the fact that she has plans of her own. “What’s that?”

Maybe the question is responding to her words; maybe it’s responding to her motions. Either way, her answer is the same. “There’s magic in this world, Killian. And that makes so many impossible things real.”

And with a sudden gust of breath, she sends the powder Mulan had gifted her to envelop Killian, surrounding him in a golden cloud. When the powder finally dissipates, Killian is gone, his glass on the desk the only sign he’d even been there. 

There’s a feeling in Belle’s heart that maybe, this is the last time she sees Killian, but whatever that feeling is, it isn’t quite dread. Acceptance, maybe, and inevitability.

Belle lets herself back out into the street and slips into the early-morning crowd. Whatever happens - she’s played her part. Things are the way they’re supposed to be. 

———

When the dust settles, Killian finds himself outdoors. A brief glance reveals him to be right in the center of the Circus, mere steps from the bonfire. Despite the rainy weather, the flames still dance and flicker, the center force of this whole enterprise churning ever forward. Somehow, he’s been transported thousands of miles, clear across the ocean from London to Maine. Others, he knows, would be shocked by such a sudden change; Killian has become far too weary for that. 

That same glance also reveals Mulan waiting as if she knew he was coming, her fingers tapping on the pommel of her sword the only indication of a less-than-perfect patience. It is even less surprising, somehow, than his abrupt transportation. 

“Ah good,” she says. “The former Miss French still shows impeccable timing.”

“So this is your doing?”

“That would, perhaps, be an overstatement,” she admits, handing him an umbrella. “I simply provided her with a tool. I thought it might be of use.”

“And yet you knew to wait.”

“I do not have Belle’s gifts; I will not pretend to such things. But the magic is… fraying, shall we say. Spiraling out of control. I can recognize a crisis point when it is upon us.”

Killian waits for her to continue, but the next words never come. After far too long a silence, he waves a prompting hand. “And?”

“You were clever at the start of all this,” Mulan tells him. “Tying your portion of the Circus to the book, and to the bonfire - that was wise. The separation acts as a pressure release valve, taking much of the burden off yourself. Miss Swan…” She pauses. “Well. Miss Swan, despite all her talents, has not done the same.”

“I know. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but do you know the extent? If Emma were to drop dead right now - the entire Circus would collapse in on itself. It’s a stroke of luck that this breaking point has not come while we were in transit, or the resulting crash would likely prove fatal to many of those here.”

“So you are asking me to - to end it.”

“Not exactly.” Mulan smiles cryptically. “Have you had much cause to speak with Nicholas Zimmer?” Killian shakes his head. “Young Mr. Zimmer is blessed with a rare gift - to see those things that happened long ago, with the kind of clarity most cannot see the present. One of his favorite tales is that of Merlin. Are you familiar?”

It rings a faint bell, like something he’d read in a book once. “The sorcerer, aye? And the tree.”

“Precisely. Now, most stories say he transformed himself into a tree, but it was something more similar to binding his spirit. Somewhere out there is an ancient oak, with the soul of a powerful magician trapped inside. That is what I ask of you. The Circus is born of both yours and Emma’s talents - and no matter who takes themselves off the board, it will cause a catastrophic collapse. But if you bind yourself to the Circus…”

“You believe it will keep the operation going. A loophole, if you will.”

“Exactly. Enough time to more effectively separate Miss Swan from her own magical bonds, and leave this place fully self-sufficient. But only if you’re willing.”

If he’s willing. What kind of question is that? If it will save Emma, and protect what they’ve created… it’s no question at all. “Do it.”

Mulan smiles. “I thought you might say that.” She lifts her hands briefly, as if about to commence immediately, before dropping them again. When you know what to look for, the similarities between Mulan’s and Emma’s magic is unmistakable - the intricate motions like weaving a tapestry out of thin air. “Is there anyone you need to speak to, first?” she asks, her tone uncharacteristically gentle. 

Killian thinks of Emma, and of his brother. Liam will understand, he thinks; something like this has been coming for most of their lives. Emma…

Perhaps it is best that Emma not know. He already knows she’d never agree. 

“No. There are not many people in my life, and I think they’ll understand. Do as you must.”

With a solemn nod, Mulan lifts her hands again, weaving intricate patterns. Behind Killian, the bonfire flares, growing taller and hotter and stronger. There’s a glow in the space between them, now, something that might be magic or might be the fire or might, even, be both. He can feel something pulling at his back, like strings knotted over and over to tie him to the bonfire. 

Killian almost closes his eyes, lets himself surrender to the binds, when he hears a sudden shout. Through the growing blaze, Killian can just see Emma, running at full speed, beautiful in a blue dress and determined in a way he’s never seen. Mulan diligently works through the disturbance, hands moving as fast as they can, but Emma’s faster, and the spell hasn’t quite set, and - 

He opens his arms on instinct, accepting Emma’s weight as she latches on to him, and lets them both fall. 

———

(Emma hadn’t really thought it through before she threw herself at Killian - she’d just seen Mulan’s hands moving over the Circus book and so many strings looping around Killian and the tome and the fire and she’d just - reacted. 

There’s a bare moment of burning as his arms close around her, like that first moment when a strange man had given her a stranger ring, before it fades to the kind of comforting warmth she’s only ever found with Killian. Then they’re falling, falling, falling - 

And then, blessed nothingness.)

(If this is the end - well, Emma will always wonder if they were able to save the Circus that so many call home. She hopes so. But if this is the end, she’s glad to have faced it with him.)

———

The fire folds in on itself, absorbing both competitors as it extinguishes, and suddenly Mulan is the only one left at the metal grate. This turn of events is not what she expected, precisely, but it does not surprise her either. 

Love makes one do foolish things. Mulan only wishes she had accepted that sooner. 

The Circus is still around her, all the lives within it paused with the cessation of the lifeblood fire. It pulls at Mulan, too, but she’s never much heeded such things if she does not want to. That’s the wonder of magic. 

For now, there’s nothing else to do but wait. She’d talked to Nicholas Zimmer beforehand, and Mulan knows there is still more that must be done. Young Mr. Zimmer hadn’t seen Miss Swan’s sacrifice, but he’d seen the fire extinguished and an iron ring and all of them, there at the edges. 

He’d told her about another piece, too - someone who hasn’t arrived yet. And if she isn’t mistaken, that will be the crucial linchpin. 

Mulan strolls leisurely towards the gate, prepared to wait as long as is necessary to see the end of this competition through. 

———

When the brightness of the fire dims - or perhaps that blinding light had been the work of the spell; he had been a bit distracted by other things rather than sorting out the difference - Killian finds himself in the Labyrinth. Alone.

It is not what he expected. 

The last thing he remembers is his arms around Emma, falling into nothing, but he wakes up to a familiar snowscape, all alone. Killian knows this maze like the back of his hand, however; has seen its chambers sprawled in paper across his desk, has watched each addition with joy and affection and wonder. There is nothing in this maze that can stop him from finding Emma - at least nothing that’s been conjured yet. 

Killian trails through all the familiar rooms they’ve built together these last several years: the playing cards and the paper animals and the room he knows is Emma’s favorite, with plush cushions scattered on every surface and something floral drifting through the air. 

The Circus has always been his - has been theirs - but this space more than any else. 

He finally finds Emma in the paper seascape. That’s fitting in its own way, he supposes -  to find her again in this room, where his love is written on every surface. There’s been an unnatural lightness even since he came back to himself in the snowy hall, something that means the ink never stains his shoes and he seems to pass straight through all the detritus of their surroundings, but Emma is warm and there when he cups her cheek. There’s something like heartbreak on her face, and something like exhaustion, but something like relief, too.

“Killian,” she breathes. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Shouldn’t I?” It seems to him that he’s exactly where he ought to be. 

“No, you shouldn’t! You should be in London, and safe. I had a plan - ”

“Ah, but I had a plan too,” he interrupts. “In fact, you interrupted my particular plan.”

“To - to sacrifice yourself? Allow me to win? What sort of plan was that?”

Can she be so obtuse? Or is she simply selfless to the point of self-destruction? “One that would let you live.”

“And what use is that? You’ve got your brother, Belle -”

“But I wouldn’t have you.” It’s baffling, the way she discounts her own worth to him. “Don’t you understand, Emma? I told you I love you, and I meant it. What would my existence be if I survived at the cost of your own life? So yes, I was going to sacrifice myself, so that you could have the life that you deserve. I was trying to save you.”

“Maybe I didn’t want that,” she says. Emma meets his gaze steadily as she lifts her hands to gently grasp his lapels, like she’s imploring him to heed her words both in look and action. “I would have been alive, yes. But I wouldn’t want that, if it meant losing you. I love you, Killian,” she tells him - certain, sure and strong. “I know I never said it, but I do. I have for a long time. If you were willing to do this because you love me - is it so hard to imagine I’d do the same?”

He’d known, on some level, that she loves him - or hoped as much, at least. But hearing the words still sends what left of his soul soaring and his hands pulling her into an embrace, head dipping to share a kiss. They’ve had first kisses, and last kisses, and everything in between; happy kisses and sad kisses and so, so many scared kisses for all these years they’ve had to hide their love. This kiss now feels like something beautiful and new: a kiss tinged with the taste of freedom, that finally feels like their own. Maybe it’s absurd, under the circumstances, but Killian feels a lightness to his soul that makes him lift her on a whim until her face tilts down to meet his instead, spinning their entwined bodies in a slow circle. It’s silly - but it’s joyful, too, in a way they aren’t usually granted.

They’ve earned a little lightness after all this dark, he thinks. 

Killian brushes an escaped curl back behind Emma’s ear once they finally separate and he sets her back on her own two feet. “I love you, Emma Swan,” he says. “I don’t regret the choices I’ve made, not if it means we have this. Happy endings aren’t always what we think, love - but if I get to spend it with you, that’s plenty happy for me.”

Killian brings his mouth back to her own, savoring the way her smile tastes. 

For the first time, it feels like they have all the time in the world. 

———

“It still weighs on me,” Emma confesses, once they’ve finally drunk their fill of kisses. “The Circus, I mean. It pulls on me heavier than ever, and I have to spend so much concentration just to keep everything supported, and - ” She sighs heavily. “I’m so tired, Killian. When will we get to rest?”

“Soon, I think.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, pulls her closer into his arms. Mulan has a plan, if he’s not mistaken; there’s no other reason she would have been waiting for him tonight, already ready for his unexpected arrival. “Just hold on a little longer, love.”

They’ve been pawns in someone else’s game for so long; what’s a few hours more?

———

The Circus arrives at night. 

There is no warning, no whispers of what is coming, but Henry still keeps his eyes and ears open for news about the fields just outside of town, and he knows what those particular tents mean.

It has grown harder to imagine and to dream as the years have trudged on - eight of them, now, since Henry last saw the Circus when he was ten - but the news ignites a new fire in Henry that burns with the force of magic and memory. Once upon a time, when he was just a little, little boy, a not-quite princess in a black and white dress had promised him that the Circus would always be there for him; four years later, a different blonde had promised the same. But Henry has waited now, an entire two thirds of his life, and he’s done delaying those promises. This time, when the Circus leaves, Henry intends to go with it, one way or another.

The Circus arrives on a Thursday; these things never seem to happen on a day he has off work. The boys at the shipyard are already talking about the turn of events, discussing when to take sweethearts or siblings or families, and Henry - well, Henry shares the sentiment, in some ways. He can’t wait to visit, either. But Henry doesn’t have anyone to bring, the way they do; everyone he’d ever want to take is part of the Circus, leaving him the lone man out. 

It’s been raining all day, getting heavier and heavier as the day goes on. The Circus will close for inclement weather tonight, surely, but Henry takes the short trip out of town anyways. There’s something that draws him in to the site - this need to know, for certain, that this isn’t just another dream. That the Circus is here, and waiting, just for him.

(He takes a brief detour home, first, on the kind of instinct he’ll never be able to explain later. His little room doesn’t hold much, and he’s attached to very little of it, but the white glove still lives in a discarded cigar box underneath his bed. Henry doesn’t know what will happen next - if Ava’s offer still stands to run away with the Circus, if she and Nick will even recognize him after all the ways he’s changed - but he knows he wants this with him. 

It’s only later that he realizes just how lucky he was to have slipped the glove into his pocket.)

There’s a stillness about the place when he arrives, however, that belies even the expected closure sign. Henry’s been here before during inclement weather, but it never felt like this. The Circus has an energy about it that’s somehow… missing now. Like something’s wrong.

(Henry hopes he’s wrong about that, but in his heart, he knows he’s not.)

He’d assumed he’d have to break into the grounds again, though he hadn’t been sure how. When Henry arrives, however, there’s a woman already waiting at the front gates, huddled underneath an umbrella to block out the worst of the rain. There’s a sword at her side and she wears intricate Chinese armor in the same blacks and whites and silvers of the Circus, though Henry does not yet recognize her on sight. Beyond her, the Circus is silent and still, like she’s standing guard over everything within those gates. 

“Henry Mills, I presume?” Her voice holds a gravitas that belies its soft volume. Henry nods cautiously in return. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” It takes a moment before the first part of that sentence hits home. “Wait - how do you know my name?”

“The Zimmer twins speak highly of you,” the woman tells him before turning on her heel and starting down one of the paths at a brisk pace. “Now come along, keep up. We don’t have much time.”

“Not much time for what?”

She slows briefly, just long enough to cast a wry look in his direction. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“Well, you keep answering them.” 

“Touché, Mr. Mills.” There’s something about the woman’s mouth that almost looks like a smile before it’s gone again. It’s hard to say when she resumes her determined speed, talking as they go. “What do you know about the Circus?”

“I know the Circus is magic,” he says. No one ever told him as such so bluntly, but Henry had put it together over time. Certain things just can’t be explained, certain things in the same category as Nick’s second sight - and besides, he’d been young enough to believe it, back when he first realized. “I know things happen here that shouldn’t be possible, but are. It’s wonderful.”

“It is. It’s also complicated,” she tells him. “The Circus exists because of a competition, and because of its two players. They’ve built something beautiful. But do you know what happens in competitions?” Before Henry can answer, there’s an odd noise. Just over the woman’s shoulder, one of the smaller tents starts to cave in on itself. She nods like that’s enough of an answer - and when she speaks, Henry realizes that maybe, it is. “They end,” she tells him. “This way will be quicker; as I said, we haven’t much time.”

“So this… competition,” he prods. “It’s over? That’s why the Circus is falling apart?”

“Yes… And no,” his guide replies cryptically. It’s frustrating, asking so many questions and receiving so few answers. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, young Henry. There’s nothing enjoyable about this.” They walk on in silence for a moment, veering off down another path, before she speaks again. “One of our contestants, Mr. Jones, was prepared to take himself off the board, and I was prepared to help him do so in a way that would provide something like a permanent spine for the Circus. Miss Swan, however, interfered, resulting in some… unexpected circumstances.” With that, she draws back the flap to the tall acrobats’ tent. 

The group inside looks like an inclement weather party interrupted. Tables are still laden with food, candles flowing warmly. Every living thing within the tent, however, is frozen in unnatural stillness. Some people are clearly mid-conversation, or mid action, bites of food stilled halfway to mouths and hands stilled mid-gesture. A group of musicians appear to have been mid-song, instruments still raised in a playing position.

(Even as they stand there, watching the stillness, one of the chairs suspended from the roof of the tent for the acrobats to perform with drops, barely missing a clustered group as it shatters on the ground. The Circus may have been suspended too - but for how long?)

“In many ways, the Circus was built on the love Emma held for each and every person within its bounds; maybe not at first, but over time, it’s become inseparable from the very fabric, like the supports holding it all up,” she explains. “When Emma and Mr. Jones folded themselves into the Circus… I don’t know if it’s something one of them has done purposefully, or if the Circus or the magic has acted of its own accord, but this place protects its own. But that can’t last forever. That’s where you come in. What we’re about to ask you - it will make sure the Circus survives, but it cannot be done without your help.”

It is a lot to spring on a person, especially one that this woman doesn’t know, but Henry already knows his answer. “What do you need me to do?”

(What else would he say, when what’s at stake is a place like this and all the people it protects?)

“No hesitation? Just jumping in feet first without all the details? That’s an awful bold decision, Mr. Mills.”

“Would you do the same, for the Circus?”

It gives the woman pause for a minute before she dips her head and a kind of concession. “Touché.”

(“I thought you said this was a shortcut,” Henry mentions when they finally slip back out of the acrobats’ tent, veering sharply in a new direction. 

“It was a shortcut in explanation. If you assumed it would be a shortcut in distance - well, that was your assumption, not my words.”)

They finally halt in front of a tall tent with light faintly glowing beneath the fold of the fabric opening, just illuminating where the words Wishing Tree glimmer in the scant moonlight on a subtle sign. Under other circumstances, Henry might have marveled at the elegant branches stretching around the tent, illuminated in softly glowing candlelight; tonight, he’s more distracted by the two nearly-translucent figures standing at its base, a man and a woman. The woman he recognizes as the magician - Emma, the person who’d first made this place feel like home. The man is unknown to him, but certainly not to Emma; he leans into her space as if drawn to her by magnets. Maybe it’s just practical - this not-Emma seems barely able to stand upright, and the man’s arm around her waist seems more like a lifeline than a simple comfort - but Henry thinks it’s more than that. The man looks at Emma with worry, yes, but with awe too. Like he can’t believe he’s here with her, even in such a way. 

Henry may be young, but he can still recognize love when he sees it. 

“I take it that you remember Miss Swan?” his guide asks. “And beside her is Mr. Jones.”

“Mulan, why have you brought him here?” Emma asks. 

“You needed a solution, and I’ve found you one.”

“This is your solution?” Emma asks. Somehow, the emphasis sounds concerned rather than derogatory. “Are you sure?”

“He is willing.”

“He’s a child.”

“I’m eighteen,” Henry mumbles. “And I’m right here.”

“He tried to run away and join the Circus two years ago. Did you know that?” his guide asks Emma, still ignoring Henry. Mulan. He’ll have to remember that, if they ever allow him to speak. “He loves the Circus. It is enough.”

“Is that true, Henry? Do you love the Circus?” the man - Mr. Jones - asks. “What we’re about to ask you - it will require a deep love, not a passing whimsy. So forgive me for asking, but be honest with me - do you love the Circus? Enough to make significant sacrifices?”

“More than anything.” Maybe it sounds fanciful - maybe it sounds naive - but it’s the truth: maybe even the greatest truth that Henry knows. “I’m an orphan - a foundling. I don’t know if you remember that,” he says with a nod to Emma. “There are so many things I haven’t had in my life - opportunity and family and home. But the Circus…” He pauses before pressing a closed fist to his heart. “When I’m here, I feel something in here. Like contentment, maybe. I love this place because it’s wonderful, but I love it mostly because it feels like a home.”

“What we’re asking you is to bind yourself to the Circus, Henry,” Emma tells him. “You wouldn’t be able to leave, not for long periods of time. We can bind you in a way so that the Circus does not press on you the way it presses on us, but it will still be yours, in a permanent sort of way. This will not be something you can undo, not without breaking quite a bit of complicated magic and undertaking quite a bit of effort.”

“But it will save the Circus? And save both of you?” Henry doesn’t know much about love, he thinks - not yet, at least - but he knows already it’s worth preserving. 

Emma nods. “We believe so.”

“Then what do you need me to do?”

———

The bonfire is the living heart of the Circus, Mr. Jones had explained to Henry before sending him back out into the night. If we have any hope of saving it, and transferring the Circus into your hands, you’ll have to restart the flame. 

It had sounded so easy, phrased like that: a matter of some matches and some luck of the weather. But this is magic, and Henry is slowly realizing that with magic nothing is quite that straightforward. Emma and Mr. Jones have come up with a list of items he’ll need, like ingredients: bits and bobs he wouldn’t have thought meant anything (a certain vial from a tent full of glassware, an abandoned hat at the edge of a burned-out fire, a black velvet jacket draped across the back of a chair in a secluded train car), but are apparently crucial to making this work. 

Mulan drifts back into his vision as he collects the hat, a sudden and startling presence somehow more other-worldly than her ghostly compatriots. There’s a card laying in the dirt beside the upturned hat - a tarot card, like he’d seen so many years ago in a tent of this very circus. This card features a surprisingly placid man suspended by his feet and the inscription The Hanged Man. 

Mulan huffs a subtle laugh over Henry’s shoulder as he picks up the card. “It is fitting, is it not?” she asks. “We are all suspended here, waiting for whatever may yet still come to pass. It’s the brink of something more.” 

“You know tarot?”

“I know many things, Mr. Mills,” she says. “This just happens to be one of them.”

Henry takes the card with him as they leave. Somehow, it feels like a piece to this story yet to unfold, even if it is not one he was directed to collect. 

(On a whim, he slips Ava’s glove out of his pocket as well and adds it to the pile - his one tie to the Circus all these years. Maybe it’s foolish, but it feels right too.)

The leaves of the Wishing Tree have started to fall once Henry and Mulan return to the tent, Emma visibly exhausted in the middle of it all. Mr. Jones’ face is creased with concern, his hands fluttering to soothe and support, but there’s only so much that can be done when the Circus is trying to collapse in on itself. 

“You’ve found everything?” Mr. Jones asks. His tone is sharp, though Henry can’t much blame him; under the circumstances, responding that way seems almost reasonable. Henry nods, lifting his haul instead of tendering a proper response. Mr. Jones nods briskly in turn. “Good lad. Now, we’ll need to move to the fire cauldron - ”

“Henry,” Emma interrupts, her voice tired but firm. “Are you certain? I know we are asking so much of you, and I know you already said yes, but I want you to know it’s alright to say no. This isn’t something you should be pressured into, and no one will be upset if you decide you can’t.”

Henry doesn’t really understand all of where this is coming from - not really. He’s only interacted with Emma less than a handful of times since he was a boy, and only briefly at that. But even in that short time, it’s been easy to see how the Circus presses on her, especially now. It is kind of her to try to ensure the same thing won’t happen to him, not without communicating the risk. 

Still. There are things worth taking risks for, and making sacrifices for. In some ways, Henry thinks he made his choice long ago. 

“It’s okay.” Henry reaches out a hand towards Emma without thinking, like some kind of reassurance he isn’t quite sure how to give, only for his hand to pass right through her own. “I meant what I said before. The Circus feels like it could be a home for me, and I want to protect that. But also…” He pauses. “This feels like something I’m supposed to do. Like maybe, this is the reason I’ve always felt so drawn to the Circus. Maybe this is what everything has been leading to for as long as I’ve been alive. Does that make sense?”

“It does.” Emma’s hand isn’t quite solid when it comes to rest against his cheek, but there’s something there - the ghost of a touch, and all the comfort it still brings. “I’m proud of you.”

“Not to interrupt a touching scene,” Mulan interrupts, “but time is of the essence. If Henry intends to take the mantle of the Circus, we need to act now. Before it’s too late.”

———

It feels deceptively easy, in the end. Henry carefully wraps all the bits and bobs he’d collected up with a length of yarn Mulan seems to pull out of nowhere, tying them into a misshapen parcel that he places into the cauldron. At Mr. Jones’ direction, he extracts a nondescript volume from beneath the cauldron itself. Dozens of signatures line each page, the smallest dot of blood punctuating the end of each name. Meticulously, Henry adds his own name to the book. The twists and loops of his name look so insignificant on the page, but he knows it’s a momentous thing he’s just done. As Henry presses his own thumb to the paper, blood beading from the digit where he’d sliced the skin with a pocket knife, there’s a kind of energy that chases through his whole body. Magic - beautiful and mysterious and binding. 

Eventually, there’s nothing left to do but get it over with. Henry holds a candle from the Wishing Tree in one hand, just waiting for his cue to light it and re-ignite the fire. There’s magic in a wish, Emma had told him before sending him for the ingredients. I think we can use all the magic we can get. 

“There’s one more thing,” Mr. Jones - Killian tells Henry. He’s more stable than the flickering illusion of Emma, but he’s still ghostly, tents foggily visible through his middle. “To make this as stable as possible, we’ll need to bind you to the Circus.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing? I thought that’s why I signed the ledger.”

“In a way, yes,” Killian agrees. “But what we’re asking you to do - that’s a different kind of bond than the book. The rest of the individuals who signed don’t carry the Circus the way you’ll have to. Emma and I - when we were young, we were bound to this venue before it even existed. We think doing something similar now will make it more likely this transfer will be successful.”

“And it won’t…” Henry pauses. “I know that whatever bond you had with the Circus was slowly killing Emma.”

“The man and woman who sealed our bonds - they didn’t much care what happened to a pair of pawns,” Emma explains. “We aren’t in danger of making that same mistake.”

“Then do it.”

“Good lad,” Killian smiles. With a touch of his hand, a curl on the cauldron lengthens until it’s twisted into an iron ring, breaking off neatly into his palm. As he waits, Henry fiddles with the candle he still holds, digging his fingernails into the wax. The enormity of it all is starting to set in, ushering in nerves along with it. 

“That has always been my favorite tent, you know,” Killian tells Henry, nodding towards the candle. If he’s not mistaken, the older man is trying to deflect his anxieties about what’s about to happen; even knowing that, Henry gladly seizes on the distraction offered. As he talks, his fingers sketch complicated figures in the air, making the iron ring in his palm alternately glow silver and gold and every shade in between. Henry knows Emma’s magic now, can recognize it like an old friend, but this is something different. It’s marvelous in its own way, a way that isn’t even in comparison but just… is. 

“Is it one of yours?” Henry asks, trying to be polite even with his heart lodged in his throat. He’s entering into this willingly - wants it with every fiber of his being, wants it because it feels right in a way he can’t understand, let alone explain - but that doesn’t do anything to make him less nervous. 

Killian smiles absentmindedly, most of his attention still devoted to his strange symbols. “Emma’s, actually,” he comments. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It always feels like an old magic to me. Something more than either of the two of us.”

“Did you ever make a wish?”

Whatever emotion dances across Killian’s face is… complicated. Something wistful and joyful and sad and yearning, all at once. “I did.” His hands finally still in the air. The little loop of metal ceases its glow, the light fading away, but there’s still a sense of something surrounding it - an aura, perhaps, or pure, radiating power, something reminiscent of what he’d felt when he’d pressed his blood to the page. One tiny object with the power to change countless lives. Henry’s eyes can’t look away from the ring, even as Killian continues talking. “Do you know what I wished for?”

Henry shakes his head. Killian’s hand is not-quite-there as it lifts his own, ready to perform the binding. This time, the smile on his face is unmistakable as he leans to speak quietly into Henry’s ear. “I wished for her.”

And then it burns, the ring shrinking to fit Henry’s finger as it sears into his skin. There’s a part of Henry that wants to pull the damned thing off, but he knows this is necessary, knows it wouldn’t work anyways. Emma’s still smiling through her exhaustion like she’s proud of him, and Killian watches him, sure and steady, and Mulan is lighting the candle still in Henry’s hand - 

It is terrifying, and painful, but Henry realizes with an abrupt burst of clarity that maybe the best things are. 

The candle flickers in his hand, its flame growing stronger even as the burning pain on his finger starts to recede. Maybe he’s ready, or maybe he’s not, but the moment is here and what other choice do they have and unfurling his grasp is suddenly the most momentous thing he’ll ever do and - 

———

- and Emma’s heart feels lodged in her throat as she watches Killian and Henry, even as it takes all her concentration just to hold her being together in the visible plane. Henry’s so grown now, and so brave; he’s in obvious pain as the bond sets in, a hurt Emma knows all too well, but he grits his teeth and bears it. And then Mulan’s pressing the lit candle into his hand, and it’s all come to a head so fast, and he’s dropping the candle into the cauldron, and - 

———

- and the entire world is fire. The bonfire blazes higher than it ever has as the new bonds catch and hold, and something shifts within Killian, some pressure he’d never even noticed finally easing. The flames spiral upwards and outwards in countless shades of red and orange and yellow and blue and silver, twirling across the black and white grounds of the Circus. It’s reminiscent of opening night, in that way - but this time, there’s no one around to see it. 

That’s fitting, Killian decides. Just right for the new beginning that will be ushered in tonight. A new wish, and a new flame, for all of the things still to come. 

In a golden blaze, Killian lets himself be swept away. 

———

(She’d never been certain it would work, really. She’d hoped, of course; done everything she could to make it happen. But there’s a vast difference between hoping and certitude, and Emma had been nowhere near the latter. Everything that’s happened here tonight has been out of desperation more than anything, her last throwaway attempt to maybe leave something more than rubble behind for all the people who’ve come to call the Circus home. 

She certainly didn’t expect Killian, or Henry. She didn’t expect that maybe, just possibly, there was an imperfect solution that still feels like her own little bit of fate. 

When the bright burst of light put off by the campfire as the new bond takes effect settles, the rest of the world seems to only exist in fuzzy edges - less crisp and clean, like she’s no longer quite part of it all anymore. The entire soft world is the Circus, now, all black and white with just the flames within their iron cauldron for color - except - 

There, standing on the other side of the flames, is Killian. 

Nothing feels quite real as they drift together, circling the metal edge. Killian’s hand is soft when it falls against her cheek, cupping gently. Only yesterday, this was unthinkable - the thing she’d have to give up for anything to possibly turn out the way it should.

“We did it, love,” he murmurs. His smile is one Emma doesn’t think she’s ever seen - something sad and joyful all at once. Peaceful, in a way they’ve never been allowed to be. 

“What happens now?” Emma asks, stepping closer into his embrace. 

“That’s the best thing of all.” His other hand slides up to cup her face with the first. “Anything we want.”

It isn’t - Emma knows it isn’t - but in this moment, standing amongst the dying sparks, his lips almost feel like a first kiss.

A new beginning. Who knew such a thing could still happen for them?)

———

An ocean away, a man older than names themselves sits up straighter in his plush armchair. Not many things disturb him in his discreet townhouse in a quiet corner of London, and that’s the way he likes it. He’s been satisfied, after all these years, to fade out of human notice, even as he still endures. Leave the hassles and worries of everyday life to those younger than him, who have seen far less. After so long, there is not much that can surprise the man known to some as Mr. Gold.

Now, though - there is something in the atmosphere. Some indefinable shift - like the world had briefly held its breath before once again exhaling. A shift in the magic that he’s played a distant hand in for some three decades. 

It is not the feeling of the competition having been won - he’s well acquainted with that particular shift in the universe, thank you - but it’s… something. Something unprecedented and new. Something that seems to have broken the very construct of this little game. A standstill, or a limbo, or a detente. 

The man smiles. Oh, Regina is going to be so very put out about this whole thing. 

A glass of brandy sits on the side table where it hadn’t been just moments before, just waiting for the man to raise it in toast. “Well done, Mr. Jones,” he murmurs, the smile still playing about his mouth. “Well done, indeed.”

A teacher should always hope for their students to break new ground, after all - and it seems that Killian Jones has done just that. 

———

A man comes to the circus, searching for something like so many before him.

(The difference is that this man knows that he’s searching, and exactly what he’s searching for.)

Liam Jones has grown used to the unusual demands of his brother’s particular commitment - the odd hours, the days or even weeks without contact, the unusual, last minute travel. But it’s been six weeks without so much as a letter or telegram, and Liam is worried. For everything else demanding Killian’s attention, he’s always been careful to stay in touch with his brother. 

Mr. Booth offers no insight, nor does Killian’s friend Belle - now a respectable married lady instead of the occultist and fortune teller she had been. His little brother’s mysterious teacher is nowhere to be found, not that Liam expected any different. By a stroke of luck, the Circus is in town, and Liam resolves to visit himself as a last resort. 

He’s had the opportunity to visit the circus many times over the years as a guest of his brother, but the well-trod grounds suddenly feel… different. Liam has never possessed any semblance of the powers his brother boasted, but it doesn’t take a magical insight to feel a new energy in the air when it’s this strong. The circus has always felt otherworldly, nearly unknowable, but there’s a curious sense of the familiar that’s never been here before. 

“Excuse me,” comes a polite, young voice at his side. Turning quickly, Liam sees a young woman, dressed in the black and white garb all the circus members wear. “Are you Mr. Jones’ brother?”

“Yes!” Liam latches on to the inquiry like a lifeline, like his one chance to find his brother. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s okay,” the girl promises. “He’s not here anymore. He’s in the circus now.”

And that doesn’t make sense, because they’re at the circus, but she says he’s not there - and what can in the circ

us mean, if he’s not here? Killian isn’t the type to run off and become an illusionist or an acrobat, for all of his powers. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

But the girl runs off, leaving Liam grasping at the night. 

“He’s here, but he’s not,” a different voice chimes in  - older, softer - causing Laim to whirl about again. A woman - petite, blonde, lovely, dressed all in blue - smiles gently at him. “Do you know about the competition your brother was involved in?”

“Who are you?” Liam demands instead of answering. It’s not courteous by any means, especially to a lady like herself, but he’s a little too desperate for the niceties.

“My name is Elsa Frost,” she introduces herself with a nod. “I’m one of the people who helped design this venue.”

“So you know my brother then? Where is he?”

“Ava wasn’t lying,” Miss Frost explains, patient in a way that doesn’t feel patronizing. “He’s a part of the circus. Your brother… I don’t know how much you know, but he was a player in someone else’s competition.”

“Yes, his teacher’s. Killian never knew the specifics, just that it would play out here, and one day, there’d be a winner.” Abruptly, Liam’s blood freezes in his veins. “Don’t tell me he’s…”

Miss Frost continues without answering, as if she didn’t even hear him. “There’s only one way for these competitions to end, at least the way I understand it. But that was never enough of an answer for your brother - especially after he met Emma. He fell in love, did you know that?”

Liam shakes his head in the negative. Truthfully, the more Miss Frost talks, the more he sees how much Killian kept hidden from him - likely to protect Liam in the same way Liam had protected him as a child.

“It’s true. I think it was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him. Emma is - was the illusionist, here at the circus,” Miss Frost confides. “She was also his competitor. And it was suddenly unthinkable that he would lose - but even more unthinkable that he would win.”

None of this assuages the sinking, horrible feeling in Liam’s stomach. “He didn’t —”

“He’s not dead,” she assures him, lifting that boulder off his chest. “But he’s not quite alive either. He and Emma… they were the very heart of this place. It all rested on their shoulders - all those lives, as well as their own. They were what kept it going. And they found a loophole.”

Comprehension dawns slowly. “He’s in the circus. You mean he’s - they’re —” Liam waves his hands about, as if to illustrate. Everywhere. Nowhere. The heartbeat that keeps it all moving. The reason all this ever existed and still exists now.

“He’s in the circus. They both are,” Miss Frost confirms.

“And you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know an awful lot about all this,” Liam points out. “How is that?”

“I’ve always seen a bit more than people realize,” she explains. “It’s how I became involved in designing the circus in the first place. It’s a blessing and a curse, being privy to the secret that magic exists. It was never within my power to interfere —” she almost sounds apologetic saying it, as if it was on her shoulders to stop what happened here — “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t see.”

Gazing around him, Liam can’t help but see all the lives tied so closely to the circus - dozens, scores, maybe a hundred. They’ve made lives here, in the past twelve years - and thanks to Killian, those lives can continue. 

“We were all just collateral damage,” he murmurs.

“Perhaps,” Miss Frost agrees. “But even knowing I was just a pawn in someone else’s game… I can’t bring myself to regret it, or trade one moment for the beauty that came out of it. And I think your brother would have felt the same. This entire circus is his love letter to his competition,” she waves, “and I can’t imagine he’d trade one piece if it meant he never met her.”

Around Liam, the circus sparkles with vibrant life as if to illustrate. Or maybe to agree; if Killian and the circus are one, now, that doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility.

“A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets,” Liam murmurs. And he knows - his little brother certainly did fight. 

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Liam replies, smiling down at his companion. “Just something I used to tell my brother.” He can feel his brother all around him, that energy he couldn’t name at first, and allows it to make him a little bold himself. “Would you like to show me the circus, Miss Frost, at least as you know it?”

A serene smile stretches across her features like a gift just for him. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Jones.”

(Somewhere on the wind, just at the edges of his hearing, a voice tickles Liam’s ear as they begin to walk.

Farewell, Brother.)

———

It’s been five years since Belle last saw Killian Jones, and she hasn’t been back to the Circus since. 

She makes her excuses, of course - the timing was never quite right when the Circus came to town, and she’s got a young son, and it’s good to have this distance, isn’t it? Healthy, to fully separate herself from the life she used to lead as she builds herself a new one. 

(They’re just excuses, though, she knows. The truth of the matter is that it’s hard to imagine the Circus without her friend, even if she has long accepted what has happened.)

It takes five years, but this time, when the Circus sets up its tents at the outskirts of London, Belle bundles up her toddler and coaxes her husband out the door and sets out to face her past. On her way out the door, she slips her old tarot deck, now incomplete, into a pocket. Perhaps it’s silly, but it feels right to bring them back to the place where this all started. 

In so many ways, the Circus is still the same. That peculiar atmosphere of magic and sheer possibility still persists, and the tents are much as she remembers them. It is easier than she thought it would be, to retread these paths; the memory of the man who made this place so much of what it is still lingers, but in a way that helps her remember, rather than in a way that causes her pain. Life goes on, even in the face of loss, even in a place like this. 

As Will steps away to procure popcorn and cider for them all, Belle catches a glimpse of a face she half-remembers - that of a young man with a mop of dark hair, dressed in a neat black suit with a silvery waistcoat. When the memory drifts to the front of her mind, it makes Belle smile. She’d always wondered what sort of journey that boy had ahead of him. 

“Henry, was it?” she asks, approaching him with her son at her skirts. “I don’t know if you remember me, but - ”

“The fortune teller, right?” Henry interrupts, delight dancing in his eyes. “Yes, of course I remember. Belle.”

“The only one to ever ask my name - well, at least until my husband,” she teases. “You are well, then? And… involved with the Circus, perhaps?” She still hasn’t forgotten that mysterious reading from some ten years before; something about young Henry had always stuck in her mind, even in the midst of hundreds and thousands of others seeking clarity.

“You could say that,” he laughs. Patting at his pockets for a moment, he pulls out a sleek business card and hands it to Belle. “I’m acting as the manager now.”

It suits him, Belle realizes; there’s a peace about this young man, now, that she hadn’t seen back when he was a boy. Henry knows his place in the world, and knows he’s right where he needs to be. She smiles warmly at him. “I’m sure you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Henry looks down bashfully, shrugging in casual acceptance. “Thank you. I’m doing my best. After Miss Swan and Mr. Jones… left…” There’s a whole world of things he’s not saying with that word, things Belle only knows because of Mulan and because she played her own role.  “Someone needed to take responsibility for the Circus. Mulan has been a big help. Ava and Nick, too. This place - it’s just too remarkable to let die.”

“It sounds like you still love the Circus more than anything.”

Henry’s eyes practically glow when he smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And with a sudden bolt of clarity, Belle knows why she’d tucked her old cards into her pocket on her way to the Circus.

“I’ve got something for you,” she tells him, hurriedly retrieving the deck. Belle draws a card at random, but smiles when she catches a glimpse of which she’d selected. It’s terribly fitting, though Henry may not realize it at first. “Here. For you,” she says, handing Henry the Ace of Wands. 

Henry turns the card carefully in his fingers. “After receiving the Fool last time, I can’t truly tell whether this is an improvement or a downgrade for me.”

“Neither. Tarot isn’t like that,” she explains. “Back then - what, a decade ago? - you were just a young man, beginning your journey, still with so much to learn. The Fool was fitting for that. Many who don’t understand the tarot place undue importance on the major arcana - on the ‘face cards,’ but each card in a deck means something. Each and every one. The Ace of Wands is the spark that makes things possible, the match that sets knowledge and understanding alight. Just because it isn’t flashy doesn’t mean it isn’t important. It’s a card that makes things happen, regardless of whether that is where your eye is drawn. It is revitalization and birthing light from the dark.” She pauses. “Do you understand?”

Henry nods, tucking the card carefully into his breast pocket. “A fitting card for a new beginning.”

“Precisely.” On impulse, Belle stretches a hand to lightly pat Henry’s cheek. He’s grown so tall since she last saw him, no longer that gangly boy. “Take care of yourself, Henry, and take care of the Circus. I can’t wait to see what you both become.”

It feels like closure of a kind she didn’t know she needed as Belle sets back off down the path with her son, weaving through the crowd to reunite with Will. 

“Mama, can we go ride the carousel?” her son asks at her side, hand still so small within her own grasp.

Belle smiles. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Killian.”

(Legacy, she’s realized, comes in many forms. Memory can be a living thing, if only you wish it to be.)

———

The Circus has changed over the years: new tents appear, old faces fade away, the grounds expand and spiral into new patterns. It never feels different, exactly, no matter how much may change. The Circus is like its own living organism; its layout may grow, and its features may change, but its soul remains the same. 

You remember the first time you’d seen the Wishing Tree. It’d been beautiful then, too - that special kind of otherworldly that only exists at the Circus. In the time since then, this tent has grown outwards to accommodate the living tree, but its branches still swoop low to envelop the space like a hug as you walk in. The branches are clustered with dozens and hundreds of candles, now. The whole thing casts a warm glow in the space that’s never quite still, yet another living, breathing thing. 

(There’s a hole at the top of the tent now, too - something new that wasn’t there before. It isn’t particularly big, but it’s enough to see the star-speckled sky beyond. Enough, too, to allow wishes to take flight, off into the wondrous unknown universe.)

It’s awe-inducing, witnessing all the candles left alight, each one representing the dearest wish of the individual who left it. It’s a beautiful reminder of all the things you can’t know about others: all those innermost hopes and dreams that may never be spoken, but exist all the same. You notice, suddenly, that there’s one candle at the center of the tree where the core branches stretch out that’s unlit. If you squint, you can just see that it’s been extinguished, somehow - the one column of wax on the tree without a flame to match. It is curious; dozens and hundreds of candles, placed on every surface, and only one has been put out. 

Maybe it’s an accident; maybe it’s a draft. Or maybe, just possibly, it’s a wish that’s been granted, left here for all to see that hope. 

You leave again after placing your own candle, heart lighter for it, as your own wish drifts into the night. 

———

Regina doesn’t quite win this particular contest, but she doesn’t particularly lose it either. The uncertainty of the matter follows her like an especially annoying gnat - something she wants nothing to do with, but is attached to her regardless. She doesn’t have much use for her 35% stake, though doubtless others would feel differently. Economics is another little pest in a life such as hers.

If anything, she supposes that Emma has won, and Gold’s wretched boy, and maybe even the Circus itself. It was only supposed to be the venue, and should have collapsed once the competition was over. But Emma, that stupid girl, did something the night she wove herself and that boy into the circus, something that has kept it puttering along for ten years, just the way it always has.

(She may have trapped herself in limbo when she made that sacrifice, but her little loophole managed to trap Regina and Gold as well. With their competition not technically completed, there’s an uncertainty about whether they’re able to start another - or whether they even want to. No matter the boredom, Regina could use a break from this mentorship nonsense. Maybe in another century she’ll be bored enough to agree to that.)

This particular afternoon, like so many, Regina takes her tea in the tea room of an expensive London hotel. She has another show tonight, another chance to take the money of so many unbelieving fools, but afternoons are hers, to watch and be watched. There’s a certain fascination to observing the blind crowds, eternally unaware of an entire world of magic existing right under their noses. They know something draws their eyes to the center single table where Regina takes her tea and scones - their subconscious pulling their attention where their conscious mind won’t take the leap - but they’ll never know why. Most assume it’s her striking looks, or impeccable and sumptuous clothing, but they’ll never guess it’s the echo of magic, of power calling to the minds and imaginations. It’s like a secret she holds over the entire world, and Regina has always reveled in that.

Today, however, is different. Today, a young man and woman approach her table arm in arm with a boldness most are too afraid to attempt. They make a picturesque couple, if an odd one; the man, tall and lanky with dark hair, could easily blend into a crowd with his generic suit and amiable smile, but his companion certainly could not say the same, perhaps best described as eccentric. Her dress and hat are close enough to the current fashion, but all in a riot of colors and patterns that blend more than truly match. She looks a bit familiar; belatedly, Regina realizes that she’s the girl-child from the circus. Anna or Ada or… something. It never much mattered; the twins were a particular pet project of Emma’s, though Regina had many times told her to focus her attention instead on the competition at hand. Not that it had done any good - on any level. 

“Madam Circe?” the girl - woman, now - asks politely. “You may not remember me, but my name is Ava Zimmer. This is Henry Mills. We’re here about the circus.”

“No relation, I’m sure,” Regina drawls, nodding in acquiescence towards a pair of chairs that may or may not have sat at the table before that very moment. No one will remember it, anyways.

“You would know better than I,” young Mills smiles. With a sweep of Ava’s hand at his side, Regina’s teacup replicates itself into three, enough porcelain for everyone to enjoy the brew Regina herself has kept refilled and at perfect temperature. 

(It suddenly makes a bit more sense why Emma had taken such an interest in the girl and her brother. If nothing else, Regina had taught her protegee to recognize power and potential.)

“Well. Aren’t you full of surprises,” is all she says as the duo seats themselves. “You’re here about the Circus, you said? I’m not sure I have any real right to speak on such a thing.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Mr. Mills responds. “Perhaps more than you think.”

“I take it you are aware of the circumstances of Emma Swan’s and Killian Jones’… disappearance?” Miss Zimmer asks. As if that’s the polite way to phrase such a thing. 

“As my acolyte - yes, I am. I should certainly hope so.”

“Then you are aware that Emma - when she left, she left her portion of the Circus to the Circus. It’s self-supporting, these days, instead of tied to any single person. Well, mostly.”

“I advise you get to the point, Miss Zimmer. I was not led to believe this was a social call.”

“You have a claim on the Circus,” Mr. Mills interjects. “Did you know that?”

“I wouldn’t use those terms, but I suppose I was instrumental in its creation. If such a thing constitutes a claim.”

“Per the magic that fuels it - it does,” Miss Zimmer tells her. She pulls out a heavy tome; it makes a weighty sound as it lands on the surface of the delicate table, but no one else notices. If she attunes her senses, Regina can sense something like a shield around their table that deflects attention. 

Ava Zimmer must be very talented, indeed. 

“Mr. Jones created this when the Circus was formed,” she explains, tabbing through the pages. “Each and every person is bound to this book. It seems to be part of what has stopped us from aging. This is the lifeblood of the Circus,” she proclaims solemnly, her hand splayed across the pages. 

“It’s a clever bit of spellwork, yes,” Regina agrees. “I, however, have my own methods.”

Mr. Mills bows his head briefly in her direction; Regina can’t tell whether the gesture is meant in genuine deference or something more sarcastic. “We wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. That does not change the fact, however, that your signature is still included on these pages.”

“And you would like to change that.”

“If you don’t mind.” Miss Zimmer slides a delicate blade across the table in Regina’s direction. “Your interest in our endeavor, I think, is over. We’d just like to make that official.” 

Regina carefully picks up the knife. It’s a beautiful instrument, the strains of gold and silver perfectly conducive to magic, though currently dormant. It would be so easy to channel her own powers, slice the delicate threads of enchantment that binds her signature to the book and herself to the endeavor, but - 

“Suppose I do you this favor. What do I get in return?”

Mills furrows his brow. “Is your release from the Circus not enough?”

“Release from something that hasn’t been a burden? I wouldn’t call that much of a return.”

“What do you want, then?”

There’s so many things she could say, and so few these children could provide. They are so young, and have seen so little, still so idealistically convinced of the goodness of the endeavor.

Still. There is one thing. 

“You were there that night, yes? When my acolyte… did this foolish thing?”

Mills nods, solemnly. 

“Then I want you to tell me.”

“That’s all?” Miss Zimmer is clearly incredulous of the proposal; good. That’ll serve her well, in the long run. 

“That’s all. Tell me the story, and I’ll gladly remove myself from your little fairground for good.”

The young man smiles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright,” he tells her. “But let me start from the beginning.

“Once, in an orphanage outside of Boston, a young boy fell in love with a magical circus…”

———

The circus is a marvel.

It’s been in operation for years, now - nearly three decades, if memory and the kindly concessions vendor are to be believed - but the aura of wonder, of magic remains. The circus is another world all its own, separated from the rest of the planet even as it exists in the center of it.

There are changes, of course; it’s impossible to expect that everything and everyone would stay static all this time. That would take a true feat of magic. Older visitors in particular remember when there was a tent with a magician, a beautiful young woman capable of the most extraordinary things. There’s a statue, now, outside where the tent used to be, of two lovers embracing, hands stroking faces in a display that almost feels too intimate to be captured in marble for everyone to see.

There’s a legend now, too, a rumor of a story to match that statue - of two lovers, pitted against one another in life, whose souls are now free to roam the circus grounds together. There’s whispers, too, that that’s what happened to the missing magician - that the statue is for her memory, and that of her young man. In a way, it would be fitting for her to live on as part of the circus itself. They say that the lovers’ reflections can sometimes be seen in the hall of mirrors, or the brush of a long skirt felt on the carousel, or a warm and masculine voice heard in the ice garden…

It’s hard to imagine anything so tragic happening at the circus; then again, it’s the one place on earth you can imagine something quite so magical and romantic occurring. At the end of the night, there’s no real answer. You’re not certain you need one.

(As you wind your way back towards the gates as the sun starts to rise, you don’t notice two pairs of not-quite eyes watching you, don’t see non-corporeal lips press a kiss to the back of a similarly ghostly hand. Perhaps that’s for the best; some moments aren’t intended for other living eyes.)

(The Circus will continue to live, with two magicians as its heartbeat.)

#captain swan #cs ff #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #magicians!CS #The Nigh Circus AU #happy endings aren't always what you think

[aspenwritesstuff]

Part Two: A Warning

🪦 prev 🪦 masterlist 🪦 next (coming soon)

🪦 taglist: open! ask/comment to be added: @hipsdofangirl @mal-lunar-28

You were an enigma in and of itself to Death; wild and free, though your very presence offered tranquility and comfort. His nails dug into his palms as the thought of your light being snuffed out for good deepened the ever-growing frown on his features. You, as blissfully unaware as you were, lay still in the center of the clearing with the prettiest smile Death had ever seen plastered against your flushed cheeks. 

warnings: death, pining (but not quite understanding it), angst, fear, blood mention, being watched (affectionately?)

w/c: 3.8k

a/n: I hope you enjoy this new part of BTCT! I've been very motivated when it comes to writing lately, thanks largely in part to the readers and feedback. I'm always willing to hear opinions and ideas. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.

Weeks turned into long, drawn out months as the news of your incredible survival made its way around the village. Some were impressed, thanking the gods for sparing you and claiming it was nothing short of a miracle. Most, however, were terrified. 

Terrified of what, however, was unclear at best. Nobody had an issue stating why, specifically, they chose to keep their distance from you following the viper incident. The answers just happened to vary wildly. 

Over the months, you’d tried to find some humor in the accusations. A witch, some called you - citing your quick uptake of herbal medicine as a source of evidence whilst others would say only a demon could survive the venom of the viper. Some had said you’d made a deal with the devil, others claiming you were secretly the devil yourself.

As you stared into the mirror, staring pointedly at the streak of white through your hair with swirling thoughts, you started to wonder if any of them could perchance be right. 

“Good morning, dearest,” the gentle croon of gran from the doorway stopped you from further entertaining the thought, pulling your gaze from the mirror to send her an affectionate smile, “Are you ready to go to the garden?”

You nodded as you stood from your seat at the vanity, slipping on a flat pair of shoes before joining her at the door. Gran had insisted since the incident on accompanying you when you doted on your plants, concerned that she may not make it in time to save you should another near-tragedy occur. 

You wanted to be annoyed with her, but instead found yourself filled to the brim with adoration for the wrinkled face grinning up at you. It had only been the two of you since you were born - your father passing in the war whilst your mother carried you, your mother passing as soon as you entered into this world. Gran was the only relative who would take you in, the rest claiming you were a cursed child - destined to bring nothing but tragedy.

Never once had she made you feel like anything less than a blessing, rarely using your name in favor of genuine terms of affection. She taught you to walk, to talk, and was largely responsible for your passion for plants - buying you a book on medicinal flowers after you’d asked her about the rose bushes outside of your cabin, single-handedly nurturing your talent for herbology.

Gran met you at the front door, handing you the wicker basket she’d woven for you with a near-closed eye smile. She was nervous, and you could tell in spite of her pleasant demeanor. She’d constantly been on edge, pampering you more than the typical spoilings of a grandmother for months now. Tea served in bed, bringing home your favorite things, buying a book you’d mentioned in passing. Gran thought she was sneaky, but you had already caught on to the theme of each of these “favors”: ensuring that you were never alone. 

She followed you out of the cabin, closing the door gently behind her as she took in a deep inhale of the ever-warming summer air. It was a good thing you’d come out as early as you had this morning, before the sun became unbearable. The path to the garden was your favorite place to be; an extending curve of mismatched cobblestone, dandelions stubbornly growing through the cracks, and two towering cypress trees shading it in it’s entirety, marking the end of the path and the start of the garden. 

You were always captivated with the trees, their gargantuan size feeling almost otherworldly as you’d walk beneath their branches. Ancient things, they were, towering above even those other trees that had been here since before Gran’s time. The breeze carried their fresh conifer sent to your nostrils, nostalgic and soothing, as you knelt down to the plants growing unencumbered in the generous shade. 

Gran took her typical perch on the bench, overseeing you from above the pages of her most recently purchased novel, glasses hanging precariously from the tip of her nose as she peered through them. You could see her eyes squinting, struggling to make out the small font even with the assistance her bifocals provided. A fond warmth spread in your chest at the sight, any lingering agitation with her hovering erased as you returned to the flowers. 

In the heat of the summer, your garden looked much different than it had on the day of the viper incident; chamomile and lavender having yet to blossom, instead overtaken by St. John’s Wort and Lady’s Bedstraw instead filled the garden with cheerful yellow blooms. The sun was barely peeking from behind the clouds, flushing your skin pink as your body warmed beneath it. 

You plucked a few fully-blossomed bits from the edges of a stem with a gentle smile, proud of the fruits of your labor as you placed them into a small glass jar in your basket. They had plenty of growing left to do before the seasons changed, and you couldn’t bring yourself to take full chunks from the plant before it had lived as long as it possibly could. You breathed out a laugh as you thought about the irony of that, living as long as one could. If Gran hadn’t been as quick-minded as she had you, too, would’ve been plucked before your time. 

You moved quickly throughout the garden, finding it much less appealing to take your time with company. You knew gran would happily sit through however long it took you to tend the plants, but it still felt wrong to make such an old woman wait on your for hours on end. A few jars filled and many weeds pulled, you called out to pull her attention from the book in her lap.

Only to see that she was sound asleep, head lolled forward and glasses strewn haphazardly into the pages of the book where they’d undoubtedly fallen from her nose. You sighed and shook your head, knowing that tiredness like this came with age but never quite grasping just how quickly it could take hold. There was no harm in leaving her be, the shade keeping her skin from the sun’s angry rays whilst the air held enough warmth to keep her from falling ill. 

There was also no harm in taking advantage of the first time alone you’d had in months, right?

From behind the massive trunk of one of the trees you so adored, a pair of sharp eyes followed your movements. He watched carefully as you tiptoed through the plants, shooting a glance towards your sleeping guardian before taking off down the path. You’d shuddered as you passed him by, unaware as you may have been of his presence, Death had a certain way of giving even the most hardened of men a chill. 

He waited to follow until you were further down the path, braided hair swaying against the peach tones of the dress you wore that day hypnotizing him as he continued his steps forward. You’d begun to hum again, that same song you’d had on your lips the day he spared your life. That same song he’d had stuck in his head, replaying in your gentle voice on an endless loop. That same song he’d found himself trying to replicate, getting caught murmuring the words by the other gods - much to his embarrassment - on several occasions. 

Nothing, however, could beat hearing it come from you once more. 

He stifled a laugh as he watched you peek behind you, ensuring the elderly woman hadn’t woken up to follow you, and smirked at your victorious grin as you took off towards the woods. Despite your speed, his long strides easily kept you in his sights, curiosity filling him to the brim as he took in the absolute look of freedom on your face. 

You were laughing brightly, seeming to have not a single care in the world as your ran through the overgrown brush of the forest. He found himself wanting to laugh, too, just from the sheer joy he could feel radiating from your being.

Until, that was, he remembered why he was here. 

To say the fates were unhappy was an understatement. Upon his return to the realm of the gods, he instantly found himself being chastised by the three of them - disappointment seeming foreign on their typically emotionless faces. 

“You know your duty,” they’d reminded him, not even bothering to ask why one less soul than anticipated had been delivered, “Or need we remind you?” 

“I know,” he’d replied simply, not feeling any of the guilt he’d bet they wanted him to. Even as the days passed, he still couldn’t bring himself to regret sparing your life. And now, watching how vibrantly you lived it, he was even more certain he had made the right decision.

He couldn’t tell the fates that he’d chosen to spare you because of a feeling he had, he couldn’t tell them you made him feel his heart again, he couldn’t tell them he had a longing for your happiness above his own sense of duty - which meant he had no excuse to say no when they insisted he return for your soul posthaste. 

He stalled for as long as he could, claiming he knew of a famine in the opposite direction or of a wildfire in the next city over. These weren’t lies, no, but they weren’t actually events that could warrant the postponing of your collection. It wasn’t a lie, though - simply… an exaggeration.

An exaggeration that had reached its expiration date. 

Hard lines formed in his once bemused features as he continued to follow your trek through the woods, heart sinking as you stopped exactly where he’d hoped you wouldn’t. You laughed brightly as you stared up into the sky, spinning amongst tiny white flowers and too-tall grass before falling onto your back with a sigh of relief. 

You were an enigma in and of itself to Death; wild and free, though your very presence offered tranquility and comfort. His nails dug into his palms as the thought of your light being snuffed out for good deepened the ever-growing frown on his features. You, as blissfully unaware as you were, lay still in the center of the clearing with the prettiest smile Death had ever seen plastered against your flushed cheeks. 

“What a beautiful day…”

Your voice carried on the warmth of the breeze, tickling the ears of your reaper. He couldn’t disagree, though you certainly hadn’t been addressing him when you spoke. Death couldn’t care less about the weather or the colors of the flowers surrounding your lounging frame - in his mind, any day would be beautiful so long as you were enjoying it, with that damned oblivious smile.

He felt an overwhelming fondness at the way you pinched a long blade of grass between your thumb and forefinger, twisting it absently at your side with your eyes fixed on the clouds above. Even as you shut your eyes, relaxing into the plush overgrowth, his mind was traveling to any option he had to spare you. Any option he had to allow you to embrace another day as you were today. 

But, despite his best efforts, you were to die in ninety seconds. 

Your consciousness had already faded, and for that Death was grateful. You, of anyone he’d met, deserved to die peacefully - clueless, asleep in a field of daisies, hopefully dreaming of far better circumstances than these. 

In an ideal world, Death imagined you’d wake up as the sun began to set. He imagined your post-sleep haze to quickly dissolve into worry as you realized your grandmother was waiting for you, likely worried sick. He imagined you running back through the woods that you knew so well, stumbling despite the familiarity as your limbs struggled to wake up as fast as your mind. He imagined you apologizing sweetly, bits of grass and twig still in your hair, to the elderly woman as she embraced you warmly. 

But in seventy-five seconds, you were to die. 

A sigh escaped your parted lips, distracting Death from his thoughts as he stared at the petal-soft plushness of your mouth. Those lips - your lips - had lived in his everyday thoughts since the day he’d resisted pressing them to his own. He watched them dry from each breath of summer air you took in, actively avoiding the ironic parallel it drew as your peace brought with it inconvenience. 

Not that chapped lips would bother you much, you were to die in sixty seconds. 

Reluctant feet carried Death silently forward, crouching down at your side to stare at your sleeping face. Cautious, as though afraid to take from any of your remaining moments, he touched the tips of his fingers to your face. Your skin burned against the chill of his touch, hitching his unnecessary breath in his throat as he watched goosebumps raise on your neck. You didn’t so much as stir at the touch, breath still coming in an even, audible rhythm.

If it wouldn’t end in forty-five seconds, Death would compose a symphony to that rhythm.

He began to wonder what you dreamt of that left your face looking so relaxed, with no worry or concern to be seen. He hoped it was incredible. He hoped you were flying over the great wonders of the world, getting to experience each and every marvel - at least subconsciously - before the end. He hoped it was mundane, smelling the aromas of the garden you loved so dearly once more before it all went dark. He hoped you felt loved, hugging your grandmother for the final time in your memories. 

That was a tall order, though, for thirty seconds. 

He cursed under his breath as he heard muffled voices growing closer from the west. A pair of hunters with no ill-intention coming towards the clearing. Why did they have to be here whilst you were? Why did the younger of the two have to be so trigger-happy? Why would he have to assume the figure in the grass was an animal he could take home and feed his family with? Why would you have to meet such an end, bloody and sudden?

With fifteen seconds remaining, Death decided you shouldn’t. 

He chose, then, to show himself to you. He chose to appear, in all of his domineering aura, to interrupt whatever projections your subconscious was allowing you to enjoy. Accepting whatever consequences may await, he replaced the whimsy of your dream with absolute darkness. 

Absolute darkness, and him.

You were afraid. 

Plunged suddenly into darkness from the formerly stunning vision of sunflowers beneath the warm glow of sunset, you shuddered. You could feel yourself sinking, disoriented as you lost all sense of direction, wondering if you were falling or floating into the abyss. 

You continued to spiral, directionless in the inky blackness surrounding you, until a frigid hand on your shoulder brought you to a sudden and jarring halt. Gulping down the dread that suddenly overcame you at the foreign touch. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to avoid whatever force was lingering behind you with an icy presence against your flesh. 

Your curiosity, however, won out against any semblance of common sense. 

As you turned, you were taken aback by the source of your fear. He didn’t look menacing - powerful, perhaps, but not menacing - with smooth, porcelain skin and a determined glint shimmering beneath deep amber pools. His hand dropped from your shoulder to his side, flowing sleeve of his ruffled black shirt seeming to shimmer with the movement. 

Your fear gave way slowly, melting away into a much gentler emotion - something akin to the concern you’d give a wounded bird, a desire to be gentle. You held your breath as he studied you, as though exhaling would be enough to frighten him away. 

Despite his overwhelming presence, your predominant thought was just how familiar his beautiful visage was. 

“Do I know you?” 

Your voice was small, as though padded by the tangible blackness surrounding the stranger before you. His gaze softened at your words, eyes flitting up towards the newfound crease in your brow before meeting your eyes once more. It felt like a sin to stare into his intense gaze for longer than a moment, but something about the way he searched your expression kept you anchored in place. 

“You do not,” he answered after a prolonged pause, the softness of his voice surprising you compared to his overwhelming presence, “Your soul, however?” his head tilted then, though his sight remained trained on you, “Knows me intimately.”

You stilled, unable to bring words from your lips as you blinked at him. It sounded outrageous when he worded it in that way, how could you have met this man before and have forgotten? Every bit of him - his sharp jaw and angular brows, the way they framed features far too delicate to carry the aura of omnipotence he radiated. Yet, here he was, boldly proclaiming the innermost parts of your being’s familiarity with him. 

“I –”

“Don’t understand, I know,” he finished for you, voice like velvet caressing your ears, “As much as I’ve longed to speak to you,” his gaze darkened then before he continued in a soft voice, “We do not have much time.”

“Who are you?” your voice sounded foreign to your own ears now, though you were far away from yourself - watching the conversation from afar rather than being an active participant. 

“I’m inclined to believe that you know,” he chuckled, though the sound itself was humorless and dark. His gaze flicked to the side of your head, at which the strand of white hung haphazardly from your braid, before meeting your expectant gaze with the same intense stare he’d worn since his appearance.

“I…think you’re right,” you agreed easily, trusting in the familiarity of his presence despite how vague an answer he provided. He simply hummed and watched as you mulled over his words, smirking a bit as your face crinkled in confusion.

“Would it help if I had a name?” he pressed, eager to get on with his attempt to lead you out of harm’s way. He didn’t have much time, though it passed much more slowly in your dreams. As you nodded, he finally allowed his smile to reach his eyes, “You can call me Minho.”

“Minho…” you echoed, mirroring the grin he sent your way - though yours was filled with more uncertainty than amusement.

“Now, please, listen,” though he was giving an order, you didn’t feel the typical urge to ask him who exactly he was to tell you what to do - instead, you found yourself anxiously awaiting further instruction.

His tone, despite how gentle he was being, left no room for argument as he reached a hand towards your cheek - stopping just short of touching you, shoulders sinking in defeat as he placed his hand back to his side.

You couldn’t help but feel a little bit disappointed at the sudden loss of proximity, though his next words brought a much bigger concern into perspective. 

“When you wake up, you will have ten seconds to stand up and be visible - sing, scream, do something an animal cannot,” he urged, nothing but sincere concern to be seen anywhere in his eyes, “There are hunters coming. They will think you’re a sleeping animal, hidden in the grass.”

Your heart sank. What was supposed to be harmless fun had brought you into the path of danger once more. Regret, fear, perhaps even disbelief overwhelmed you as tears sprang to your eyes, “Will I die..?”

Death winced at the display of emotion, feeling his chest ache to have been the one to pull you from innocent joy. 

“Yes,” he answered, reaching a hesitant hand out again. This time, though, he didn’t halt himself. He brushed the pad of this thumb, gentle in spite of it’s coldness, across your cheek - sweeping away a tear rolling down your cheek, “Not today, though. Right?”

You swallowed and nodded, feeling heat prickle in your cheeks despite the temperature of his hands. His touch lingered, your frenzied heart welcoming the comfort despite feeling ever-so confused by the trust you innately held for a relative stranger. 

You leaned into his palm, looking up at him through watering eyes. You could’ve sworn you heard him gasp, though he’d regained composure quickly enough that you’d believe it was your imagination. 

“Go now,” he ordered, pulling his hand away from your face as though it were a live wire, “Remember, show yourself. Ten seconds. Go.”

And you did.

Your eyes sprang open as you immediately scrambled to your feet, the sound of sticks and leaves crunching under boots growing closer. Two silhouettes, armed with muskets entered the clearing. Minho was right, hunters were coming. 

You called out to them urgently, just a simple, “Hello.”

But that was enough. 

The older of the two men reached out to his side, pointing the barrel of the younger’s gun towards the ground right before he fired.

“You idiot!” The elder scolded as the color drained from the other’s face - frantic eyes meeting your own as the realization of what he almost shot became clearer. 

You’d almost died. Again. 

And although you hadn’t the slightest clue about his involvement before now, Death had spared you. Again.

Death watched from the trees, heaving a sigh of relief as he watched you take off towards your cabin - ignoring the desperate apologies from the men behind you as you made it your mission to make it home - alive. 

He followed you there, worried that the fates would catch on and send more misfortune your way. They hadn’t, and you arrived home - scolded by your grandmother, but safe. Breathing. Warm. 

As you lay in bed that night, you couldn’t shake the sensation of a watchful eye gone unseen. You were slightly unnerved, wondering if you’d simply imagined the happenings in the meadow - or if you truly were visited by a kindhearted reaper, sparing your life without regard for himself. 

“Thank you, Minho,” you whispered, drifting into sleep after proclaiming gratitude to the stagnant air. You felt crazy, thanking someone who may or may not be real. You’d feel crazier, however, if you claimed it was all just a fortunate warning from your subconscious. 

“You did well, sweet soul…” he whispered back, unheard by your dozing frame, before returning to whence he came - the wrath of the fates being an easy weight to carry when compared to taking your life.

Folks liked to claim that Death was an inescapable thing; but you knew that Death wasn’t a thing at all. He was a man with a gentle touch, showing you the way to weasel out of his very clutches whilst wiping away your tears. 

Death was not to be feared.

#lee know x reader #lee know x you #beneath the cypress trees #lee know romance #lee know smut #skz fic #skz fanfiction #skz fantasy au #stray kids fanfiction #feedback appreciated!

[briarlovesginny]

The Clues of Tragedy as told by Philza Minecraft

ways to say i love you number 35: as a goodbye 💕(platonic)

this is a part of the 35 ways to say "i love you" writing collection. check out the rest!

PREVIEW/SYNOPSIS:

"At the present moment, noise is the ever-slowing drip of his son’s blood onto the ground as it sieves through Phil’s trembling fingers. If Phil had not been holding the body of his dead son, he would be thinking about all of this." (or, the cycle of tragedy as told by a man experiencing it himself for the first time)

content warnings: depictions of war and violence, blood, death/ corpse, grief

There is a rock on the ground that looks like a broken heart. This, if you are as old as he is, is the first clue of a tragedy. 

People always describe wars as large, sweeping events, numbers and heroes and bloodshed and tears. But when Phil remembers the wars he has fought, he remembers very little of those things. What he does remember: a child with only one shoe, trying to tie their shoelace for some semblance of normalcy; bakers handing out fire-resistant gloves to rescue workers, to help sort through charred rubble; a man tearfully volunteering his life’s worth of intricately woven blankets and scarves as burial shrouds. Right now, there are many small rocks shattered into frightful existence by the explosions, but only one of them looks like a broken heart.

There are still explosions echoing around in his ears as stray bits of gunpowder light below him. There are enough screams that poets might have called it a chorus, but he knows better. There is no poetry for screaming. Noise is another clue of a tragedy.

Sound never truly stops-- as true as it is that you will never hear true silence in nature, you will never hear true silence during destruction. After the first round of noise-- whether it be a single arrow whistling through the wind, a blade unsheathed, or a thump, those young enough to be naive will recall a vacuum of noise, the winds’ howls paused as the world collapses around them. But the winds do not stop for the end of the world, and those as weathered as Phil know that noise never truly stops. Noise is this: waves lapping at the shore of new rubble, groans of pain that no one remembers making, then the screams that they do; noise is reaction, and action, and inaction, and it is always making and being made, even when life ends. At the present moment, noise is the ever-slowing drip of his son’s blood onto the ground as it sieves through Phil’s trembling fingers. 

If Phil had not been holding the body of his dead son, he would be thinking about all of this. He was well versed in tragedy-- some civilizations even cited him as the birth of it. How ironic that he used to brush them off. Tragedy is inevitable, he would say to those who asked. I am simply passing by. But right now, for the first time in his life, he agreed. Tragedy was a cycle. A cycle that he was cradling in his arms, a cycle that he watched be born, take its first steps, write its first song. A tragedy that built mini-cities and tore them down, that smiled every time it saw a songbird, a tragedy who laughed when its father dropped its birthday cake instead of crying. A tragedy that was open windows and fresh breezes, and a serious look in its face as it learned how to play a song. Phil had never felt so ancient as he did, watching the cycle of a tragedy from birth to death, never felt more deserving of the title of God many had tried to conceive him as. This was a Godhood so human and tainted that he could never have imagined it, so innate that it was laughable he hadn’t seen it before. 

Grief, he thought, that is another clue of a tragedy.

His head whipped around as a new kind of explosion started, and the skies darkened as undead monsters grew their sinews out of soil and bone and soul. Silence never lasted in tragedy, nor was there any time for it. He gently set down the burned and torn thing that is-- was?-- his son, but not before kissing its head so folly it could have been a brush from one of his many feathers. 

“I love you.” He said before leaving, understanding at last the last clue of a tragedy.

A goodbye.

#35 ways to say “i love you” #dsmp #dsmp fanfiction #philza fanfiction #wilbur soot fanfiction #philza and wilbur #philza minecraft and wilbur soot #dsmpblr #dream smp #dream smp fanfiction #angst #november 16th 2020 #november 16th fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #briar writes

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update !

friends. lovers. clowns. I'm going to be real with you: I am going the fuck through it. the schoolyear has started at the shit tier midwestern university that I call home, and that means I am once again up to my eyes in students having problems. this is the best job I've ever had and I think it's going to kill me.

none of that is your problem, of course, but it does feel like a necessary preface to explain why the list is a little on the short side this month and also why it's just. really all over the place.

what have I been reading?

Thirsty Sword Lesbians (April Kit Walsh, 2021) - I swear to god and jesus it's a ttrpg guide and not Locked Tomb erotica. I was gifted this for my birthday by my boss and his spouse (mostly the spouse, who spotted this at a farmers market in Kansas City and thought of me, bless her), and I'm really looking forward to getting to run some sessions! Walsh has put together a fun-loving, emotion-heavy system that's RIPE for creating dyke drama in every imaginable genre. the playbooks manage to cover a lot of archetypes - the Spooky Witch is a standout for me, I'd love to play one! - while leaving lots of room for customization and making the characters your own, and I like the way the mechanics prioritize the characters' feelings and arcs while also leaving options to be more action-based. the book can get a little precious about The Magical Power of Love Against the Evil Forces Capitalism and Oppression, but it's a sweet system that's obviously been with a lot of love, and the art if absolutely killer. I can't wait to report back on my adventures with my own band of thirsty sword lesbians.

Paper Girls Vol. 5-6 (Brian K. Vaughan and Cliff Chiang, 2019) - that's right, I finally finished it! and when I got to the end of the last volume I had to sit there very quietly staring at the wall and say "oh" to myself. I was delighted when all the twisty time travel bullshit was finally explained and the story still managed to feel very personal and intimate to the twelve year old girls at the story's heart - at the end of the day, this is a story about four friends doing their best to get home against all odds. I really appreciated that Vaughan could make the question of "will we still be friends?" feel so urgent when the question of apocalypse hangs so heavy in the series, and the ending was a bittersweet question mark on that front. it felt right - Paper Girls was never the kind of series that could be wrapped up too neatly. you should go read it yourself - and, I cannot emphasize enough, I do mean read it, not watch the amazon series.

Nona the Ninth (Tamysn Muir, 2022) - Nona the Ninth is a wildly jarring change of pace for the series that is, I think, wholly and hugely necessary to stop and provide better perspective on the world. I frequently see people commenting that previous protagonists Gideon Nav and Harrowhark Nonagesimus don't really "feel" like teenagers, and that there's no good reason they shouldn't be aged up except that Muir is trying to appeal to a YA audience. with all due respect, these people are very bad at reading comprehension and quite possibly piss on the poor. the personal tragedies of the Locked Tomb's characters are numerous, but one of the greatest injustices of the series takes place almost in the background, so deeply woven into the culture of the Houses that the characters hardly think to comment on it: the way the Empire feasts upon its youth, grinding them up in positions of leadership or shipping them off to the front lines when they're children and teens. and you see that so sharply in Nona! I'm not going to say anything spoilery but GOD, getting to see a main character who's just... a kid? just a really sweet kid with an extremely limited perspective who loves her family and kids from school and dogs and the beach and has no idea how truly, hideously awful the world around her is? it was so STRANGE to see a teenager being young and largely untroubled in this world, especially next to younger kids who are already concerned with selling drugs and killing necromancers. and that's so goddamn sad, and this whole world is a tragedy, and I love so much that some of the characters in this series are still trying to find ways to care for one another. I hope at least some of them manage to survive Alecto.

Transgender History: The Roots of Today's Revolution [Revised Edition] (Susan Stryker, 2008) - a short and sweet read, and one that I like a lot for its ability to talk about the history of trans and gender-nonconformity without getting too hung up on, for lack of a better term, black and whiting. I understand the urge to project very contemporary ideas of gender and sexuality backwards to find commonality with the past, but it's so crucial to be able to understand how much ideas of gender and sexuality can change over very little time - even the relatively short span between Stonewall and now! Stryker, herself a trans woman, does a remarkably respectful job honoring the work of past pioneers for the trans community without attempting to tidy up or sanitize any individuals to make them more palatable for 21st century readers. a quick and informative read, with a solid place in my growing personal library of queer history.

How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America [Revised Edition] (Kiese Laymon, 2020) - it's fitting that Laymon is perhaps best known for his acclaimed memoir Heavy, because everything this man writes is heavy as hell in the most gripping way. I'd say Laymon passes being a challenging writer to be an outright confrontational one, by which I don't intend to perpetuate stereotypes about the "angry Black man" so much as applaud the way Laymon takes the reader firmly by the shoulder, sits them down, and says the quiet part out loud. Laymon is deeply interested in the uncomfortable truths that America runs on, and he demands that we all join in his examination. he's a relentlessly thorough thinker and writer, turning his gaze on a broad variety of topics: the disproportionate focus placed on "fixing" Black boys to make them more respectable, the way Black girls are seldom institutionally addressed at all, what it means for Black student athletes to labor for universities that still proudly sport imagery of the Confederacy, the overlooking of Black Southerners as a potential source of art and brilliance, the expectations placed on Black writers to pander to white audiences' limited ideas of Blackness. Kiese Laymon's nonfiction writing really is like nobody else's, tonally; he's so stubborn and ruminative and I love the way he talks about masculinity and love. there's a chapter that consists of five letters, written between Laymon and four other Black men, reflecting on all manner of things - Blackness, masculinity, queerness, incarceration, and more than anything else, the way Black men love each other. it's really something special.

Some of My Best Friends: Essays on Lip Service (Tajja Isen, 2022) - one early review that I saw of this book is that it's too topical for its own good, and that surely within a year everyone will have forgotten what Isen is even referencing in her essays. with all due respect this is absolutely bullshit and implies that the reviewer possibly only skimmed the book, or perhaps read a blurb and decided that Isen has only bothered collecting essays dissecting various flash in the pan subjects of Twitter discourse. in fact, what Isen as done is written brilliantly about various areas she knows well - voice acting and animation, university admissions and law school, personal essays and the publishing industry, the entirety of Canada - and neatly examines the ways in which those institutions overwhelmingly fail to engage in any meaningful way with the notion of racial equity, while putting on a show - the titular "lip service" - to give the illusion of doing otherwise. she's an excellent writer, and I particularly love the way she writes about literature. I'd strongly recommend this excerpt from a chapter on the publishing industry's new trend towards publishing stories that decry the stiflingly white nature of major publishers while doing absolutely not a damn thing to actually change their whiteness.

Run, Riddler, Run (Gerard Jones and Mark Badger, 1992) - before anyone feels the need to inform me of this, yes: I am aware that in 2018 Jones was convicted of possession of sexually explicit images of children and sentenced to six years in prison. I found out immediately after finishing this zany little comic, at which point I did an innocent little google search to see what the guys who made it have been up to in the 30 years since publication. turns out nothing good, in Gerard Jones' case. and I have no idea what to do with that information; it doesn't really change my opinion on this story but it does cast sort of a yucky shadow over what's otherwise a pretty alright story.

our boy Brucie learns that gentrification is pretty bad, actually, and that poor people have feelings that should be listened to rather than just bulldozing all their yucky old neighborhoods because you think you know what's best for them. like many of the best Batman comics, Bruce's isn't the most interesting part by a longshot; the real star here is Roberta "Bob" Cifuentes, a queer grassroots organizer who scares the everloving shit out of Gotham's wealthy with her militant efforts to save her neighborhood. comic books being comic books, things naturally get pretty zany - there's a team of robocops led by a guy still mad that the Berlin Wall came down who frame Batman for murder after he starts siding with the poors and that's like, probably because writer and noted sex criminal Jones didn't want to commit to just making straight up regular cops an unambiguous tool of oppression that Batman has to fight, which is some weenie-ass bullshit, but DC still probably couldn't publish this story today without getting screamed at for being pro-antifa. I'd say it's a solidly b-tier Very Special Episode if not for the almost entirely arbitrary inclusion of the Riddler, whose presence could be totally excised from the story really easily but also makes the story INFINITELY more fun. according to various DC sources that I won't be bothering to fact check this is the first miniseries to prominently feature the Riddler, which makes this a great idea from a truly reprehensible human being. he's in peak Riddler form - pissing off Batman, his boss, his own parole officer, and the Joker by being just absolutely fucking insufferable and frequently incomprehensible, contributing very little to the overall story, and visibly having a blast doing it. love that for him.

#bookblr #reading updates

[redemptioninterlude]

❛ i saw your face on a billboard and — this is silly — i wondered if you remembered me… ❜ (for junko !)

everything, everywhere, all at once meme ( accepting ) + @shotputd // rantaro

nobody REALLY KNOWS HER, do they? what a pity. how sad! well, not really - after all, how could they? junko buries it all, and even she struggles to pull apart the web she's woven! even yasuke, the only boy who'd ever managed to challenge her, found himself confounded, manipulated and wrapped around her little finger... her affection more a liability than it was something to soften her motivation. a thing to kill, if only to taste what tragedy could do for her, how despair could warp her heart in unexpected ways! oh.. it was bone chilling, wasn't it? to cry, to love, to have known it was all done by her own, twisting hand, it was...

it was what she'd been searching for, wasn't it?

it doubles down on her motivation. and junko commits herself to the part, even if she finds herself bored playing the model, the fashionista, THAT GIRL. what a pity that that, of all things, was what people hung about her neck, as if her brilliance wasn't enough on its own, it needed be a part of a prettier package, a stunning completeness. and returning to hope's peak... well. it's only the start for her. the intercom zzzz-es and the door thunks ; and she was inside the gates that held out the unwashed masses from the reserve course, yawning audibly as her heels clip at the tiled flooring cleanly. black, white, black ,white... she'd melt into it all. it's lacquer like a puddle of ink, like fresh made paper. she could get lost, in a feeling like that.

a hand pulls ; stopping her in her tracks. and there's an ick that travels up her spine for it, a sudden sharpness to the gaze that cuts towards its owner, blue contacts still in, her immaculate form poised, feline and DANGEROUS. but there, instead, is a boy... all calm and centered, his voice a softer lull to it than she expects.

❛ i saw your face on a billboard and — this is silly — i wondered if you remembered me… ❜

remember him? as if junko forgets anything. memory palace searched, ransacked! but there he is, within a room, locked up within a box within a box within a box. rantaro amami. now what was he doing here? the gum in her mouth pops ; and it startles, like a bell to remind her of why she's here in the first place, of her GREATER PURPOSE. sometimes, it wasn't about being right... it was about the role she'd chosen to play. "oh.... like. aren't you like, in one of the other classes or something? and like, duh, of course you saw me on a billboard! i'm not the ultimate fashionista for nothing, yanno! like, what. you want something signed or something? sorry! this is totally a no autograph zone!" drawing out an x in the air between them, as if to make a point.

#( junko ) &&. answered #( junko ) &&. main verse #shotputd

[tea-stained-notes]

Steve Rogers x OFC - Waiting On a Miracle, Chapter 3

After catching an infamous serial killer in the act, Julie Castillo is in line for the witness protection program. She is sent to a temporary safe house with U.S. Marshal Steve Rogers to protect her. Both of them scarred by trauma and tragedy, they find solace in each other. But how far will they dare to go?

Sorry it's been a hot minute, friends, but since I last posted I have become an aunt, my boss was fired, my grandpa was in the hospital twice, I had a nasty eye infection, I attended three weddings, my work bestie quit and Putin invaded Ukraine - so writing self-indulgent fanfic just wasn't at the top of my list lol

Hope you enjoy this though! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in the future :)

CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 2

Series warnings: violence, death, angst, trauma, smut

Chapter warnings: anxiety

Chapter word count: ~2100

Song(s) referenced: Waiting In the Wings (Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure)

The next morning I awoke with the sun on my face. Just as a smile started forming on my lips, reality slammed into me, making me shoot up with a gasp. A night of blissfully dreamless sleep lay behind me but now my brain was flooded with all the images I was so desperate to forget. I buried my face in my hands, taking deep breaths and forcing the carousel in my head to a stop. No use in obsessing over things that had been and might be. Right now I was okay. I was safe. I was with Steve. Steve. I could faintly hear him potter around in the kitchen and it filled me with some sort of solace. As insane as the past 36 hours had been, I was infinitely grateful that he was the one I would be stuck with for the foreseeable future.

Dinner had been quiet as I had been worn out and preoccupied. But he hadn’t seemed to mind in the slightest and just thinking of the way he had blushed at my heartfelt compliments for the pasta still warmed my chest. He also hadn’t hesitated for a moment at my request to keep on the hall light during the night despite sounding like a frightened five-year-old. Apparently it had done enough to keep the nightmares at bay, so at least it had been worth the embarrassment.

I made a my way to the bathroom for a quick shower. Once more I found myself marveling at my newly dark hair. I let my curls down today, only manoeuvering the front bits into a clip in the back. I didn’t bother with make-up. Steve had already seen me at my worst and I never did more than mascara and blush anyway.

I padded into the kitchen, relishing the feel of wooden floorboards and woven rugs beneath my feet. The scent of pine, wood smoke and coffee lingered in the air. It was almost frightening how comfortable the place already seemed. Despite the circumstances it eluded pure calm. Steve was leaning against the kitchen counter, staring absent-mindedly out the window, his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. He had swapped his city outfit for faded jeans and a checkered flannel. Wax-free strands of golden hair fell across his forehead. He looked so different. So much softer. The spell broke when he noticed me in his periphery and cleared his throat, the professional demeanour sliding back into place. “Good morning, Julie.” “Hey.” “Did you sleep well?” “Surprisingly, yes.” “Good. I’ve made coffee.” “Thanks. But I’m more of a tea person.” Steve started rummaging through the cupboards. “I think I saw some tea bags in here.” I joined him at the counter to grab the kettle and fill it. We both flinched at his arm brushing mine when he produced a box of tea from the shelf. He quickly stepped back with an apologetic look. “Chamomile okay?” “That’s great, thank you.” He dropped a bag into the mug already set out while I put the kettle back on the stove. There was a palpable tension in the air, the setting so cozy yet so bizarre. Somehow this felt like a couple’s weekend trip, except that the couple were actually strangers and running from a psychotic killer. “So, what’s for breakfast?” I asked, my eyes trained on the gas flames licking at the kettle. “Natasha practically raided the store for us,” Steve said with a smile in his voice. “We could make waffles, porridge, bacon and eggs, green smoothies — whatever floats your boat.” “Porridge sounds great.” He nodded and reached into a cabinet to pull out a pack of oats. “Would you mind getting that going? I'll chop up some fruit we can put in.” “Sure.” We worked in silence, but it slowly shifted into something almost companionable. Despite Steve meticulously keeping his distance, there was something warm and solid about him. Something that fit surprisingly well into this cabin.

I pushed my bowl away and leaned back in my chair with a contented sigh. “I can’t believe how quiet it is out here.” “You don’t miss the sirens and jackhammers?” Steve said, a smile playing on his lips. “God no. There’s a lot to love about New York but the noise sure ain’t it.” “What is there to love then?” I pondered for a moment. “The history. The abundance of cultures. The freedom to be as weird as you want to be.” We both chuckled. “Oh, and Broadway course. Always Broadway.” “Right, you’re a stage manager there.” “Assistant stage manager.” “What’s the difference?” He asked it with genuine interest and a wave of warmth washed over me. “Well, the SM coordinates schedules and information for the creative team all the way from the first rehearsal to the actual production. They assist the director during rehearsals and are responsible for pretty much anything going on backstage once the show opens. They also ‘call’ the show, so they coordinate lighting and sound operators, the conductor and the actors — all communication basically.” “Sounds stressful.” “Cause it is.” “So how stressed are you as an assistant?” I felt my jaw tense up. “I take care of the rehearsal space and help with administrative stuff. Read cue lines. Run lines with the actors, review blocking and choreography. Take notes and update the prompt book when Samira’s not available. Just sort of stand in for her in general, whenever needed. Sometimes I even call the show when she wants to sit in the audience for the night to get a fresh look at everything.” Steve was still listening intently. “God, that sounds so trivial and boring compared to what you do.” “Not at all. I did some theatre in high school. And I always loved rehearsal and the bustle behind the stage. Actually performing though? Not so much.” I hoped my smile wasn’t too tight as I returned his. “Yeah. I get that.” “So what show are you working at?” “Legally Blonde. Have you seen it?” “I think I saw the movie years ago.” “You better have, it’s a deserved classic.” I grinned. “You should try to catch the stage show one day though, it’s really fun and the songs are great.” My grin faded as I ran a finger along the rim of my mug. “And yet you don’t seem particularly passionate about the job.” His intense gaze caught mine and my pulse quickened slightly before I cast my eyes down onto the table. “Ah, you know. Watching Elle Woods set her mind on something and then actually achieve it? The way she realizes her self-worth and finds her place? It used to be inspiring but now…” Steve’s chair creaked as he leaned back and I looked up to find him eyeing me thoughtfully. I forced a quick smile, then abruptly began clearing the dishes. “I’ll take care of these.” “I’ll help, the stuff from last night is sitting in the sink as well.” “It’s fine, I like doing dishes. And I still owe you for dinner.” “Don’t be silly, you owe me nothing.” “Honestly, it’s fine.” He examined my face for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, guess I’m gonna do another check of the premises in daylight then.” “Okay.” “I’ll stay close. Call out if you need anything.”

I was humming to myself as I cleaned plates and cutlery, trying to focus on the vibrations in my throat rather than the thoughts whirling around in my brain. I had definitely revealed too much. And Steve was very perceptive. He must have already figured out that I was a loser who had made drowning in self-pity her favorite hobby. I felt frustration and dread rise in my stomach but forced it back down. Get a grip. I drained the water and dried my hands before turning to take in the living room. Built-in bookshelves lining the fire place, bursting with enough reading material to fill my time for weeks on end. An inviting arm chair and matching sofa. An old piano tucked into the corner. My heart skipped a beat. How had I not noticed this yet? Drawn to it like a magnet I walked over and opened the lid. My fingers ran over the worn keys, then played a couple of notes. Slightly out of tune but wonderfully rich in sound. I settled down on the stool and started playing a few scales to get a feel for the instrument. It reminded me of the second-hand piano we’d had at home growing up. Where I had learned my first Mozart and Beethoven pieces. Where my mother had looked at me with more pride than ever before. Suddenly my hand produced a chord, more on instinct than will, and just as instinctively I began to sing. “Guess we all are born with parts to play. Some of us are stars, and some are just in the way. I know I was meant for glory, but that's never what my story brings. And yet I keep on waiting. When you have the passion and the drive you expect your moment center stage to arrive. I show up with heart a-blazing, ready to achieve amazing things, but I'm left waiting in the wings.” My voice cracked slightly as my eyes started burning. “I hear my cue and yet I'm kept there waiting, know what to do and still I stand there waiting. It's always someone else who sings while I'm left waiting in the wings. And so I keep on keeping on, my chances come and then I blink and they're gone. Always overlooked unfairly, while pretending that it barely stings. But it stings, yes it stings—“ I snapped the lid shut and pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to keep the tears from falling. My breath came heavy and uneven as my fingers gripped the polished wood. “You’re very talented.” The stool crashed to the floor as I jumped up and whirled around to face Steve. He stood by the door, his features unreadable. “There’s no such thing as talent,” I pressed through gritted teeth while leaning down to pick up the chair and furiously wipe at my eyes. “There’s only hard work and dedication and not fucking up at every opportunity.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ “I don’t want to talk about it.” The words came out sharply, but my anger crumbled when I caught his rueful gaze. “Please.” I rushed over to the shelves to pick out a random book, then curled up in the arm chair, glad to turn my back on Steve. He didn’t move for a long moment. I pretended to focus on the page as he finally made his way over, soft-footed as always. He sank down onto the couch. “I’m sorry to have upset you,” he said quietly. “But for what it’s worth, I believe in talent. And you’re certainly blessed with it.” “Blessed, huh?” I sneered. “You barely know me.” “Tell me about you then.” “We’ve talked plenty about me. I doubt you need any more personal info to protect me.” “No, I just think you’re an interesting person.” Heat bloomed on my cheeks. I cleared my throat as I let my eyes drop back to the book in my lap. “Well, like I said, I don’t want to do this right now. My life is… complicated.” “Okay.” I chewed on my lip for a moment, my stomach in knots at the tension in the room. Eventually I closed the book and snuggled deeper into the cushions, pretending to relax as I took in Steve’s face. “What about you? How long have you been a marshal?” “About three years. I used to be a cop, then got a degree in law enforcement and went through the program right after.” “Are you mostly in witness protection?” “We have various duties. Transporting prisoners, arresting fugitives… But yes, I prefer to work in protection.” “Why?” His gaze fell to the ground. “It’s complicated.” “Okay.” We smiled carefully at each other. Then he rose from the couch. “Come on, I’ll show you how to contact Natasha. You can tell her what kinds of tea you like.” My heart clenched briefly at his thoughtfulness. I wondered how these little details we learned about each other would add up. Whether I would ever really know him. And whether I wanted him to really know me.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Taglist:  @before-we-get-started​

MASTERLIST

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fluff #musical theatre #broadway #soft steve rogers

[topguncortez]

g reviews:

June First by Jennifer Hartmann

page count: 464

genre: slow burn, forbidden love, murder/suicide, smut, adopted sibling relationship, death, grief, attempted assault, childhood friends to lovers, emotional trauma.

Want to know what happens to a man who barely claws his way out of a tragedy, only to fall right into the arms of the one girl in the world he can never have? Another tragedy, that's what. When I was six years old, my father made a choice that altered the course of my entire life. Because of what he did, the only girl I ever loved became the only girl I couldn’t have. In a lot of ways, I did have her… I had her first steps, her first words, her first smile. I had her milestones, her heartbreaks, her dreams. I had her heart so woven in with mine, I didn’t know where she ended, and I began. Only, as the years pressed on, lines became blurred—and the blurrier the line, the easier it is to cross. They say tragedy comes in threes. For me, that was true. The first one changed me, the second one broke me, and the third one healed me. But at the center of all that tragedy… there is a love story. And at the center of that love story, There is June.

This book had me in tears.

I knew through booktok that Jennifer Hartmann's books are tearjerkers, that's her speciality. And I don't cry very easily, so I was up for a challenge.

But my god, I was not expecting the heartbreak and angst and grief that this poor kid goes through in his life.

The book starts out with two little boys, Brant and Theo. Brant is the six year old little boy who lives with his mom, Caroline, and dad, next door to Theo Bailey. It's a normal end of May Day, and Theo is telling Brant that his mom is about to go have a baby. Brant is excited for Theo because there is nothing more than Brant wants than to be a big brother. To be a protector. That night Brant tells his mother the exciting news about Mrs. Bailey's new baby and how he wished he could be a big brother. Brant's mom tells him that maybe, when they get away, they can get that dog that he's been talking about. Caroline tells Brant as she tucks him in that tomorrow is June first, and June always felt like a fresh start. Brant goes to bed that night dreaming of bluebirds and rainbows.

However that dream is quickly turned into a nightmare.

In an instant Brant's life is turned upside down by the death of his mother at the hands of his father, and his father who was too much of a coward to deal with the consequences. six year old Brant finds them both right next to each other in the living room.

Since that night, Brant was taken in by the Baileys, suddenly becoming a brother to Theo, and to baby June, who was born on that tragic night. Brant immediately feels like he has to protect June from all the bad in the world. All the monsters that lurk in the dark. Anything and everything that might hurt her. He repeats back, to a two month old June one night, the last words his mother ever said to him: "I will always protect you"

The Bailey siblings and Brant grow up right along side each other in this beautiful coming of age story. It goes through the heartbreak of losing someone in an instant, the grief of trying to move on, and how you can't control who you love, but you can control who hurts you.

This book was so beautiful, I could hardly put it down. It is packed full of all the emotions. It had me gasping, hurting, confused, crying, laughing, (shaking my head a little bit). It's one of those books that once you pick it up, you don't want to put it down. These two go through so much in their lives that you just hope and pray for the best to come for them.

My biggest caution is that this book is not for the faint of heart. For all intents and purposes, these two are siblings. There's a legal document that says that Brant and June are adopted siblings, and that line gets blurred. I think that Jennifer handled that topic very well, because it does happen. It's not uncommon for it happen. It taboo and a bit dirty and weird, but it happens. You can sense the carefulness, and the maturity in the theme of the book when Brant and June do start their relationship. Jennifer goes about it all very carefully and handles it in a way that you don't feel like "oh my god that's disgusting". There's a thin line to walk when writing a topic such as this, and I believe that it was done rather well.

G's rating: 9/10

also, here is me when I finished the book so you don't think I'm lying. I was in tears.

#g reads books #g reviews #book recs #book review

[sixofravens-reads]

Okay, Tam Lin thoughts/review. Going to structure this one differently because I've seen some other reviewers do this and it seems like a more organized way of posting:

(spoilers under the cut)

Overall: if you want a vibes-based, cosy academic read this is a decent choice, as long as you're okay with the actual magic bits being put off till the end. In my opinion the story drags quite a bit and spends a lot of time on minutiae like classwork and dorm squabbles and not enough on the actual, titular plot (I believe @wearethekat commented on another post and said "this is a story about college that happens to have Tam Lin in it" and that's definitely the vibe). The Tam Lin aspects could've at least been woven into the entire book a bit more seamlessly, as it's frustrating to have your Janet character and your Tam Lin character but not have them really interact beyond friendly conversation for 400 pages.

The Good

Dean's writing style is really nice. It's very personal and conversational, almost. You really get to know the characters and their thoughts and feelings. It's very friendly.

Once we get into the actual Tam Lin part of the story (the last 50 pages or so) I found the lore very interesting. All of the mysterious Classics students turn out to be either fae or humans under their thrall (including some 400 year old Shakespearean actors), led by the mysterious Professor Medeous, the faerie queen.

I like the idea that Tam Lin is not just a ballad but a spell/ritual for rescuing your love from faerie. If you're on the way to being sacrificed, you need to have your lover, who is specifically pregnant with your child, pull you down from the white horse and hang onto you. I'd love to see it applied to other stories, as it adds an interesting bit of complication.

Also liked the setting a lot, and the fact that the buildings all have their own personalities. The ghosts were an interesting touch too, and Janet's fears that she's going to die by suicide because all the pregnant girls in Ericson did before her.

I did like the frank, non-judgmental discussions of birth control and abortion in this book. They're very practical and realistic (except Janet's momentary plan to give herself an abortion with yarrow tea, but she was very much not thinking clearly and she doesn't go through with it). It was great to have a story that treats the subject matter frankly, and an MC who has supportive parents who will help her out no matter what she chooses.

The Okay

Dean clearly took this book as an opportunity to air her own ideas and debates about literature and classics. The characters spend a LOT of time in class, talking about readings for class, or debating books they've read outside of class. The author even makes up three productions of plays (iirc, Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and The Revenger's Tragedy) that she has her characters watch and comment on. It's somewhat interesting, even for someone who hasn't read most of the works they discuss, but I did start skimming eventually, because there's only so much Shakespeare debate one person can handle.

The professors. I thought they were all interesting, though it was a bit strange that Melinda Grey didn't feature more in the overall plot, considering she gets way more screentime than Medeous did. I think some of them get too much screentime, and others get the right amount but unfortunately don't actually factor into the plot.

Also the musing over which students/teachers were lesbians was kind of annoying, and I think it was only done to show that the characters we later find out are fae are more morally loose than others. There are lots of mentions of Medeous having affairs with other staff/students but that never really factors into the plot.

The Bad

This book should've been 200 pages shorter. Yes, it's a nice, long, slow read, but imo it's far too slow. The important plot is almost entirely put off until the last 50-100 pages, and most of the stuff between that and the introductory chapters doesn't matter in the end. The book drags at some points, and you're constantly asking "this is called Tam Lin, but where the hell is the Tam Lin??" It almost feels like the author forgot she was contracted to write a novel for a fairy tale-based series until the very end.

The Nick-Janet-Thomas-Tina-Peg-I-Guess love quadrangle is interesting for a short time, but it should've ended more quickly. Nick is a pretentious asshole and treats Janet poorly for most of their relationship (though whether the author considered it poor or if that's my modern standards, idk) and I feel like she shouldn't have put up with that for so long. Janet's character is not wholly emotionally driven, and I think once she started wondering why she didn't feel any sparks after reading the Fry poem, she should've ended it, even if she didn't realize how patronizing he is. Same with Tina and Thomas, they really don't understand each other and Thomas is basically only dating her bc he thinks she'll save him from the faerie queen, but Tina is also not the sort to tolerate being merely tolerated.

Also, a lot of the characters (but mainly Nick and Robin) like to speak cryptically in quotes from Shakespeare and some other works they've read, which is deeply annoying and frustrating and just underscores for me how pretentious they all are. It's not just once or twice, they'll have entire conversations like that, which hey, maybe that is how real college students talk, but I had to start skimming because it got to be a bit too much.

If I was going to rewrite this, I'd set the whole thing in their first & second year, cut a ton of the academic talk and roommate/dorm drama, and focus more on the faerie/Elizabethan-actors-in-college aspect, which would be revealed much sooner. Tina would break up with Thomas over summer, and Janet would dump Nick at the beginning of their second year. Then the Tam Lin plot would happen over those couple of months (but far more than 50 pages).

#AAAAGGGHHHHHH IT IS DONE #tam lin #pamela dean #thinking about reading

[myimaginedcorner]

A TUMBLR STORY: TORN PAGE (p. 17)

PREVIOUS RESULT: I run to Laefen, and make a mind shield to protect his conscience.

Your steps preceded your mind’s pragmatic tempo; the seconds you were given vanished to a void that swallowed reason whole, leaving not but a shell of the wise elf you grew to nourish in ambition. You were accustomed to the feeling, partially so: it was a side effect of your little experiment with Ashna, a consequence of following their unconforming game. Now, it was spreading onto daily life – and so, fear made its first appearance.

When your eyes recorded their next picture, you stood in water, feet cold. Hands reached for warmer temples of dry skin, its desert, rust on a tough shield against strong winds and biting winters. A shiver, starting from the tremble of another’s lips, ran over your soft pillows down your arms and spine, to end as waves of goosebumps prickling you awake.

Your tips got lit on fire that required no air; forgetting how to breathe, you saw yourself reaching for energy playfully sparkling in a lively head, shackled in place by needled stems of colourful vines. You pulled them, viciously, mercilessly so, breaking their net into a thousand pieces. Like bloody rain that bears the news of tragedy, those pieces fell, sprinkling the grass, and waters saddened from their gruesome demise. Somewhere in front, you heard a scream of pain, forces of nature pulling off a creature’s greedy claws from realms they don’t belong in, cutting magic short. The law is harsh – mistreated, Magic is a cruel mistress.

Your time runs out. In what are your last moments free, not only from a siren’s song but of your own opinions, you place a layer wrapping the rogue’s inner chaos in a blanket, so vaporous you barely see the woven patterns on his shining fire. You’re right on time: silent for that short peace that screams of thunder, the creature luring dug its eyes into your neck, a chilling hiss exploring its true nature.

Then, reality contorted once again. The landscape that was meant to boringly exist until this world’s decay distorted its appearance into mad art, becoming closer to the architectonic feats you’ve seen some youth present in mirror to the truth’s concealed ugliness. A melody crawls creepingly into your ears, so sweet you feel how Death licks lips, expecting a dessert that isn’t hers to taste. No, quite the contrary, each note plays on the strings that bind you to Time’s flow, sharp edges threatening to cut them. Minims are slow as semibreves, with blades slim and precise, while crotchets jump in haste before they break to quavers. Another rain drops down in drizzle, the world of sound filled like an overflowing river.

Your hands experienced the weight of gravity, falling for the ground. Your fogged eyes, only half-awake, watched how a pair of worried twinkles stared within, seeking the pupils that were fading into colourless subsistence. Daring, you’d accuse them of; rude, even. But nothing came out of your mouth, not even when a shake attempted to recover what was fleeing, leaking through your running eyes, abandoning a once bright mind on which eternity was feasting.

Next, you remembered only darkness. A well in memory guarded what happened after, locked safely against your nosy peeking. No single thought had been preserved of the encounter’s end – past his two eyes, there was but blank in black. What you remembered were sensations, feelings: your feet got warmer, ticklish and soft. Beneath your clothes, you felt the spiky grass. In heart, you remained troubled: it was a worry you had felt before, one that had pushed you to an idiocy.

Then, your eyes opened. They were staring into a pair above, their radiance obscuring moonlight.

“By all gods, you’ve scared me well…” in quiet laughter, Laefen shook his head. You noticed how his hair was messy and wet, and a few scars had just begun to open from wind’s merciless caress. In hand, he held his dagger, soaked in blue.

“What happened…?” mumbling, you realised your throat went dry, so cough followed your question. Sat up, you wrinkled up your nose, disgusted by your state. What a pathetic sight, to be so undisposed…

“Nothing anymore. All good, all fine, thanks to you,” the elf shook his head, falling on his bottom as a deep, exhausted sigh escaped his lips.

Above his shoulder, the view of shore greeted you placidly, no waves disturbing the lake’s peace. On sand, a body laid, covered by sharp scales – its claws were violently hidden under soil.

“What happened here?!”

A scream aside made the woods tremble in concern. Ashna, dressed up in clothes they didn’t bother taking off for slumber, watched you from underneath the nearest tree, a step they feared to take keeping them safe from night’s illumination. It almost looked like, standing under the same rays, they would make real the horrific view, and so, they hesitated, hoping it was all a nightmare. Nearby, another three figures appeared, all marked by serious frowns: Amani’s eyes flashed angrily towards the rogue who never asked for backup; a tear ran down Hibiscus’ pale cheek, in sight of one lonely existence whose desperation marked its early doom; behind them all, M’s face reflected curiosity, unbothered by the grotesque exposure of disfigured flesh in wounds.

“I hope you two have a proper explanation for this situation,” Amani’s voice was anything but pleasant. For the first time, you were in trouble. You were wrong.  

#torn page #tumblr story #tumblr community #new page

[shai-manahan]

❝  just take my hand and close your eyes.  pretend we’re anywhere else but here.  ❞ and Alonzo or Jade??

❝  just take my hand and close your eyes.  pretend we’re anywhere else but here.  ❞

Will do this one for Jade!

(Might also be a little spoilery)

It’s all over.

Everyone's celebrating around you, making toasts and laughing about how the city has achieved something that, for two long decades, was believed to be impossible. Disasters of great magnitude have been averted. A new mayor, one whose capabilities have been put into question several times, stands to start a new leadership. And there is hope, a brimming fire of hope lying behind the people's eyes in spite of the tragedies that occurred the past few years.

You should be happy. You should be standing right there with them—laughing, smiling, celebrating—but instead, you remain still, speaking only when it was required of you, ignoring the voices reverberating around the mansion. There were moments tonight when you made attempts at escaping everyone's attention, hiding in balconies and unoccupied rooms, but someone always ends up finding where you are, encouraging you to join them in their toast.

So here you end up, sitting in front of the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames. How can you enjoy a victory woven by the deaths of those you cared for? By the blood on your hands and the things you've had to see with your own eyes?

How can you appreciate a star's beauty when you're in the midst of a storm that never seems to stop?

You're tired. You’re too damn tired.

"There you are," a guest says, sauntering beside the chair you're sitting on. "Come on, Detective—"

"I am not a detective," you say sharply, still staring into the flames. It's dying, though you reckon no one else will notice; the ceiling lights are more than enough for these people. Should you maybe do something about that? Reignite the flames? Will there be any sense?

A mumble of apology comes from the person who was talking to you, and you hear their steps, walking away. Leaving. You curse yourself at that. Alienating others is a habit you’ve sworn not to do anymore. After all, it's over.

It should be over.

But why does it feel like you're still fighting a war that others don’t know about?

The sound of a chair getting dragged fills your ears, and you turn to your left to see Jade sitting there, eyes similarly staring into the fireplace. She had her hair cut short for tonight, making you see the expression she’s making much clearer than you ever have. Resignation settles in it, eyes as blank as yours, and that sight alone reminds you’re not alone. She lost people, too. Jade may have come back to this city to fix the mistakes she had made, but she lost people because of that.

“The mayor’s concerned about you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper.

She looks around and frowns. “Do you want to leave?”

“...No.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I...” you trail off, running a hand over your face. “I don’t know.”

The two of you fall into an uncomfortable silence, not saying a word, not moving at all. Until she speaks once more. “Take my hand.”

Jade doesn’t wait for a response. She rests her hand on top of yours, and despite the dying flames in front of you, despite the frozen air, that hand... the hand that holds you has such warmth, giving you comfort amidst this...chaos. Her lips then touch your ear, whispering, “Just take my hand and close your eyes. Pretend we’re anywhere else but here. It’s okay.”

You turn your hand up, not letting go of hers, fingers entwined. This isn’t the place. This isn’t the time. And yet, despite knowing that, despite the times you’ve managed to keep it all in, you close your eyes and rest your head on her shoulder. 

And silently, wet streaks flow through your cheeks.

Silently, you weep.

#jade stein #interactive fiction #interactive novel #hollowed minds series #yearning prompts #hollowed minds prompts #writing #ask #anon #wip #if game #choicescript

[animebw]

Reading One Piece: Chapters 762-763

-It’s so unnerving seeing the Doflamingo family just sitting around a table and eating dinner like this. They may be monsters, but they actually are a family for each other, and you can tell that even in the smallest moments.

-The story of Flevance is everything I expect from One Piece backstories. A town blinded by riches, they didn’t realize their prized good was poisoning them until it was too late. And the world government was all too happy to keep them ignorant as long as it kept the cash flowing. But once the truth came out, Flevance was cut off from the rest of the world and left to wither and die. So the only option left was war... and the deaths just continued to pile up. From lead poisoning, from battle, each generation cursed to live shorter than the last, abandoned by everyone who was supposed to protect them. I suspect Oda took inspiration from real life asbestos poisoning, maybe even from how terribly 9/11 first responders were treated once they started developing symptoms. The tragedy here is all too real for comfort.

-And, of course, Law was caught right in the thick of it. Cursed to die by poison passed down through generations. Forced to watch his family, his home, everything he cared about, go up in flames. No merciful hand of salvation to protect him from the horrors of human cruelty. No wonder he was so ready to die when he wandered into Doflamingo’s clutches.

-FUCK. And now we know what twisted Doflamingo into the person he is today. Once his family was no longer protected by the title of Celestial Dragon, they became targets for the wrath and vengeance of every ordinary person the Dragons wronged. All the countless sins enacted by this cabal of monsters, the unspeakable things done by those in power... at long last, those who suffered those evils had a chance to return the pain they were dealt.

-You know what the truly tragic thing is, though? I can’t blame these people one bit. They didn’t know that Homing and his family didn’t consider themselves superior to humans. They didn’t know the Don Quixotes left the Dragons because they knew living as oppressors was no way to live. Hell, would you just let former Nazis walk among you, even if they had left their former ways behind? At the very least, you’d be very cautious before trusting them not to be a danger to you again. And when you’ve suffered as much as these people have, that patience and understanding would be nearly impossible to come by.

But it’s Doflamingo who’s the true tragedy of all this. He was just a kid indoctrinated by the Dragons’ propaganda, already poisoned to think himself king of the world. And with the commoners against them from the start, he never got the chance to unlearn those biases. He never got a chance to understand what it meant to live as a normal human. All the outside world gave him was hurt, and hunger, and misery, and all the excuses he needed to turn into a being fueled by hatred. Hatred for his father, for abandoning their “deserved” life. Hatred for the common people who ripped his family to shreds. Hatred for the entire world that let his misery occur. Is it any wonder he felt he had no choice but to return his suffering right back, continuing the cycle of hatred?

Doflamingo could have been the crack in the chain of oppression woven by the Dragons. He could’ve grown up into someone capable of unraveling his biases and standing against the people who were once his kin. But he was never given a chance to banish that poison from his veins. So it could only fester, like the white lead of White City, until he turned out just as monstrous as the Dragons he left behind. And now, all of Dressrosa is paying the price.

-But here’s one last piece of the puzzle: Corazon. Dofy’s brother suffered all the same hardships as him, and yet, he chose a different path. What path exactly, I’m not sure yet. But instead of ratting Law out for stabbing him, he protected Law giving him a second lease on life. Somehow, this Don Quixote didn’t let the world kill his compassion. And I’m fascinated to see what lies behind his quiet facade.

-”Trafalgar D. Water Law.” ...motherfucker of course he’s also got the Will of D thing going on

-OH SHIT. And Corazon knows exactly what the Will of D means. Folks, I think we’re about to get some answers for questions that have been a decade in the making. I am... not ready.

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #one piece #one piece manga #luffy #monkey d luffy #zoro #zoro roronoa #nami #usopp #sanji #tony tony chopper #chopper #nico robin #franky #brook

[ufonaut]

thinking about how all post-nineties takes on the tragedy of coast city and parallax inherently fall flat compared to the original because they fail to hold accountable the least obvious suspects -- the justice league -- as the subtext woven through reign of the supermen does. geoff johns’ parallax-as-parasite takes away too much from hal and is almost certainly the catalyst for his modern no personality space cop characterisation, as much as the value of johns’ general contribution to gl mythos is undeniable. what that interpretation refuses to acknowledge, however, is that parallax in his original form is a completely rational response to the trauma hal has been subjected to.

rereading choice issues of reign the other day has me coming back to this over and over. an important city with a population of seven million is completely destroyed and rendered little more than a crater, there are repercussions stretching across the entire state

(”the smoke blanketing california”)

and hal is running on no sleep and no rest of any kind while fighting through injuries that not even his ring is able to heal. in the end, once he eliminates mongul and meets up with a newly returned to life clark after his own fight with hank henshaw, clark declares

as he hovers above mongul’s engine that had destroyed coast city. he says it casually! as if hal’s got a home to go to! as if seven million people aren’t dead!

two weeks later clark calls returning to take engine city apart “a ceremony” as if it’s some great PR opportunity, he talks about it like it’s a mild inconvenience, the jl just giving themselves a pat on the back for doing too little too late for a disaster they could’ve easily prevented

and then at last, when we’re on the brink of a glimpse of justice for coast city, aquaman insists the engine cannot be destroyed and thrown into the ocean as it might prove dangerous to his kingdom, though he shows no regard for what’s happened here and what hal has been through

even the vague notion of a compromise is telling

as if standing on the tombstone of his home is about to make hal happy!! like that’s an option!!!!

most notably, once the engine is dealt with, clark doesn’t bother to ask the singular resident of coast city among them if there’s any way to help but rather he takes it upon himself to build a useless monument out of the very thing that has destroyed coast city to begin with

no one thinks to say that it shouldn’t have happened in the first place and not a single member of the justice league appears to care that one of their own has taken an unimaginable blow, its enough to them that it likely wont happen again and its enough as proof as they’re always gonna be needed. clark, back from the dead, is happy to see coast city as a reminder that he’s still useful.

the next page of superman (1987) #83 is, of course, a bright and sunny morning in metropolis that clark gets to spend with jimmy without a care in the world

it’s startling! it’s ridiculous! the barely contained anger and all-encompassing grief that marks hal’s every word & movement is a sight to see but so is the justice league’s utter disregard for him. a well-written parallax, as he’d originally been, acknowledges this as the necessary starting point! without a support system, without friends and family and a home, hal needs no parasite to infect him in order to lose it.

parallax as a man on the brink, lashing out at friends and foes alike, slipping further into despair in an attempt to set everything right is not only rational but realistic. hal has endured the unthinkable and not a single person in his life cares. to blame a parasite in the retcon means to pretend so-called superheroes played no part in their friend’s breakdown. very nearly doubling as an early exploration of the dark underbelly of heroics along the lines of identity crisis, hal’s arc before the retcon is almost certainly the greatest arc to happen to any mainstream superhero

#THIS GOT LONG IM SORRY BUT KATIE THIS IS. THE POST #IM STILL!!!!!! I HATE THE JL SO MUCH #long post / #hal jordan #green lantern #superman #clark kent #dc #dc comics #u can reblog #i prefer a combination of the two takes but we're talking purely canon here. and in a canon context im with the og all the way