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sebastianswallows · 25 days

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The English Client — Two

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, alienation, and exhaustion

— WORDCOUNT: 3.7k

— A/N: Apology to any Italian readers, Tom gets rather grumpy with how cheerful everyone else is around him 😂 Also, we finally meet our reader in this chapter! 💚

It was just as Tom predicted. As soon as Clement saw the state of his hotel, he wouldn't stay there for another minute. He tried to persuade Tom to come with him to some fancier place he had in mind, assuring him he'd pay for all expenses, but Tom wouldn't hear it. He'd spent enough time with people like him to know that nothing came for free.

In the end, Clement took the taxi onward to the Plaza Grand Hotel, but not before writing down Tom’s hotel and room number on the edge of a crumpled napkin.

“I will call you later, yes? Just in case you change your mind,” he winked.

The rest of his day was spent in a blissful void, interrupted by the occasional pang of hunger — which he quieted with water and crackers, before falling asleep again. He was woken in the evening by cheerful shouting from outside, distant music, and peels of laughter down the hallway. The sounds reverberated up the faded frescoes and chipped columns of the building, but he had to remind himself that he was among muggles now — no hexes. At least his pillow was soft... He buried his head beneath it and hoped to suffocate before morning.

When he woke up properly, feeling squeezed and still exhausted, the sun hadn’t yet risen. The streets were quiet save for the hooting of owls resting in the trees and little insects on their flowers. Little lights from faraway buildings lit up the horizon.

Tom had slept nude, too lazy to change into something after taking his clothes off. As soon as he sat up, he felt all weak and dizzy, hair ruffled sticking to his face, body cut through with creases from the sheets and muggy with his sweat. Worst of all, his blood had all seemed to pool into his legs. Standing up like a newborn fawn, he walked over to the windows, opened them wide, and breathed in the cold night air. It made his body shiver. It felt pleasant. It felt a little bit like home.

The early hours passed slowly. He managed to wash himself in the little closet of a bathroom, brushed his hair, and even put a few of his old things in order. After eating a ham sandwich he'd bought from the train's food car and brewing a cup of tea with magic, he felt like a new man. He sat by the window in a loose bathrobe and watched the rising sun, and as his strength returned to him he began mentally revising the events of his journey.

“To think I'll have to go through all of that again on my way back,” Tom groaned. “And I thought the Hogwarts Express was a bore…”

Travelling abroad had been on his agenda for quite a while, once he found all the artefacts he needed through Borgin and Burkes, but he hadn't quite anticipated how physically exhausting it would be to sit in a muggle contraption for hours on end. If he wanted to explore the world in search of rare magical items, he would have to devise a more suitable method. Perhaps Thestrals…

His thoughts turned to Clement again. His wide grin, his bright blue eyes, his utter carelessness of composure... What an annoying fellow. Well, if the need arose to make another Horcrux, at least he'd know where to look.

The afternoon found him roaming the streets of the city. He spent a little while acquainting himself with the landmarks closest to the hotel just enough to find his way if lost, but he'd also collected from the concierge a list of local rare book shops and antiquaries to start his investigation. It was with nothing more than this that Tom stepped onto the cobbled streets of Rome and started walking.

The hotel Burke had set him up in, the Gallienus, was among the cheapest. It was nestled in one of the poorer parts of town, where the roads were narrow and beggars slept on the stairs of buildings boarded up. There was at least one pile of dry and darkened animal droppings on every street corner. Trash overflowed from forgotten dumpsters, buzzing vibrantly in the sun.

It took him quite a while to find the first bookstore, and longer still to find a good one. Most of them sold less prestigious stuff than what they advertised. The muggles were cheerful and friendly, if false, and a few tried to barter with him all the way to the door. A couple with fancy window dressing had only the veneer of the authentic, selling new volumes beaten up or rebound with cardboard covers.

Still, he made a few acquaintances, if not outright friends, among the shopkeepers, and his list of options grew larger as he heard from them of more interesting stores, but by evening he had nothing to show for all his exploration.

Moreover, he was thoroughly lost. The cafes frothed with little umbrellas in the streets, the fountains billowed in the air and danced, and all of it started to look the same to him. The fancy suits of people coming back from work and their black voluptuous hairstyles all blended with each other. He'd ambled his way from the Via Domenichino to the Colosseum, then to the chip-toothed ruins of the Roman Forum, higher to the Pantheon, then down, down toward the Tiber.

The air was alight with ages past and everything was moving. The shadows of aged stone, touched by dereliction and decay and the stray shellings of the war that ended just seven years ago, danced at the corners of his eyes together with the throngs of white-dressed women and the scooters zipping by. And at any moment it felt as if some ancient in a toga would walk out from between those columns and shake a bony finger at the careless youth, lamenting, and asking just to die again.

Tom stopped somewhere along the Tiber and gazed out across its murky serpentine flow. If he squinted, he could just about see the Vatican. A flock of nuns passed him by, flowing in quiet black and white against a blue and just as quiet sky. The air was warm, but chilling. He was surrounded on every side by broad buildings in smooth geometric shapes, and yet he’d never felt quite so exposed before.

Now that he had a moment to stop and ponder the experience, he realised that being in Rome felt like being in the world and yet above it, as if the whole city was floating in the sky. A dish on a high pedestal, yawning to the heavens.

“Maddening,” he whispered to himself. “Imagine living here forever…”

Under the shadow of a sycamore, he leaned over the stone walls that enclosed the river. It was a long way down… Its waters seemed about as dark as Thames, but smoother. He wondered, without really caring, whether there were any corpses buried there, some skeletons stuck in the mud, forgotten and unwanted. The chime of churchbells reached him, cutting through the buzzing of the cars.

What would he do tomorrow? Much the same thing as today, he reasoned… Only he’d have far further to go to reach these newer places he just learned about. He reached into his pocket for a little map he’d folded up, and tried to smooth it out over the stone.

“Why does it have to be so complicated?” he mumbled to himself as he planned his pathway back to the hotel. “Even London isn’t this bad, right?” He’d forgotten that it was.

Turning, he looked once more at all the young people that now lined the street. For some reason, all of them were smiling, happy. A couple was shamelessly kissing as they hid behind a tree. When they started sliding down its trunk, tight in each other’s arms, Tom rolled his eyes and started walking back the way he’d come.

III

Sweat had dampened his shirt collar and went down the centre of his chest, but somehow it bothered him less than he expected it would. It was quite a different experience from the Knockturn Alley cellar where he worked, or that pittance of a room he rented above an apothecary shop.

Here all was warm stone, and coffee, and cats that slithered around the corners. Here he was nobody. Not Mr. Riddle, not Lord Voldemort, the terror and equal envy of his schoolmates, not Tom the orphan, Tom the gifted student, Tom the Head Boy. He wasn't even a half-blood or a wizard. Muggles had no idea about such things. Here he was nobody — except maybe ‘bel ragazzo’ when he passed by a hot-blooded madam sipping her red wine. To shed his myriad identities felt light and clean, like an old coat sliding off his shoulders.

So, what was he beneath all that?

Today, he was just a wanderer taking in the sights. Tomorrow, maybe something else.

The paved Roman street branched like a vein of undulating black blood into narrower and ever-winding paths, some leading back to the piazza, others through old buildings nestled so close together they blotted out the sun. He took one such path. It was cooler here than in the open, almost bearable, even with the piling trash and stench of cat piss everywhere.

Tom had never shied away from squalor. If anything, the old stones and the dampness and the hint of sewage reminded him a bit of his old Hogwarts dorm. He smiled at the memory as he walked back the way he came, a hand in his trouser pocket and his mind far away, at how impressive and select and magical — in the most pure, extraordinary way, a way those raised with magic would never understand — it seemed to him when he first arrived at Hogwarts. How plain and pure his happiness had been to be away from wicked muggles, to learn that he was special and that greatness, surely, called to him…

The narrow alleyway he slid through opened into the wide and brilliant Piazza di Trevi. The fountain cast its net of water flowing down like gossamer. Tom stopped to thread his fingertips through its shivering pool and sprinkled a little bit of water over the hot crown of his head before walking on.

He had a vague idea of where he was, and what street he should turn on to return to his hotel before sunset.

His steps stopped almost on their own when his eyes fell on his reflection in the darkened glass of a store window — body tall and lean, chest blushing red, hair falling in his eyes with sweat. Beyond it, a flock of books on stout old wooden shelves. How interesting… Tom shifted his jacket from his elbow to his shoulder as he leaned forward to read. They were quite old volumes, judging by the typefaces and the engravings on display, and some he recognised as classic esoterica.

He looked at the sign above the door: Casa Ur. A reference to ancient Sumer? He looked past the glass more carefully, his every instinct pulling him toward this strange collection. If he was right, and they were real, then they were very old indeed. What carelessness, to keep them in such a place, hot and humid and likely infested by an entomologist’s dream collection of mites and moths and other pests.

Then he looked past his own reflection, past all the books, and there, in the middle of it all like a pale shadow between the shelves, he saw a woman. She was braced against a wooden desk, standing as he often did at Burkes when he was tired. She wore some sort of lady’s suit he couldn’t quite make out, and a string of silver shone dully at her neck like a wet trail of kisses. Her fingers were poised atop the pages of a ledger.

She was staring at him.

Tom let his gaze glide off her figure and back toward the books, keeping his cold and haughty look a moment longer before stepping away again.

How interesting… Why had none of the other shopkeepers mentioned it before? This was perhaps the first store he gave any serious consideration, and to think he’d found it all by accident…

The place had promise, but the building was far too large and far too old for rent there to be cheap — which meant the books were bound to be expensive. If they weren’t facsimiles or forgeries, then they deserved their price, but places like that also tended to be quite selective of their clientele, and Tom knew nobody in Rome who’d vouch for him. And as for his fake muggle money, that would only go so far…

What was worse, he had no way of reaching back to Borgin and Burkes. Knowing no other wizards in Rome, he had nobody to borrow an owl from, if that was even what they used in these climes, and the closest wizarding community he knew was down in Sicily. Muggle modes of communication wouldn’t reach Knownturn Alley, and international phone calls were awfully expensive. Tom was on his own.

“Well, there’s more than one way to skin a Puffskein,” he said to himself.

Before he turned the corner, he looked up at the wall and took note of the street he was just on: Via dell'Umiltà.

She started closing up the shop earlier than usual that day. Maybe it was because they’d only had two customers. Maybe because it was inordinately hot… Or maybe because of that handsome stranger who gazed through her window two hours before.

She felt unprofessional for staring, for letting her eyes wander down his fit frame tall and slender like a serpent… With his crisp white shirt liberally peeled back at the neck, his dark curls falling into his eyes, jacket casually hanging from his elbow and a silver ring around his finger, those charcoal trousers sitting so tightly on his slender hips and —

That was as far as she could see before he walked away.

She gathered her things slowly, waiting for evening to come and the streets to cool a little. She locked everything up and called downstairs to announce that she was leaving.

Stepping forth from that dark hole of history and out into the world again, she was greeted by a Rome painted in royal red. The sun was setting. As she walked by the Trevi fountain she could feel the steam that rose from the sprinkling on the stones playing around her ankles. The pigeons flew up with a fright, rustling through the air. People gathered in the square and cast around her a sea of murmurs in Italian and other foreign tongues. It was all foreign to her, of course, or rather she was foreign to it.

She could never quite fit in with the locals, however comfortable she felt there. Her accent always gave her away, and whatever the Italian “look” was, she didn’t have it — or perhaps strangers stared at her for other reasons, glances lingering behind so heavy she could feel them every time she did her shopping in her little neighbourhood, or went to lunch with her librarian and antiquary friends around the area. No matter what she did, what she wore, or how she did her hair, she remained a ‘straniera’. But that was alright. She didn’t mind being a little strange.

The pretty and ancient parts of Rome disintegrated, façades falling apart, pediments crumbling, cobblestones popping out of the eternal roads. The streets looked very different a few tram hops later as she made her way toward her rented flat. People looked the same though. The young ones were in the street, the women laboured around the house, the nonnas at the market, and the men all off at work.

But no matter the day, whenever she left for the bookshop or returned from it, the cafés were always full. People gazed out from beneath their striped little umbrellas, drinking from a thick white cup of coffee or sipping on a glass of wine, reading the news, petting their dogs, chatting with each other… It made her feel like life was passing by.

Then again, she had no mood for going out for coffee, not when she came home with her feet aching and her back sore. Even though all she had to do that day was sort out the books and fill the ledgers and occasionally deal with clients, the workday left her feeling battered. Besides, she had no one to go out with anyway…

Her work was solitary, and the friends she’d made were few — fellow book dealers and curators, all of whom were as busy as she was. And whenever they did meet during the occasional break, the only thing they talked about was work. There was no room left in anybody’s life for something different.

The cellar bar across the street from where she lived was already rumbling with a hint of lonely jazz, and the solid voice of men. The sound echoed past the old restaurant and bookshop near it that had been closed for years, and the rows of cheap apartments filled with working families. Out from underneath a shrub, a cat cut through her path. She stopped and almost called to it, but it ran through a hole in the wall of the neighbouring building. Getting out of the heat, perhaps.

Her building was cool on the inside for the instant it took to climb the two sets of stairs to her door, but then she stepped into her flat and it was like walking into an oven. Sunlight streamed through her windows all day, and no amount of curtains stopped the heat that built up there.

She peeled her clothes off her body before she even reached the bedroom, limping slightly all the way from the pain at her Achilles heel, and fell upon her bed face first. The shower could wait. Oh, what she would give for a massage… She rubbed her feet together as they hung over the side, and smiled at the fantasy of a pair of cold hands rubbing down her back.

She wondered what that handsome stranger was doing now…

Was he Italian? Unlikely given his pallor, although he had the same dark hair and eyes as all the locals did, and none of the whimsical, lost look of tourists. And he was alone.

His gaze, as much as she could make of it, had been scathing and critical, and he hadn’t even said a word. She turned around on the bed, eyes still closed, as she imagined him there. She saw all manner of people in her work, and although most of them were old, there were a few still young, still handsome… Mostly students at the local universities. But nobody, nobody she’d met so far, had been quite as striking as that stranger.

Was it pointless to hope that he would come again?

It was easier to put herself together after resting for a while. Living alone provided her with no greater luxury than this: there was never any need to rush. Dinner consisted of a cup of tea and biscuits, which was more than what she usually had, paired with a few page flips from a novel she was reading that she could hardly pay attention to. But every paragraph and sentence, any image conjured up by fiction, was haunted by the contours of that young man’s face.

Her sleep that night was deep and intoxicating, like a faint, her body giving her up to vague nightmares she would not remember. But she had a fresh enthusiasm when she woke up the next day. She brewed a little coffee with a smile and let it cool while she took a shower, and even the rumbling of the pipes couldn’t scare her mood away.

It was a feeling that entered her like an old tenant returned to a forgotten home. She used to feel alive in a very similar way in the early days of her employment at Casa Ur, when she thought she was so lucky to be chosen to run it for Baron Agarda. And she was lucky, she knew that, but she no longer felt it. The only thing she felt these days was weary.

So why was she smiling today?

As she rode the tram, wind tousling her hair and chilling the heat off of her neck, and walked back to the shop to the happy murmurs of tourists and the flutter of pigeons, she found her thoughts returning to the same idea — would he come today too? She smiled like a besotted schoolgirl all the way to work.

That good mood mellowed as the day went on, and she fell back into the dour ritual of tending to the shop. The same books awaited her as yesterday, the same letters to prospective buyers, invitations, packages, deliveries… Only the visit of Sister Silvia could cheer her up, and they shared a cup of coffee over yesterday’s Corriere della Sera.

By lunchtime, she’d forgotten all about him. As if to distract her further, Federico called to invite her to their usual spot by the fountain for a lunch break, and there he talked about the delicious anxiety he had from his own work. He was nice, she could not deny him that, and harmless, so it was no great effort on her part to listen. She indulged him, grateful not to have to respond at all, and afterwards, Fred walked her back to work with a feeling of deep satisfaction.

Work filled her days. The sort of work that never ends, that you never see the back of. Questions and ingratitude, files and lists and mess that builds up as soon as you misplace the smallest item. There was no hope, there was no end in sight, and she was so deep in these waters that there was no point in looking forward to anything at all.

So she was all the more surprised when three o’clock rolled around and there he was, walking through her door.

#Tom Riddle #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle x OC #Tom Riddle fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sswallow;fanfics #sswallow;made a thing #fanfic;englishclient

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teecupangel · 3 months

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Once upon a meadow, in the heart of the Enchanted Forest, lived a curious rabbit and a vibrant blue bird. The rabbit was known for his insatiable appetite for stories, while the bird had a talent for composing beautiful songs. One day, they discovered an ancient oak tree with a magical mailbox that promised to deliver letters to any faraway places.

Excitement sparkled in the rabbits eyes as he hopped around the bird. "Let's write many letters to put in it! Imagine the tales and tunes we could share!"

The bird, with a melodious chirp, agreed, and they began crafting heartfelt letters under the rustling leaves of the old oak tree. The rabbit added his whimsical anecdotes, and the bird penned verses that echoed through the enchanted meadow.

They wrote as much as they can and placed it in the mailbox hoping anyone could stumble upon some of the letters. Some were replied sooner, others took time but one specific letter was found by a courier and in haste did he went to deliver it.

Inside it says: "Desmond turns into a lamb. You could do whatever you want I just want to see Desmond as a lamb because symbolism lmao."

At the age of fourteen, the recruits of the Brotherhood were required to present a kill to the mentor. It could be any kind of animal but the Brotherhood preferred it to be some kind of animal that can be cooked and shared to everyone.

It was a way to prepare them to the inevitable time that they must take the life of another.

Their kill must always be in the presence of an Assassin of Master rank or higher. Someone who can provide guidance and protection for unforeseen circumstances.

They would usually be someone connected to the recruit, the one who found them or a blood relative.

Altaïr had neither.

Had his father been alive, he would have been the one to guide Altaïr.

Al Mualim, who had taken over Umar’s duties since Altaïr was eleven, could not do it. It would have been seen as something more in the eyes of many Assassins.

So the duty befell Faheem Al-Sayf as one of the few remaining Assassins to have known Umar Ibn-La'Ahad back in Alamut that was still of good body necessary for this tradition.

Tomorrow, he would do the same for his oldest son.

Faheem had never interacted with the young Ibn-La'Ahad. Those blindly loyal eyes trained at Al Mualim reminded him too much of Umar, making his mind annoyed and his heart ached in equal measure.

It was a travesty for him to be in charge of the young boy’s first kill. He and Umar had opinions and they were, for most part, on opposite sides. What their brothers call friendship was build on mutual annoyance and the stubborn desire to win against their opponent’s opinions.

Umar had been closer to Ahmad, the man who dogged at Umar’s every step.

But both of them were dead.

And it was small mercies that Ahmad’s boy would be guided by another than Faheem due to scheduling conflicts.

Still…

Faheem could feel a headache coming.

He knew something was wrong the moment they exited Masyaf and went to a nearby woods to hunt, only for a lamb of pure white color to come tumbling out of the bushes and run towards Altaïr, letting out sweet sounds as if trying to talk to the boy.

The boy had froze for a moment and locked eyes with the lamb before he began to pet the animal, slowly at first, seemingly in a trance or just plain confuse by what was happening.

When Faheem said that they were lucky and ordered Altaïr to make it quick and painless, both the boy and the lamb turned towards him with wide eyes.

Faheem felt like he was the villain all of a sudden.

“Altaïr…” Faheem rubbed his face before letting out a sigh.

If it was Malik, he would have told the boy to remember his mission and he knew his son would do it.

If it was Kadar, he would have done the same and his youngest would do it as well with tears streaming down his face, apologizing over and over again.

They would both get over it quickly enough.

But he didn’t know about Altaïr.

All he heard about Altaïr was that he was the best of the recruits and never complained over anything, no matter how hard or unfair training becomes.

But he also saw the way the boy’s face softened and the small smile he gave when he started to pet the lamb.

A bleeding heart was nothing but a weakness in the eyes of the Brotherhood and their master.

It might be harsh but Faheem needed to curb such a weakness before it leads to Altaïr’s downfall.

“Altaïr…” Faheem knew it was not his place to say such things. For a moment, he wished he could curse Umar for accepting his death so easily, “You must throw away what feelings you have for that animal. You cannot afford to be weak.”

Altaïr’s hands trembled before they gripped the lamb’s neck. The lamb stared at him with eyes that made Faheem uncomfortable.

There was intelligence in those eyes.

And understanding.

The lamb shook Altaïr’s hands off and bumped his head against the bow strapped on Altaïr’s back.

A quick death.

Was… was the lamb asking for a quick death?

Faheem stared at the lamb and realized…

Why was it alone?

Why did it approach them?

No.

Why did it approach Altaïr?

Faheem watched as the lamb walked away from them, turning around and letting out a sound towards Altaïr as if…

“Altaïr, wait!” Faheem ordered as Altaïr followed the lamb but the boy did not listen.

The lamb began to run and Altaïr chased after it.

Faheem chased them but the woods seemed to be against him for some reason.

No.

Altaïr was following the lamb’s steps better than him as it led them to the more dense part of the woods.

By the time he caught up to them, he froze when he realized that the lamb had led them to the claws of a wild bear.

There had been sightings of it from worried villagers and the Brotherhood had guessed that bandits had captured it from somewhere but had either left it or they had grown too greedy and the bear managed to escape.

“Altaïr!” Faheem shouted as he ran towards the boy who held the bow in his hands.

Faheem stopped when he noticed the determined expression on the boy’s face as he nocked an arrow.

The lamb was running in circles…

No.

It was bait.

The bear was chasing it and it knew it.

Altaïr fired one arrow, hitting the bear in the eye. He quickly fired another arrow, striking the bear between the eyes.

Altaïr didn’t falter nor slow down, striking the bear on the face with all the arrows he had.

The bear fell on the ground with a loud thump before Altaïr could fire his third to the last arrow.

The lamb slowly made its way towards the bear and tapped its head with a hoof before jumping back quickly. When it didn’t move, the lamb ran towards Altaïr and let out a loud energetic sound.

Altaïr returned the bow to his back before petting the lamb’s head as he said, “The Brotherhood do not accept unnecessary deaths.”

Altaïr turned to stare at Faheem and, for a moment, Faheem saw Umar’s face.

The same annoying face of that idiot who believed in the drivel he was saying with such faith that he would defend it to the bitter end.

“If caring for this one means I am weak…” Altaïr’s determination and stubbornness were clear in his face as he said, “Then I just have to become stronger than anyone else.”

“Strong enough to be weak just this once.”

That wasn’t how it goes.

Faheem knew he should say it but…

Instead, he sighed.

“Protecting the innocents is part of our duty as an Assassin.” Faheem said instead as he rubbed his face.

Ah.

He was getting the same headache he always had when he was dealing with Umar.

How annoying.

He turned around as he said, “It’s your kill so you drag it back to Masyaf.”

The sound that came from the sheep sounded a bit like a thank you.

Faheem shook his head.

He was thinking too hard about this.

If the boy wanted to have a pet lamb…

Faheem wasn’t anything to the boy. He had no say in this.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad would have to take care of this himself.

= For those interested in the alchemist that sometimes appears in this tumblr =

“I… I don’t think we’re allowed to deliver any kind of living creature.” The courier said as he looked at the big innocent eyes looking up to him.

“It’s not a real creature.” The alchemist said absentmindedly, seemingly looking for something inside that huge container that was even bigger in the inside, “It’s a golem. Pretty much just clay imitating life.”

“Well this ‘clay imitating life’ looks and acts like a lamb.” The courier countered, “So unless you make the proper arrangement mandatory for shipping live creatures which includes enough food to cover the longest estimate for the entire delivery trip, a cage large enough for the creature to walk around a bit and-”

The alchemist let out a long suffering sigh and went towards the nearby table. They picked up some kind of long ribbon and a piece of paper, quickly writing something in it before walking towards the lamb.

The courier watched in horror, eyes widening and mouth gaping, as the alchemist just… struck their entire arm into the lamb. The lamb didn’t make any noise but there was some kind of squelching sound that made the courier want to gag. The alchemist pulled their arm out and the lamb froze, eyes glazing into nothingness. The alchemist shook their clay-covered hand before covering what seemed to be some kind of wooden trinket in the rough shape of a four-legged creature in their hand with the paper they wrote. Afterwards, they used the ribbon to secure both the paper and the trinket before tying it around the lamb’s neck.

“There.” The alchemist patted the lamb’s head and walked back to the container as they said, “Now it’s just a normal clay statue.”

It looked more like a taxidermy but… the courier wasn’t going to say anything more. He simply sighed and took the… statue… while saying, “I’ll place the order slip on the table before leaving.”

The alchemist simply waved a hand instead of answering him.

He sighed once more.

Thank the stars this was his last stop for today.

#i have nothing #i just this is more like #desmond becomes a pet lamb???#yeah desmond was strafing the hell out of that bear #assassin's creed #desmond miles #altaïr ibn la'ahad #faheem al sayf #faheem's headaches thy name is ibn-la'ahad #ask and answer #fic idea: assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot

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emilybeemartin · 6 months

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Inktober Days 28-31

Day 28: Sparkle

When people ask me which national park I've worked in is my favorite, I have a diplomatic answer. They're all different! Yellowstone is never boring, Glacier is visually stunning. But Great Smoky Mountains? Great Smokies is home. It was my first park, even before Yellowstone--I was brought on as a summer intern in 2010, and it set the course for my whole career onward.

Where other national parks trade in dramatic grandeur, Great Smokies offers a more intimate beauty. The pale pops of Catawba rhododendron blossoms in the dark forest. The squiggle of a spotted salamander in dewy moss. The first flush of red on the autumn slopes. The Christmas-tree perfume of the balsam firs at high elevation.

But some of the most special things to me are the fireflies. The secret of the synchronous fireflies has trickled out, and now people flock to see them in late spring, flashing in coordinated laser light shows. My absolute favorites are the blue ghost fireflies, which glow a moonlight-blue, without blinking, and drift a few feet above the ground. On a dark, quiet evening, it's the single most magical sight I've ever seen. So magical I built a whole fantasy system around them in my first novel, Woodwalker.

Day 29: Massive

There are so many parks whose scale simply can't be appreciated in photos. The yawning chasm of the Grand Canyon. The looming summits of Grand Teton. The plunging valleys of Glacier. And the massive span and height of sequoia trees.

Though this is a purely American tree, I've only experienced them abroad, when I lived in New Zealand. A short walk away from my student flat was a beautiful botanical garden, and I was amazed to find a grove of sequoias growing there. I greeted them like compatriots, foreigners in a faraway land. I visited them often and knew someday I needed to visit their cousins on their home turf. Like my fixation on Olympic National Park, I've frequently found myself plotting the drive from my Rocky Mountain jobs to the closest parks of sequoias and redwoods. I'll get there, one day.

Day 30: Rush

Yosemite—the rush of history toward the riches of the west, the rush of visitors in the valley, the rush of air through climbers’ ropes, the rush to protect endangered natural spaces. But to me, no homage to Yosemite is complete without rushing water. Plunging waterfalls, rivers foaming with spring melt, frigid banks piled with frazil ice--- this park sings with the power of water.

Day 31: Fire

We end Inktober 2023 in Hawai‛i Volcanoes National Park, a place where fire, earth, and water all meld together. At first I picked this park simply because it fit the prompt, but as I did some research, I realized how fitting it is to end this month-long celebration of national parks here. Built into the management policies for Hawai‛i Volcanoes is the practice of ho‛okupu, the action of creating growth through chanting or offerings. As Huihui Kanehele-Mossman, Kumu Hula and Executive Director at Edith Kanaka‛ole Foundation, puts it:

“[Ho‛okupu] is not showing gratitude… it’s a recognition between you and the place… that you are present there in order to have an exchange—an equal exchange between you and the place.”

As park rangers, we’re faced with tangible reminders of degradation every day—past, present, and future—in things like the violent history of land theft, the tenacious grip of invasive species, and the looming consequences of climate change. It’s easy for rangers to view both ourselves and the visiting public as interlopers and invaders, capable of only destruction, a force to be managed and mitigated.

But we’re not. That same force that enables us to destroy also enables us to restore, grow, and create. And as Robin Wall Kimmerer discusses in Braiding Sweetgrass, humans shouldn’t consider ourselves mere intruders in natural spaces. We evolved alongside nature. We do belong in it, and it relies on our power and gentleness as much as we rely on it.

Even beyond that, national parks are human-created spaces, with human boundaries, roads, infrastructure, and patterns. We have to be involved with them. We have to view ourselves as an integral part of their wellbeing, an equal partner, and a force for good, or we risk losing them to sheer indifference.

“If you don’t have anything else to give to a place, give your voice.”

-Huihui Kanehele-Mossman

Thanks for traveling along with me on this journey through our national parks! I hope you have an autumn full of peace and purpose!

#31 days of national parks #inktober #national parks #great smoky mountains #sequoia kings canyon #yosemite #hawai'i volcanoes

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lueurjun · 8 months

Text

━━━━ cupid’s pond. c.soobin

soobin x reader! — when you least expect it, love can find its way into your life; like a bolt of lightning, cupid's arrows can strike at any moment in the most unpredictable places.

deep into the forest where most dare to stay away, sits a pond which sparkles beneath the kind eye of the sun. lily pads dot around the water, bobbing gently with the quiet waves and the patch of grass dances smoothly with the breeze. a sweet symphony of birdsong fills the air, quieting it into an endless serenity.

not too far from the pond stands a majestic tree, its wisdom evident in the decades it has weathered. recently, it was blessed with the sight of something new—a budding love between two strangers who find solace in its quiet seclusion.

it was a chance encounter when you stumbled upon the pond a few months ago — more precisely, six months. a sunny lunchtime called for an escape into the depths of the forest — nothing to accompany you but the music streaming from your headphones that lulled you into a state of peaceful contentment. you had no idea how far away from civilization you had traveled until the stillness was broken by this tranquil body of water. and with no sounds of traffic or people in sight, it was the perfect spot to unwind.

the pond became your haven, a peaceful refuge from the worries of the world and an escape to a faraway land only the pages of a book could bring. you’d find solace in this quiet spot, burying your nose in literature and allowing yourself to be transported away from reality.

you had only stumbled upon the hidden oasis a week prior, but already it had become like a second home to you. here, you stumbled across soobin deep in thought beneath an ancient tree. a sketch pad was balanced on his lap and a kaleidoscope of coloured pencils lay scattered around him. he hadn't noticed your presence until you inadvertently let out a surprised shriek - it had been your secret hideaway, and you were surprised to know he'd found it too.

he hastily moved to apologize for intruding, explaining that he had been visiting this spot for months and was unaware that someone else knew about it. you assured him it was alright, gesturing for him to remain there since he had arrived before you. after a brief introduction, a peaceful albeit awkward silence fell between you two as you went about your business, occasionally engaging in pleasant small talk.

the two of you crossed paths more often after that, getting into a routine of sitting in each others presence beside the pond. soobin’s jovial jokes brought warmth to your heart and your snacks eventually doubled until it felt like a picnic just for the two of you. you found yourself eagerly anticipating these meetings, savoring the private moments that felt like a little slice of paradise.

six months later, a blossoming friendship was accompanied by two flourishing crushes.

it had been a crisp sunny day when cupid sprinkled his magic.

as usual, you arrived after soobin, but his face was not lit up with its familiar brightness. earphones plugged into his ears, the pencil in his fingers moved with vigorous strokes rather than his usual feather-light touch. the frown on his lips subdued his delicate features, and the shadows in his eyes seemed darker than ever before.

reaching down, you tenderly extracted one of his earbuds, successfully garnering his focus. His head jerked up abruptly and for a moment his expression was guarded, but then his whole demeanor softened as soon as your eyes met. instead of the usual practice of taking a seat opposite him, this time you plopped yourself down beside him. he couldn't help but allow a small smile to grace his lips.

you poked his dimple. “you look stressed, is everything okay?”

a breathy chuckle drifted into the wind at your action, sending the butterflies in your stomach absolutely feral.

“i had an argument with my friend, yeonjun. it’s left me feeling tense, sorry for not greeting you. i was lost in my thoughts,” he explained, his gaze conveying a sincere apology.

his voice was filled with warmth and sincerity, a soothing balm for even the most festering of wounds. he was always so compassionate; it was impossible to imagine him angry with someone. you couldn't even fathom the thought of him ever becoming raising his voice. he had told you all about yeonjun before, and the stories between them sounded like two inseparable partners in crime, making it easy to understand just how much this argument had impacted him.

there was a brief curiosity, perhaps your inner gossip, that prodded at you to ask what the argument was about—after all, we’re only human and curiosity is natural, but you knew better. it was soobin’s issue and if he wanted to tell you, then he would on his own accord.

“im sorry, is there anything i can do to help?”

he shook his head, declining with a simple but resolute no. while he was grateful for your kind offer, he wasn't sure anything could really help his somber mood. he shifted slightly and offered up the other bud of his earphones. "would you like to listen to some music with me?"

soobin’s playlist surprises you with its stark contrast to his persona, given the large presence of bebe rexha. It's almost amusing, yet it also stirs some strange sort of fondness within you. it makes you realize how little you know about him and just how much there is left to discover. you find yourself more intrigued by him than ever before and wanting to learn every single detail about who he is as a person.

the music cascades into your ears as you settle, and the once forceful strokes of his pencil become gentle as his previously annoyed countenance relaxes. you have never been so close to him before, yet there's something about it that attracts you; it's soothing. a sense of ease pervades your being.

so at ease that you naturally nestled your head into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his firm biceps. soobin paused for a moment and just as you were about to pull away, embarrassed that you had gone too far, he gently set his head upon yours and you were certain you could feel the warmth of his smile. a contented calm washed over both of you as the two of embrace in a blissful moment, completely lost in each other's company.

it’s uncharted territory, but the way he draws a cluster of hearts at the very top of the page reveals that there may be more to discover in this newfound intimacy. a warmth and excitement builds inside you at the thought of venturing into something unknown, yet full of potential.

who would have imagined that the secluded pond, nestled away in a forgotten corner of the forest, would be the very spot where cupid’s magic was set loose?

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echo-goes-mmm · 2 months

Text

Moonflower #13

Masterpost

Warnings: none

Iris scanned the letter in her hands. She’d gotten several over the past week; all concerned with the fae currently sitting at her feet.

Clearly it was a mistake to announce to the court that the fae might consider war over Kit’s kidnapping. The letters were full of urgency and fear, and only time would soothe the public.

Ugh. She should have been more careful.

But then again… she never asked Kit if it was possible.

She glanced down at him. He was leaning against her chair, eyes closed, and half dozing.

“Kit,” she said, keeping her voice low to not disturb the quiet room, “Is… is anyone coming for you?”

“Hm?” Kit’s eyes fluttered open.

“I mean, do you think anyone is looking for you? Would your, uh, government be upset that you’re here?”

“Oh.”

Kit thought for a moment, his face blank.

“No. I’m not important enough to be reported missing to the prince. I don’t know if he'd be upset.” Iris put down the letter.

“You don’t have any concerned family?”

Kit shrugged. “I didn’t live in a grove with other nymphs.”

Iris wasn’t sure exactly what a fae grove was, but she could guess.

“What about your parents?”

Kit looked vaguely uncomfortable. He twirled and stroked a section of his hair, and Iris could see glints of dark green in it.

“I’m a proximity child,” he said, as if admitting something.

“What does that mean?”

Kit looked away, focusing on a spot on the wall. “When a grove is big enough, faerie children can form from the surrounding magic. They’re usually taken care of by the grove.”

“Usually?”

Kit looked up at her, a faraway look in his eyes. “I’m not very sociable for a nymph. Too… solitary for a grove.”

Kit sounded like he was repeating someone else: ‘Not very sociable for a nymph’.

Hmph. He seemed plenty sociable in the few glimpses of personality she was able to see.

The very few glimpses. Kit was living right across the hall, and she knew so little about him.

Guilt tugged at her stomach.

“I never really asked, but what kind of nymph are you? Tulip? Oak tree? Morning glory?” she guessed. Wasn’t a moonflower a type of morning glory?

Kit hesitated. “I think humans call them dog-roses. It’s a climbing bush.”

“Sounds pretty.” Kit looked away.

“Yes,” he said.

He folded his hands into his lap, as if he had nothing else to say.

Shy, her mind supplied.

“Do you miss-” she faltered. That would be a dumb question. Of course he would miss home.

“Tell me about where you lived,” she suggested. “Was it nice, even without a grove?”

Kit nodded. His hands came up to plait a section of his hair, a tiny little braid he did and undid and did again.

“There was a stream, with fish. Some meadow with long grasses and ground nesting birds. Rabbits and mice. Berry bushes. I liked to nap in the shade of the woods when it got too hot. It wasn’t a very big territory, but it was enough to hunt in. I had some neighbors, too.”

It was a pretty bland description, and maybe Kit just didn’t want to talk about it.

“Did you have a, I don’t know, a burrow or something?”

A corner of Kit’s mouth twitched upwards, amused.

“No. There was a witch briar in the meadow that I grew into a hut. I dug out the underneath and layered it with pelts. The thorns kept out the unwanted, and the branches were thick to keep me warm in the winter.”

“Witch briar?”

“Dog-rose. Same thing.”

“Oh.”

Kit hummed. “There was a nest of birds,” he added quietly. “Every spring, they came to live in the branches of my bush.”

There was sadness in his voice, and Iris felt pretty bad for bringing up what had to be a painful thought; that he’d miss the birds this year. And the next. And the next after that.

“I could have Jeff plant some dog-rose in the gardens,” she offered.

Kit ducked his head. “No, thank you,” he said woodenly. “I’d rather he didn’t.”

“Well… maybe you’d like to plant them, then? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I really wouldn’t want them… there.”

“Why not? I thought you liked the gardens.”

Kit’s left ear twitched. “I don’t.”

Iris frowned, confused. “I’d like to know why, Kit,” she said gently.

“It’s so… manicured. Sterile. Everything is cut and shaped, and there’s so much bare space. It’s unnatural.” Kit’s lips curled into a snarl, but he soon dropped the expression. “Sorry,” he added.

Another spark of personality, and Kit was apologizing for it.

“I guess I never thought of it that way.”

Kit didn’t say anything.

“What if we set aside some part of the gardens for you? You could do whatever you want with it.”

He turned and looked at her, surprise and something unreadable in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “I… I appreciate it, but… why?”

Iris shrugged. “Why not? It might help you feel less homesick.”

“It’s almost fall,” pointed out Kit. “And I don’t think Jeff would be very happy.”

“So? There are plants in fall. And I’m his employer,” said Iris. “He’ll deal with it.”

Kit’s eyes began to look a bit shiny, and he looked away again.

“What do you want in return?”

Iris frowned. “Nothing. It’s a gift. For free.”

“...oh.”

His voice was small, and choked up, and Iris turned back to the letters and pretended not to hear him softly crying.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1 @cupcakes-and-pain @loserwithsyle @cepheusgalaxy @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @virtualbreadtale

#homesickness bc Kit doesn't have enough angst :)#my writing #whump #slavery whump #fae whumpee #royal caretaker #moonflower series

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