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#where are you who lies beneath your spell tonight
areyoudreaminof · 8 months
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and we kissed as though nothing would fall: A Helion x Lady of Autumn Playlist
It's a great day for being sad! Here's Helion x Lady of Autumn for you.
Of all the novellas and backstories, I know we all want this the doomed affair that lasted for centuries, and resulted in our favorite fox boy. There has to be so much hurt and longing still lingering there. This playlist goes through the range of emotions that I thinkk this heartbreak brought upon both Helion and the LoA. But I wanted there to be hope too. That soft kind of hope that these two can come back together to each other where they belong.
Listen Here! Lyrical deep dive under the cut.
Special dedication to my favorite Helion x LoA besties @spell-cleavers and @ablogofsapphicpanic
I've added a second link to the playlist above, as it seems that it does not show up on the browser, just mobile.
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The One That Got Away-The Civil Wars Got away from me Before anybody has to bleed
Oh, if I could go back in time When you only held me in my mind Just a longing gone without a trace Oh, I wish I'd never ever seen your face I wish you were the one I wish you were the one that got away
A Record Year for Rainfall-The Decemberists
What's the use of all of this? It's to remember you in the entire 'Cause I'm watching it slip away And in the annals of the empire Did it look this grey Before the fall?
Falling Slowly-The Swell Season
Falling slowly Eyes that know me And I can't go back And moods that take me And erase me And I'm painted black Well, you have suffered enough And warred with yourself It's time that you won
Samson-Regina Spektor
You are my sweetest downfall I loved you first, I loved you first Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth I have to go, I have to go Your hair was long when we first met
Beloved Wife-Natalie Merchant
My love is gone Now my suffering begins My love is gone Would it be wrong if I should Surrender all the joy in my life Go with her tonight?
Such Great Heights-Iron & Wine
I am thinking it's a sign That the freckles in our eyes are mirror images And when we kiss they're perfectly aligned And I have to speculate That God himself did make us into corresponding shapes Like puzzle pieces from the clay
Skinny Love-Bon Iver
Come on, skinny love, just last the year Pour a little salt, we were never here My my my, my my my, my my Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer I tell my love to wreck it all Cut out all the ropes and let me fall My my my, my my my, my my Right in this moment, this order's tall
Hey Jupiter-Tori Amos
Sometimes I breathe you in And I know you know And sometimes you take a swim Found your writing on my wall If my heart’s soaking wet Boy, your boots can leave a mess
No Rest for the Wicked-Lykke Li
My one heart hurt another So only one life can't be enough Can you give me just another For that one who got away? Lonely I, I'm so alone now There'll be no rest for the wicked There's no song for the choir There's no hope for the weary If you let them win without a fight
No One's Gonna Love You-Band of Horses
Anything to make you smile You are the ever-living ghost of what once was I never want to hear you say That you'd be better off or you liked it that way And no one is ever gonna love you more than I do No one's gonna love you more than I do
I Need My Girl-The National
I am good, I am grounded Davy says that I look taller But I can't get my head around it I keep feeling smaller and smaller I need my girl I need my girl
Death With Dignity -Sufjan Stevens
Somewhere in the desert, there’s a forest And an acre before us But I don’t know where to begin But I don’t know where to begin Again, I've lost my strength completely, oh be near me Tired, old mare with the wind in your hair
The Greatest-Cat Power
Melt me down Into big black armor Leave no trace of grace Just in your honor Lower me down To culprit south
Heroes-David Bowie
Though nothing, nothing will keep us together We can beat them forever and ever Oh, we can be heroes, just for one day
And the shame was on the other side Oh, we can beat them forever and ever Then we can be heroes, just for one day
Taglist: @bookofmirth @bellatrixship @brieq @citruspearls @c-e-d-dreamer @damedechance @eyllweambassador @gaeleria @ofduskanddreams @highqueenmorrigan @hugeclearjellyfish @itsthedoodle @autumndreaming7 @kataravimes-of-the-shire @krem-has-a-mess @kingofsummer93 @lucienarcheron @octobers-veryown @andrigyn @mossytrashcan @witch-and-her-witcher @popjunkie42-blog @reverie-tales @rosanna-writer @separatist-apologist @secret-third-thing @lucienforhighking @thesistersarcheron @thelovelymadone @the-lonelybarricade @ultadverb @vulpes-fennec @velidewrites @vanserrass @wittyrejoinder @bagelfyre @xtaketwox @yazthebookish @wilde-knight @iftheshoef1tz @labellefleur-sauvage @carmasi @corcracrow @courtofthought @corvulpescompendium @tuzna-pesma-snova @cursebrkr @acourtdelaluna
Here is the link again. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/65pMS8WExB3Aywccg3CPn3?si=_R276WLATEWC9jUd1u4XWQ
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The Dark Passenger - Chapter Five.
A huge thank you for such glowing feedback! Yep, I went full on man bastard with EZ and ohhhh, you’re all going to hate him so much more by the time I’m done here! Oh, and to the people reading who only offer a like, could I tempt a little comment out of you, perhaps? Maybe a reblog? Your author is in need of feeling appreciated :)
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Previous chapters - One  Two  Three  Four
Words - 3,576
Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!
Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed
“It is a pity, Ezekiel, that your club voted down on the idea of you supplying us with the product, but this does not mean we shall not continue to press ahead with it.”  
EZ closed his eyes for a few seconds, a wave of cold, biting anger rising within him. Of course, what Soledad wanted, Soledad got. And she wanted her product cut with fentanyl, doubling the club’s risk, except with none of the payoff they would receive from organising the supply. He knew it was bad when she’d called him personally, rather than relaying the message to Miguel Galindo in his role as intermediatory between the two groups. When she wanted to be nothing but a hundred percent clear, she always did reach out personally, though.
The head of the LNG might have been tiny, but lord, she was mighty.  
“Message understood,” EZ spoke, each word almost bitten as they passed over his lips. “Until next time.” Hanging up, he hurled his phone across the clubhouse in a fit of rage, a couple of glasses following. It was all their fault, the sets of eyes that watched him, expectant for an answer. “She’s going ahead with it anyway, so our risk is doubled, and we get no pay out from it. I hope you’re all fucking happy with the gutless choices you made. Every single one of you bar Nestor, all lacking in spine.”  
“EZ, that ain’t fair,” Bishop spoke up. “Truly, you shouldn’t have approached her before you did us, given her the idea she could have easily cut us out from, which is exactly what she did.” In his naivety, green as he was in some respects in dealing with a cartel as he navigated his way through being president of an MC, of course, EZ was bound to make the kind of mistakes Bishop wouldn’t have. He needed to see here that this was one of them.  
And beneath his rage, EZ did know it, which is what caused his fury to pulse even whiter hot, knowing it was his fuck up.  
“How is it gonna be more of a risk, though?” Hank interjected with. “You said you’d got a chemist organised.”
EZ’s head shot round to look at him sharply. “One she didn’t mention to me she’d be using. We have no power over how this will be being controlled here, so that’s where the risk lies. What else do you need fucking spelling out for you tonight, huh?”  
Hank left it there, nodding in the wake of his president’s vented venom, venom he continued to let pour. Everyone received a yelling at from a highly irate EZ, his tirade only coming to an end when he felt something soft brush his leg, a wet nose pressing into his hand. Looking down, he saw his faithful pitbull sitting at his feet, her tail wagging, eyes pleading with him not to shout any longer. Sally was perhaps the only thing he had close to him who could calm his rage.  
He was so stressed and so worked up, his head was pounding, but the pureness in her big, brown eyes soothed him, EZ jerking his head towards the back of the clubhouse. “Come on, you want food?”
Woof.  
His jaw was still set as he cast a disapproving glance around the room, turning and heading for the stairs. Above the clubhouse, for many years it had just been a mainly disused, dusty old attic. That was until EZ took the gavel and decided to convert it into an apartment, growing tired of life within a trailer. It wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to call home, had a small bathroom and kitchen area, and most importantly, a large bed he could stretch out on, or be able to roll around upon with a girl without ending up on the floor. That last girl had left her underwear there the night before, EZ picking up the small, orange thong from the mess of sheets in the unmade bed and putting it in the trash.  
She was forgettable. She wouldn’t be returning.  
Heading to the kitchenette, he pulled out the large bag of dried dog food, putting the cupful into Sally’s clean bowl and turning to place it on the floor, patting her belly as she scampered over to eat. For himself, he chose a pouch of ready mixed grains and quinoa, mixing it with broccoli and chicken, something simple and quick, since he hadn’t eaten anything close to decent in nutritional content all day. Coffee and tacos were far from it.  
By the time midnight had rolled around, he felt no better, his headache still present despite the Advil he’d taken, Sally curled up in her bed asleep while he lay back listening to music quietly. He needed a distraction from his residual fury, and knew exactly where to go looking for it.  
Camille felt her stomach explode with butterflies when she turned at the top of the pole, seeing EZ beaming up at her from the previously empty seat, the club virtually dead at that time, just twenty-five minutes from closing. She’d been wondering when he’d pop up, and despite the words of warning from her friends, despite Mai’s near unbreakable assumption that he was married, she’d been secretly feeling excitement about when she’d see him again.  
“I see that perfect ass is back to being perfect again,” he commented as she dismounted the pole neatly sauntered over, deciding to call it a night.  
Reaching to the back of the stage where it dropped down and met the back of the bar, she picked up her glass of diet Coke, moving to seat herself next to him. “Yes, all healed very nicely, now.” Sipping her drink, she set her glass down, suddenly having him lean into her space, kissing her softly.  
It made her a little anxious, since Martin advised the girls not to fraternise with anyone they might be dating while out on the floor, that it was a sure-fire way to kill the fantasy from the client's point of view, but Camille didn’t know what he was to her yet. Was he just casual sex? Where they at the beginning of the dating game?  
“Are you hungry?”  
The randomness of his question made her chuckle softly, her face contorting in a way that had him return such. “I could eat.”  
“Good,” he hummed, sipping his beer. “I know a place, open ‘till late to deal with people rolling out of the bars and clubs in search of food. Are you okay with Jamaican food?”
Now, there was something new. “I’ve no idea, I haven’t ever tried it.”  
Forty minutes later, and she was pulling into a parking space behind his bike, EZ waiting while she got out of the car, taking her hand in his and walking her down the street to where the small eatery was located. “So, how was work?”  
Taking her for food, hand holding, inquiring about her day. Yep, maybe this was the beginning of them dating. “Tiring on both counts. Trudi booked me in to give three massages and four electrolysis treatments to do, and then having to grasp a pole all night hasn’t really helped the hand cramps.”
“Well, there go my plans for later.” She couldn’t help but snort with laughter, giving him a little shove against his huge arm when he looked down at her with a wink.  
“There’s nothing wrong with my mouth.”
Her statement made a bolt smoulder right through him, remembering just how amazing she was at blowjobs. Hell, he had to have something to look forward to, and maybe quell the persistence of his headache. Looking at her again, his smile grew, suddenly halting, leaning down to kiss her. “She’s the girl who says all the right things.”  
“I do?” she questioned, EZ continuing to lean down to her diminutive height, her back bending further.  
“Mmm.”
She giggled, her arch continuing, glad of her flexibility. “Mmm?”
“Mmm.” His confirming hum was followed by another kiss, straightening again quickly, taking her hand in his once more. She walked along fizzing on the inside, all hopped up on the brand-new energy, the excitement of it all. As for EZ, everything was going exactly as he wanted it to. Hell, he was even enjoying it on a level that wasn’t tied to him playing games with her, deliberately making himself unavailable for a week, not leaving his phone number so he was the one in control of when he saw her again, keeping her hooked with the token of flowers.  
She was hotter than hell, too. He enjoyed the envious looks he received from passers-by at seeing him with such a stunning woman, it fed the need for his ego to be ever-inflated quite nicely. No more so than when they walked into the establishment with the amazing aromas drifting from the door, Horace, the owner, immediately thrusting a fist across the counter.  
“Ezekiel!” he roared brightly, smiling a mouthful of silver teeth. “How’s it going, my brother? And damn, you didn’t tell me you were dating Pamela Anderson! You slummin’ it down here away from Hollywood, darlin’?”
EZ bumped fists with him, grinning. It hadn’t escaped him, that she very much resembled the famous blonde actress. “Yeah, all good, Horace. This is my girl, Camille.”
Immediately, she widened her eyes while turning to look at him. “I’m your girl?”
“Yeah,” he chirped, leaning in close, kissing her neck several times.  So, there was no wife, then. Surely if there was, he wouldn’t be so open about referring to her as his girl. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
She wanted to say because they still barely knew one another, because it hadn’t been discussed, but the way he looked at her, god, she let herself get swept up by it, the tornado that was EZ and his obvious affection towards her. He noticed it, though, that she looked a little spooked by the rapidity of his statement.  
“Good to meet you, Camille. Imma call you Pam, though!” Horace boomed, clapping his hands together with a loud, raucous laugh. “Now! What are you guys eating?” EZ ordered the jerk chicken and steamed vegetables, Camille looking up at the menu, unsure.  
“What would you recommend for someone who hasn’t sampled Jamaican food before?”  
“Do you like spicy, my darlin’?” Horace asked, heaping jerk chicken into a takeout container.
“I do, but not too much,” she confirmed.
“Then I recommend the stew chicken, with rice and peas.” She took his recommendation, EZ paying him and grabbing a couple of sodas from the fridge before they sat down, Camille taking her first mouthful with a soft noise of appreciation.  
“Oh my god, that’s so good!” she exclaimed, looking very happy. “Thank you, too.”
“You’re welcome,” he began, licking a drip of hot sauce from his lip. “Oh, and I didn’t mean to freak you out or rush things by calling you my girl, it’s just that anything else either felt too much, or too casual. We don’t have to be official or anything, so don’t panic. I’m like my name, easy.” The tone of her eyebrow raise earned her a soft foot to the shin under the table. “Behave!”
“What?” she exclaimed. “You said it.” They paused, sharing a look before falling into laughter. Official, unofficial, whatever it was, she was enjoying it immensely. He was the nicest, most attentive guy she’d dated in a while. Once they were done eating, they returned to her place, Camille thinking they’d head right on through to the bedroom, EZ surprising her by taking a seat on her couch.  
“Can I be a pain and request a coffee, please?” he asked, Camille leaning to kiss his head.
“That isn’t being a pain, of course, you can. How’d you take it?”
“One sugar and the tiniest splash of milk. If you by chance have any dairy free, that’d be awesome. I got this fucking headache, and dairy always seems to make them worse,” he revealed, his eyebrows knitting together.  
“Yeah, I have almond milk in the fridge. It makes much nicer smoothies than regular. And protein shakes, they go all thick...” she began, EZ chiming in with her.
“Like a McDonald’s shake!” they both spoke at the same time, Camille nodding vigorously, heading back through the lounge and into her kitchen, finding her guest had decided to follow after a few moments, hindering her progress around grabbing mugs and tipping coffee grinds into the machine by having him clutching her waist as he kissed the side of her neck.  
“You’re hampering me here, Ezekiel,” she complained lightly, switching the machine on, the element hissing into life, EZ finally letting go and leaning back against the counter. “So, I didn’t get to ask you how your day was? How was the shifting of many, many tonnes of metal?”  
Of course, she wasn’t to know that his illegal activities far outweighed any kind of work he did around the scrap yard. Few did. He wasn’t about to reveal that he’d ridden to a meet in order to negotiate some kind of truce with the Sons that morning, his terms clear. Back down, allow the heroin to flow freely through their turf, or feel the weight of the Mayans continue to bear down upon them. Chibs Telford didn’t intimidate him.  
He also couldn’t reveal to her that his wife, the famously fearsome former IRA foot soldier turned arms dealer very much did, EZ instructing everyone to run checks from then onwards upon any vehicle they happen to climb behind the wheel of, or motorcycle they mounted, since he knew well Abigail Telford’s penchant for making vehicles of those who displeased her explode.  
She might not have been a member of the club, but she was, by extension and marriage to the president of the mother charter, a very, very lethal asset to the Sons. He also knew he didn’t need the weight of the army coming for his club, should he decide to make the iron lady of Charming disappear in a pre-emptive move to thwart that possible threat.  
No, EZ definitely couldn’t reveal much about the day that had begun with him getting up at 4am to deal with the mother charter of the Sons, and ended up with him having his idea swiped out from under him by the cartel he and his club ran heroin for. Even if he could, he wouldn’t. There would always be a part of himself that would remain mysterious to her, without Camille ever actually knowing it.  
“It was tiring,” he began in answer, stifling a genuine yawn, “productive, though.” She wondered to herself what he’d truly been up to, those thoughts over his illegal activities never far from her mind, but perhaps clouded enough by how happy she felt while she was around him to not let the fact he was a criminal bother her more than it did. She then remembered back to her chat with her friends.  
“Oh, before I forget! I don’t have your phone number, and I’ve been meaning to ask for it,” she put to him, watching him roll his eyes and cover his face with his hands for a moment. Her heart thudded sharply, scared for a moment, wondering if his reaction was because of her asking that question, before he emerged, cringing slightly.  
“I’m such a dick, I never even thought to leave it for you. God, what an idiot! I guess I’m enjoying myself too much and overlooking silly little things like that.” She was fooled completely by his self-deprecating reply, EZ pulling his burner phone from his pocket, and not the cell everyone else contacted him on. They were indistinguishable but for a carefully placed nick on the end by the charging jack on the burner one. He guessed he needed to give her something here.  
Moving back to the lounge with a cup of coffee each, he recited the number, requesting Camille call him so he could save hers too, making her melt completely by what he saved her as after turning the screen. Beautiful girl. He changed it to simply read ‘C’ when she wasn’t watching. They sat at opposite ends of the couch talking, EZ being very attentive and rubbing her feet for her, Camille making him laugh with her little observations from her evening at work.  
It was one of those times where he felt himself slip and actually enjoy her with no agenda. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, he very much did, but he liked what she, and manipulating her could do for him much more than any feelings of sincerity toward her. Then, just for a little flash of a moment, he wondered why the hell that was.  
“Sorry, too hard?” he asked, backing off the pressure he administered to the centre of her foot with his thumbs when he noticed her wince.  
“No, no it’s great. I think it’s something else. Excuse me a moment.” Getting up, she kissed his head on the way past, EZ giving her hand a squeeze. When she returned five minutes later, she didn’t look pleased. “Well, there goes my plan to bounce you around the bed through the early hours. I just got my freakin’ period.”  
He crinkled his nose a little, poking out his bottom lip at her, Camille never seeing sympathy look so adorable. “Come up here, come on.” He patted his chest, Camille moving to lie on top of him, EZ holding her, sliding one hand down to her lower abdomen. “Heat, to help with the cramping.”  
She smiled, receiving a forehead kiss, wondering how the hell she’d gotten so lucky with him. “You’re great, you know that?”  
“I’m not bad.”  
Yes, he was. Knowing that he wouldn’t be getting laid by her that night, he lay there being attentive for a while, letting her settle before pulling his cell out and discreetly sending a text. Dina, one of his regulars would likely still be at the clubhouse, since people didn’t usually start leaving until 4am on any given Friday or Saturday night.  
‘I’m here, yeah. Got Tranq all over me, so hurry up and save me! I need daddy to come make me bite down on his belt while he’s nailing me from behind.'  
He felt his cock twitch at just the thought of doing that to her, sending her a reply.
‘I’ll be there at about three. Just got something to sort out. Actually, send me a text in twenty minutes. Something else nasty, you filthy little bitch.’
Placing his phone down, he returned his arm around Camille, kissing her head a few times as she snuggled into him more, continuing to watch the movie she’d put on. He wasn’t really interested but feigned it all the same. For the next twenty minutes, at least.  
“Ahhh, shit. I gotta go, sorry, baby,” he spoke, after receiving a picture of Dina, her fingers splaying herself open with the message ‘can’t wait until you’re right here’ accompanying it. “That was my sister-in-law. Apparently, Angel isn’t home yet so I gotta go find him. It’s kind of a regular thing with them.”
“Oh, okay,” she spoke softly, a little sad she wouldn’t have his warmth to cuddle up to. Her heart went out to Angel’s wife, worried, with no idea where her husband was. What a man to be married to, she thought. Except, of course, Angel was nothing short of an adoring husband, one who was currently showing his beloved wife exactly how much he’d missed her while she’d been on tour. Camille wasn’t to know that, of course. “When will I see you again?”
“Erm, not sure,” he spoke, standing up, shoving his feet back into his boots. “I’ll call you, though. Promise. Actually, can you get out of work on Wednesday night? I could take you out for dinner, if you like?”
Standing to join him, she reached up on her tiptoes, kissing under his chin, EZ granting her his lips, tickling her sides softly. “I’d really like that!”
“Alright, well I’ll call you about it. Want me to come tuck you in before I leave?”  
Her eyes were soft like her smile, kissing him again. “I appreciate it, but no. I’m going to stay up and watch the rest of the movie before me and my disgruntled womb hit the sack.”
He laughed at disgruntled womb, enjoying another lingering kiss before leaving. Fifteen minutes later and he was striding through the clubhouse, seeing Dina at the bar, Hank next to her, still trying his luck. EZ simply breezed in, threw her over his shoulder and continued walking, his brother looking put out as his president turned back to him with a cocky eyebrow raise. “I’m taking her upstairs to fuck her brains out, just in case you need that spelling out for you, too.”  
Hank got up and left, wondering what the hell had happened to the EZ he used to know. As for the man himself, he was taking off his belt, kneeling over Dina as she sat back on his bed, taking the leather at either end, yanking it to make it snap.  
“Open your mouth.” Her jaw dropped immediately. “Mmm, good girl.”  
Yes. For the most part, EZ was perfectly fine with the man he’d become, even if others weren’t.  
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twoheaddeddog · 8 months
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"Tonight" by Agha Shahid Ali
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar —Laurence Hope Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight? Whom else from rapture's road will you expel tonight? Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—” “Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight? I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates— A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight. God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar— All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight. Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken; Only we can convert the infidel tonight. Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities multiply me at once under your spell tonight. He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven. He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight. In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed. No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight. God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day— I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight. Executioners near the woman at the window. Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight. The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight. My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all? This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight. And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee— God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
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Lokius
Fanmix Part Two
(Part One here)
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These songs have been added to my Lokius Spotify Playlist, which is linked at the bottom of this post
Tagging the people who put a like on the first part! @internallogic, @daesha09thenumberonewolflover, & @iamnotamagpie
If I Get High (Nothing But Thieves)
I'll meet you at the divide * To break the spell * A point where two worlds collide * Yeah, we'll rebel
Ghosttown (Madonna)
You're all that I can trust * Facing the darkest days * Everyone ran away * We're gonna stay here, we're gonna stay here
I Want Love (Elton John)
I want love, but it's impossible * A man like me, so irresponsible * A man like me is dead in places * Other men feel liberated
Before It's Too Late (The Goo Goo Dolls)
I wander through fiction to look for the truth * Buried beneath all the lies * And I stood at a distance * To feel who you are * Hiding myself in your eyes
Different World (Alan Walker)
And even though we might have lost tonight * The skyline reminds us of a different time * This is not the world we had in mind * But we got time
Pieces (Rob Thomas)
Didn't I tell you you were gonna break down * Didn't I warn you, didn't I warn you * Better take it easy, try to find a way out * Better start believing in yourself
I've Loved You Before (Melissa Etheridge)
Did I cling to every moment with you, * In every parting glance? * An accidental touch, * Did we ever take the chance for more? * I know I've loved you before
All You Wanted (Michelle Branch)
I didn't know that it was so cold and * You needed someone to show you the way * So I took your hand and we figured out that * When the tide comes I'd take you away
Starlight (Starset)
At night the Earth will rise * And I'll think of you each time I watch from distant skies * Whenever stars go down and galaxies ignite * I'll think of you each time they wash me in their light
A Thousand Years (Sting)
But if there was a single truth, a single light * A single thought, a singular touch of grace * Then following this single point , this single flame, * This single haunted memory of your face
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vvienne · 8 months
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Tonight
By Agha Shahid Ali
Pale hands I have loved beside the Shalimar—Laurence Hope
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”
“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—
All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
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Tonight
By Agha Shahid Ali
    Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar
—Laurence Hope
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”
“Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates—
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar—
All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken;
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day—
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee—
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51652/tonight-56d22f898fcd7
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vampvern · 3 years
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babygirl where are you ? who lies beneath your spell tonight ?
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mrsalwayswrite · 3 years
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Magic and Firelight (Ivar x reader)
Oh God. you know how I said I never write smut....apparently I lied. I blame this entire thing on @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ and @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​ for encouraging this. All. Their. Faults. 
This one-shot was inspired by the moodboard created by the ever-lovely @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ for a challenge. In the challenge she had to use Ivar, MagicAU and Licking....so I made sure to incorporate those themes into this written one-shot.  
Also this does not fit anywhere in the Vikings timeline because I want everyone alive and marginally happy, ok? So everyone lives in Kattegat but think season 5a Ivar. 
Warnings: SMUT, unexpected feels, like one swear word. 
Words: 4200
Tag List: @youbloodymadgenius​ @evelynshelby​ @pomegranates-and-blood​ 
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reminder: not my moodboard. this entire, glorious thing belongs to @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ who was kind enough to let me use it.
  Revelry filled the air, coating everything in the Great Hall like a fresh snowfall. The feast was well underway. The smell of roasted meat and ale rose steadily into the air, along with the laughter and cheers of those still in attendance. A contest of strength just finished, the loser ending up with blood dripping from his nose, tainting his teeth, as he laughed uproariously. 
 A joyous shout shot through the hall. The signal of the next form of entertainment. Fists pounded on the tables in delight, a few exclamations arising amongst the sound. All noise ceased when a slow drumbeat began, like the echo of a steady heart. It sunk into the skin, traveling to the chest until one's heartbeat matched in echo. 
 Ivar shifted in his seat near the base of the thrones. They both sat empty behind him, his mother having retired long ago, and Ragnar at a nearby table with Floki and a few others, laughing with a flushed face and ale horn in hand. Glancing around his table, he could see the wild excitement in his brothers' eyes…. for they all knew what came next. 
 As the drumbeat started to increase, the first of the swirling dancers emerged. Their bodies covered in thin fabric that teased as much as it covered, leaving one longing for a glimpse only to be denied as she continued her provocative movements. The six beautiful women moved through the tables like swans gliding through water, each step, each sway of their hips graceful and in tune with the beat.
 "Who are they?" Ivar asked gruffly. These women were not the normal entertainment at a feast. Nor did he did not recognize any of them. 
 "They came with a trader from the Mediterranean." Ubbe answered, never removing his eyes from the dancers. "He petitioned with father yesterday to allow them the chance to entertain us in the way of their people…. or something along those lines."
 "Remind me to ask that trader where they are specifically from, because I know where I am going to explore next." Hvitserk stated with a smirk. 
 Ubbe bumped shoulders with Hvitserk, an unspoken agreement in the action. 
 Ivar rolled his eyes at their antics and turned his gaze back to the dancers…. Only to freeze when one locked eyes with him. 
 She stood across the fire, the flames appeared to lick and dance upon her skin. Every curve, each dip of her luxurious body highlighted in the flickering light. Her hair hung long, swaying with each movement, its own form of enticement. It was those eyes though, that held him spellbound to her. Large, luminous orbs that seemed to peer into his soul, that stole the very breath from his lungs. All he could do was stare as she danced. Each movement was pure elegance and seduction. The whole time those mesmerizing eyes kept him spellbound, oblivious to all but her. With her eyes locked on him, it felt she danced only for him. Each twirl of her body, each shake of her barely clad hips, her hands tracing patterns in the air, it all felt like a dance to entrance him. To maintain his attention. To rile up his blood and desire for her. To make him yearn for her with his whole body and soul. 
 When she finally released him from her gaze to spin away, he gasped in a lungful of air. Not realizing until now how he had forgotten to breathe while watching her, so enthralled by her, even air became unnecessary. 
 "You alright, Ivar?"
 The raven-haired Ragnarsson looked at Hvitserk, noticing the smile that teased the corners of his mouth. 
 "This is the closest he's seen a naked woman besides Margrethe and we all know how that went." Sigurd snarked, bringing his cup of ale to his lips. 
 "Shut up before I rip your tongue out and feed it to the flames." He snarled at his curly-haired brother. Fury stirred in the hollow of his chest like a wild animal threatening to tear apart its cage. 
 Ubbe smacked the table. "Enough. Both of you."
 The table quieted as their focus returned to the dancers. Eyes searching the hall, a slow-growing panic simmered in Ivar's gut as he could not see her. The other five dancers spun and twirled about, their bodies an example of art in motion. 
 Without warning, the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder caused his head to whip to the side, ready to demand blood from the one with the audacity to touch him…. Only to be met with those eyes that made him flustered and hot all over. 
 With her touches tender, she trailed her hand from his shoulder up his neck to cup the side of his face. Even if the need arose, he would be unable to remove himself from her sensual touch and her penetrating gaze, bewitched by her to remain still. Never before had he felt so exposed to someone. Even the times when he broke bones and had to be carried like a child, humiliation ripping into his skin. Now he felt undone as she beheld him, consumed by her with just a look. If the other dancers were art, then she, this divine beauty beside him, was a masterpiece, crafted by the gods themselves.
 Waves of jealousy rolled off his brothers, crashing against him like stormy waves on a beach but for once, he did not care. His eyes stayed glued to her, hypnotized by her very presence. 
 Suddenly he found himself facing her, unable to remember when he turned away from the table. She stood between his brace-clad legs, gazing down at him. Her fingers traced over his cheek, only to land at his mouth. Her thumb rubbed his bottom lip, encouraging his lips to part. Unable to resist her, he obliged, lips parting slightly. She made no further move, either to draw away or closer. His heart beat rapidly with excitement and mischief. A streak of wicked intent made his lips curl slightly, giving him away. His leather-bound hands reached out for her thighs; the soft skin almost foreign beneath his calloused-hardened fingers. In the same instant, he nipped at her thumb, still lingering on his bottom lip. Then he waited for her reaction with an impish smirk.  
 She chuckled, a sultry, honeyed sound that flowed straight to his useless cock and made him shiver in delight. 
 Never removing her eyes from his, she reached down to grab one of his hands on her exposed thighs. Then torturously slow, she guided it up the contours of her body, his hand caressing her hip, up her stomach and between her full breasts until his hand was at her mouth. Without waiting, she encouraged two of his fingers within. As her tongue swiped and sucked on his fingers like they were a tasty treat, Ivar lost all ability to think or resist. His hand still on her, gripped her thigh to ground himself, to confirm this was not a dream. 
 Women never paid attention to him, never looked at him with lust. After the latest raid in England where he proved his prowess in strategy and as a warrior, less women looked at him with disgust.
 But never this. 
 Never had one put him under a spell that made him want to sell his soul to possess her. Never had he seen desire darken a woman's eyes as they beheld him. Never had his own body and mind reacted with such a carnal, animalistic instinct. 
 He pulled his fingers from her mouth and dropped his hand to curl around her throat with just the slightest pressure. "Are you a thrall?"
 "No." She answered in a breathy tone, that only intensified his growing lust. Then she leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, those barely contained breasts almost in his face. "Do with me what you want, Ivar the Boneless. I am yours tonight."
 Whatever previous desire bubbled in his veins exploded at hearing her alluring whisper. A guttural groan lodged in his throat. The hunger for her reached an all-consuming, feverish pitch. Without a word, he pushed himself to his feet, slipping the crutch under his arm. "Come."
 He half expected her to laugh and walk away but instead, she traced a hand down the tunic over his torso with a purr of pleasure. Then when she looked up at him coyly once more, he was halfway to throwing her onto the table behind him to ravish her right there. 
 She silently followed him back to his room. The whole walk his mind raged, both in desire and fear. He knew he could not pleasure her as a man but this ethereal creature that followed him deserved to be worshipped. And she had chosen him tonight. Out of all those in the hall, including his brothers…. she chose him. 
 He vowed to make sure she did not regret it. 
 He dismissed his personal thrall as they walked in, pleased to see the fire lit in the small hearth and furs laid out before it. The door closed, echoing in the room. Once alone, he moved over to sit on a nearby stool, leaning his crutch on the wall behind him. 
 She watched the fire, standing in the middle of his room. Her clothing appeared almost translucent in this light, a way of directing and guiding the eye along her perfect body. 
 "Take off your clothes." He commanded in a husky tone. 
 With a seductive wink back at him, she tugged on the few ties keeping the minimal clothing on her flawless body. In a moment, everything pooled at her feet….and he damn near swallowed his tongue. Bare before him, he was convinced there was nothing more stunning, more gorgeous than her. She put every sunset to shame, every spring flower, every star to grace the night sky, nothing could ever compare to her. 
 "Dance for me, my beauty." 
 A beguiling smile on her lips, she watched him for a moment. Then she began to move. A slow sway of her hips, hands trailing up her body to rise above her head. 
 There was no force that could tear his gaze away from her. When she danced in the Great Hall, he had been memorized…. but now, it would be sinful to remove his eyes from her graceful form. The circular motion of her hips, her hands tracing the curves of her body, the heavy-lidded eyes that watched him. He wanted nothing more than to sit at her feet for eternity and watch her dance. To worship at her altar and bestow her with gifts from the Aesir. 
 Then she began to spin slowly, allowing him to see all of her, a music leading her that only she was aware of. At one point, she squatted down and slowly rose, only to snap her hips up in a way that made him audibly growl. His hands were clenched in his lap, desperate to touch her, to replace her hands with his as they caressed her body. 
 Finally he could stand it no longer, this enchanting, sensual dance that made his blood boil ceaselessly with desire. 
 He swallowed thickly, mouth dry. "Go by the fire." He demanded. 
 If she was confused by his command, she said nothing. Turning around she sashayed over to the furs laid in front of the small hearth in his room. His eyes greedily drunk in the curves of her body as she moved. She laid down on the pile of furs before the hearth, unashamed in her nudity. With the colors of the flames and shadows painted across her body, she appeared ethereal. Something only for the gods to view. Perfection at its purest form.
 Sitting on the stool, he quickly worked the straps of his braces, never taking his eyes off her. Unwilling to miss her glory for even a moment. She laid on her side, gaze on him. One hand propped her head up while the other skimmed those curves highlighted by the flames. 
 Once freed, he crawled over to her like the predator he was. Hunger and domination with each placement of his hands and shift of his shoulders. There was no doubt who was in control. His fierce gaze never removed from her, keeping her pinned with the same strength as if ropes held her down. As he approached, she silently rolled onto her back, an intensity in those eyes as they watched him and a kittenish smile on her lips. With that, he crawled up her body until he hovered over her, blanketing her perfect form. Then he waited. Staring down at her, he was shocked once again that she chose him. That she currently lay beneath, pliant to his touch and commands. It was a powerful and dark sensation. To have this control, this power over her….to have her at his mercy. A more rapturous feeling than killing Christian priests or obliterating any army. 
 "Ivar…." She sighed out, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. "Don't keep me waiting."
 A crooked grin grew on his face. Here lay this Valkyrie, this goddess, this divine creature beneath him, begging for him. Without wasting a moment, his mouth descended on her skin, his arms holding himself just above her. He placed open-mouth kisses along her chest, loving the soft sounds of pleasure it drew from her. His tongue traced the curve of her breasts, paying special attention to the tattoo of a flower between them. Suddenly he drew one of her nipples into his mouth, causing her back to arch. Her hand flew up to grip his braids, as he sucked and licked the bud until it was hard and peaked, then he switched to the other side to repeat his ministrations. 
 "Ivar…." She moaned, tugging on his braids, hips rolling beneath them. 
 "Shhhh…. soon." He nipped at the side of her breast, pleased with the heat that flared in her eyes. "We go at my pace…. and I plan on taking my time."
 Slowly he slithered his way down her body, his tongue leading the way over her soft skin. There was nowhere he did not worship with his mouth, nowhere safe that his tongue did not covetously explore. By the time he was done with her, his mouth and tongue intimately knew every inch of her and the erotic sounds those spots drew from her lips. With a long swipe of his tongue starting at her sternum, he trailed it down between her breasts to her belly only to end at the top of her womanhood. 
 He glanced up from between her legs, the scent of her arousal a beacon for him to follow. She laid there, bathed in flames, coated in his saliva, chest rising and falling like the waves of the seas, with her eyes closed and mouth partly open. Never had he witnessed anything more magnificent. 
 "Still with me, my beauty?"
 Her eyes fluttered open to peek at him, a tantalizing smile on her lips. "Always."
 With that, he dove into her. His mouth feasted on the juices coming from her womanhood. It was nothing like he expected. She tasted sweeter than honey, stronger than ale. He continued to lap and lick her, wanting more, needing more of her taste. For he swore, this was the nectar of the gods. A sweet ambrosia not meant for mortal men. 
 Her cries of pleasure doubled his resolve to ravish her with his tongue. To bring her such pleasure that she would always remember him. He flicked at her clit with his tongue, watching her keen to the ceiling above. Her hips rolled as he sucked at her folds with reckless abandon. 
 Each mewl and cry from her mouth, made him feel like a god. Each chanting of his name seemed to strengthen his body to continue. Even as he laid on the floor, propped up on his elbows, her legs over his shoulders, he felt no pain. As if her ecstasy flowed back into him. Instead of the constant ache of pain from his legs that clawed at his mind ceaselessly, for once it was silenced. All he was aware of…. was her. As if she invaded his body and possessed his mind. 
 If he was to die now, with her cries of pleasure filling his ears, he knew Odin would still allow him into Valhalla. For to bring this celestial being pleasure must be akin to the glory of battle. His blood roared in his ears, forcing him to continue, desperate for more. Her taste on his tongue was a craving he never knew he had until now. In the cradle of her thighs was his new favorite place to exist. 
 When she peaked, when her pleasure overwhelmed her and his name was screamed into the very heavens above, he greedily ate away at her, drinking everything down and still yearning for more. He licked at her womanhood through the aftershocks, her taste and scent all his senses wanted to know. 
 Once satisfied, he peered up at her, expecting to see her blissed-out, eyes closed and immobile. Instead what he witnessed made him freeze, unable to move.
 She observed him with eyes that glowed like two full moons on the darkest of nights. 
 Where once he had been the predator, intent on devouring her, adamant to possess her…. now he understood. He was the prey. He was the one caught in the spider's web. He was the one now owned by her alone. Those glowing eyes entranced him, preventing him from looking away, sealing his mouth shut to call out. Unable to do anything but gawk at her in a bewildered, longing awe. 
 Slowly she leaned up, staring at him. He could not remember moving. All his mind could fathom were those eyes…. those glowing orbs that he swore had seen Valhalla, that galaxies swirled amidst, that stole his soul and branded her mark on him. When he next blinked, he was sitting, with her straddling his lap, in all her exquisite, naked glory. Her eyes beheld him with softness, her hands a gentle weight on his shoulders, even her bare breasts pressed against his chest, all of it alluded a power that could only be answered with reverence. 
 "Who…. are you?" He stuttered out. 
 She smiled; a captivating thing that made him want to worship her again but also sink his teeth into her bottom lip. "I have been called many things throughout my life. But tonight, those names do not matter. Tonight, I am simply y/n…. Tonight, I am here for you."
 "Y/n?"
 She purred as if the name stoked a fire within her. "Yes, my valiant warrior." Her hand tangled in his braids again, almost guiding his head to the side as her plump lips skimmed his jawline. "I have heard your prayers, seen your cries. I cannot give you your legs but I will give you what I can."
 A quake raced up his spine. "What?"
 "Shhhh…. surrender to me." 
 Hesitantly, she pressed her lips to his, as if giving him time to pull away. Instead, he felt a jolt shoot through him. He groaned, opening his mouth, allowing her to take control. He had thought her taste as he lapped greedily at her core was ambrosia, but her mouth…. oh, the taste of her mouth was both death and life combined. Something so intoxicating and potent, it stole the very breath from his lungs while a vitality bleed into his veins simultaneously.  Her mouth held him prisoner, a melding of their lips and tongues that scorched him in every way deliciously possible. 
 "Do you feel it?" She whispered, before delving into his mouth again with an even greater need. 
 And he did. By this point, his legs should be screaming at him, especially with her weight on his thighs. Instead there was no pain, no ache. Only blissful tingles danced on his nerves and a fire stirred in his belly. 
 He wrenched his mouth from hers, eyes wide and panting as he gawked at her. 
 "I cannot heal you," she quietly said, eyes still glowing, "but I can take some of your pain in exchange for the pleasure you gave me."
 Unexpected tears welled in his eyes. Pain, his constant companion since birth, now was barely a blip on his mental radar. He dropped his head to her chest, overwhelmed by the lessened pain and bliss coursing through his veins. As he thought about it, as he feasted on her, every lick, every caress of his tongue against her, pain drained from his body like slow droplets of water. It was only now he noticed, so caught up in her exquisite taste, that he easily could become drunk on and never wish to be sober again. 
 She spoke against his ear, authority and power ringing in each word. "Hear my words, Ivar the Boneless. Your fame will live on for generations. You will not be forgotten, in this life or the next. This is my final gift that I give you."
 She drew his face back to hers, pressing her lips to his in a fiery, desperate kiss. Her words, her touch, her taste, everything felt seared into the very marrow of his bones. A burst of white light and ecstasy flooded through him, making him wonder for a second if he died. 
 When he opened his eyes, mind hazy as if intoxicated, it was to find himself alone. Frantic, he looked around. Yet there was nothing to show of her presence. Not even her discarded clothes lay on the floor anymore. 
 "No….no, no, no." He mumbled, refusing to believe she was gone…. but there was no denying the truth. Yet even as he sat there, tears still slipping down his cheeks, he could feel her presence with the absence of pain. He could still taste her on his tongue. Strength and vitality flowed through his crippled body in ways he had never felt before. 
 He was unsure how long he sat there before a quick knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. It opened to reveal Hvitserk who cautiously stepped in, eyes scanning the room. 
 "You alright, brother?"
 Ivar wondered at the stupid question then realized he must be referring to the evidence of tears still staining his cheeks. Hastily he wiped them away on his sleeve. "What are you doing here?"
 "We thought we heard something…. I came to check on you." He tilted his head and scanned the room once again. "Where is she?"
 Ivar turned his face to the fire, without answering. How could he explain all that just occurred without sounding mad? That a glorious being chose him, used him for her pleasure and then gave him priceless gifts. No, no one would believe that. This was a memory, a present for him alone to cherish. 
 "You know if you need advice with pleasuring a woman, I am more than willing to help. They do call me the love guru." Hvitserk chuckled but immediately silenced at the stony glare Ivar sent his way. "Um, right. Well, I'll head back out." He started to walk away but stopped at Ivar's call. 
 "Wait!" When Hvitserk turned back around, Ivar swallowed thickly then continued. "What…. what color are my eyes?"
 The flaxen-haired brother moved closer. "Um, blue…. a vibrant blue…. they almost look like they are glowing but with a veil over them. I've never seen them like that before. Are you feeling alright? Do you want help getting to your bed?"
 Ivar smiled longingly, his chest squeezing at his brother's words. "No….no, I feel… I feel great, Hvitty."
 "Um, sure. Do you need anything?"
 "No, you can go back out to the feast."
 "Okay, good night, Ivar."
 Ivar did not answer, only just hearing the door closing as turned back to face the dancing flames. His mind drifted to thinking about her, his beauty. 
 Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something nestled between the furs. Carefully he maneuvered himself over to gently grab it, curiosity pushing him forward despite caution. Cradling it in his hand like a priceless treasure, he now could see what it was; a pendant, only the size of his thumb, but it was in the color and shape of a full moon and an etching that matched the tattoo of the flower between her breasts. 
 "Y/n." He whispered, as if prompted by something to say her name. To his surprise, the pendant glowed faintly for a moment, so reminiscent of her eyes before dulling back. 
 "Thank you." He slipped his necklace off with Thor's hammer and added the pendant. Once back on his neck, he lifted the pendant and kissed it, only to stifle a moan as the faintest hints of her taste tingled on his lips. 
 Feeling euphoric, he laid back on the pile of furs, pressing the pendant to his lips. He closed his eyes, trying to remember every moment with her. He prayed that he could see her once again, either in this life or in Valhalla. For he knew, there would never be another like her. He had no idea who or what she was, only the name she gave him. A name that would be branded upon his heart and soul for all eternity. 
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lululawrence · 3 years
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Polyamory Fic Rec
I thought I’d made one already, but apparently I hadn’t. So, since @twopoppies had an anon looking for more, I figured I’d go ahead and make a rec list now. This is not exhaustive, but it’s a start! 
Please remember to leave the authors kudos and nice comments to show appreciation for their work.
I Should've Known by @nikogda (Liam/Louis/Harry, 11k)
It started out with little things here and there. A light that needed replacing. The belt in the vacuum. Small things, and eventually they took advantage of it.
Louis decided they needed another, larger repair whilst talking with his alpha neighbour, Liam. Liam had said he would do it for Louis and his partner, Harry.
And, well, it sort of went a little off track from there. What was an innocent thing at first, was now the two omegas’ way of catching the sweet deep scent of their alpha neighbour one whom they both mutually crushed.
Or: the one where alpha Liam moves in next door to bonded omegas Louis and Harry. All three go on their own journeys but in the end find that maybe, in the end, it really was always each other.
And That Was That by @lightwoodsmagic​ (Zayn/Liam/Harry/Louis, 23k)
“Okay. When Zayn and I were working on the set yesterday, Liam dropped by and mentioned he had a date. I asked Zayn about it, and he said that they’re ah - poly?”
Harry blinked.
“Oh yeah, I knew that. Li mentioned it when we were playing tennis once.” He ran his hand through Louis’ hair, smiling softly when he nuzzled into the touch.
“Is that what’s making you act strange? Because it seems like something that works for them, and I —.”
“Zayn has feelings for me.” A deep breath, and then blue eyes locked on green. “He said he needs distance because he has to get over them.”
Harry hadn’t realised his hand had fallen from Louis’ face until his fingers were being tangled and gripped tightly.
Or, Zayn and Liam have been polyamorous for years, but Harry and Louis are monogamous. When Zayn meets Louis and starts to fall for him, it opens them all up for something they've never experienced before.
That Don't Define Who You Are by lululawrence (Nick/Harry/Louis, 7k)
“Shit,” Harry muttered, rushing towards the man. “Are you alright?”
The man clearly tried to muffle his scream. “No, I’m really not. I’m afraid you’ll need to call 999.”
When Harry reached the man, he saw the man’s leg had gotten caught by pieces of the bike that had come apart beneath him. Without thinking, Harry leaned down and lapped where the blood was flowing quickly until it slowed.
“I’m so sorry, I just didn’t want you to pass out whilst I was on the phone.”
“God, no, don’t apologise,” the man said. “My mum’s a licking omega, see. Quite soothing.”
Harry blushed. “Yeah. Let me see about an ambulance for you.”
Or the one where Harry is a licking omega with a broken bond who helps heal a fairly hapless beta with a folding bicycle. When Harry also meets the beta's alpha, things start to get... interesting.
Its Mutual We (All) Discussed It by @nikogda (Zayn/Harry/Louis, 29k)
“Well you go to the agency, Alpha Donor Services and fill some forms out, whoever is doing the deed gets tested and such. And then they match you based on the papers with a few Alphas. You read the information on them and pick a few, they make sure they’re still willing and tell them about you. Eventually you guys will meet in public, do that a few times until you’re comfortable.” Niall scratched his arm lightly, and glances over at Harry, “The point of the service is to help a family, mostly an omega one, who can’t have children of their own. An Alpha will help an Omega get pregnant.”
“I feel like this is a lot.” Harry mumbles, setting his mug down.
“It is. Or well it was but it was worth it, H. I mean, I would do this again. We already talked about it.”
“Really?”
Or: Two omegas in a committed relationship are ready to start a family. In the process, their alpha donor becomes part of the family too. Every part of their relationship may be unconventional but all of them have never been happier
old haunts are for forgotten ghosts by fortymaliks (Nick/Harry/Louis, 8k)
“It’s the three of us, now,” Harry says, finally.
Louis blinks.
“Like,” Harry rushes to clarify, “you, and me, and Nick.”
Louis wakes up with amnesia, and learns that he's missing two whole years of his life. Two whole years, and some interesting developments...
Orion's Belt by @londonfoginacup (Nick/Harry/Louis, 24k)
Louis and Nick have been in a happy committed relationship for two years, their matching soulmarks on display for the world to see. It’s been them against the world, the alpha/beta singer and radio DJ power duo.
All that changes on February 1st, when they wake up to a third matching soulmark.
As they say, the course of true love never did run smooth.
You're a Rabbit, Louis Series by @magicalrocketships (Nick/Harry/Louis, 16k)
"Maybe Louis turned into a rabbit," Nick suggests. They both laugh. Louis doesn't. Harry is an idiot and Nick is an even bigger one.
Louis stomps past both of them on four tiny, furry, baby rabbit paws, and into Nick's flat. "I hate you both," he says. He sits on the rug by the TV. "And you can stop following me around too," he says to Pig, who sits down next to him on the rug.
"But seriously," Harry says, from the door. "Where's Louis?"
Louis thumps his back leg on the floor. "I'm here, you idiot."
"I'm not really suggesting this could be true," Nick says carefully, "but are we sure he isn't a tiny baby rabbit?"
The "A" in "Normal" by Yesitstyles (Nick/Harry/Louis, 28k)
Louis eats chips, argues with his best friend Nick about the validity of various sexualities, and falls for a second crush. Harry tries to spell the word "normal".
Loving You's the Antidote by lululawrence (Nick/Harry/Louis, 11k)
Nick and Harry had never been an obvious match. When eighteen-year-old Harry, newly presented as an omega, came home freshly bonded to Nick, a man nine years his elder and a beta no less, Anne had been more than skeptical and Eileen had shared some harsh words of her own. That didn’t deter them, though, and their families soon realised there really was something special about the bondmates that allowed them to work together almost seamlessly.
It was only a few months later that Harry started getting sick.
Or the one where Harry and Nick have been able to keep Harry's disorder at bay over the course of their relationship, but when they move to London and away from their support system, they find themselves in desperate need of help.
Come Out and Play by @dinosaursmate (Combination of OT5 pairings, 30k)
“I have this… fantasy.” Louis smiled self-consciously. “Well, I- I’ve been thinking about it recently, you know?”
Harry smiled softly. “Say it, Lou.”
“I have this fantasy,” he repeated. “Of… all five of us.”
“All five of us,” Harry exclaimed. “Gosh.”
Louis buried his face into Harry’s armpit, and Harry giggled softly. --- Harry and Louis discover a new kink in their relationship, and it brings all the boys closer than they could have ever imagined.
Trinity's Fate by Anonymous (Nick/Harry/Louis, 43k)
When a person is sixteen years old, he or she finds out if they are a dom or a sub. Later when they turn eighteen, the name of their soulmate(s) appear somewhere on their body.
Louis Tomlinson, a sub, fears getting a dom more than anything.
When his eighteenth birthday approaches and the names Nicholas Grimshaw and Harry Styles, a well known dom couple who are DJs for BBC Radio 1, appear on his arms, Louis panics.
Let me be your good night by Conscious_ramblings (Nick/Greg/Harry/Louis, 8k)
The one where Harry and Louis are in love, they end up at a party with some friends, and end up discovering things about themselves, and their friends that could change everything.
The thing was, Harry and Louis weren’t poly. They’d never even played with others together, despite having talked about it quite a lot in the heat of arousal. When they had been at torture garden and antichrist they had flirted with the idea. Harry had even kissed a friend of theirs once to rile Louis up, which had lead to a great session on the Saint Andrew’s cross. Louis loved to watch Harry flirt, loved the way jealousy turned him on and riled him up, loved how pliant and submissive Harry could be when Louis claimed him after. But they definitely weren’t poly, and Louis wasn’t quite sure what that meant for this evening. Everyone else attending the party was, and Louis’ green-eyed-monster had been feeding off that fact for most of the bus ride here. Now he was confronted by a really hot man playing with his boyfriend’s hair like it was no big deal, and he didn’t know quite what to do.
Perfect Sky by @polkadotlou (Nick/Harry/Louis, 40k)
Sub pairs are a rare thing, not only because of the jealousy that can brew between submissives if a Dom isn't attentive to each.
A sub pair has to be balanced.
Harry and Louis have always fit each other without trying. With them, it's easy.
But sub pairs can't just go out in the world and live on their own.
Alternatively, Louis always knew that a Dom was going to come into his and Harry’s lives – he only wishes Nick picked him too.
The Only Thing That Keeps Me Grounded by lululawrence (Nick/Harry/Louis, 28k)
“Shit, I definitely missed the last train.”
“Oh no,” Louis lamented. “I’d offer a ride, but I’m part of a carpool and we’re full already. I’m so sorry.”
“Really, it’s fine.” Then, what Louis said sank in. “Wait, I thought you were here alone?”
“Oh, I am. I’m the only one dancing here tonight. The others were working. In fact, here’s Nick now.”
It felt like slow motion as a tall, lanky man with incredible hair came walking over towards Louis. He smiled before pulling Louis into him and giving him a quick kiss.
“Nick, this is my new friend Harry. He just moved to the area and he’s amazing at swing. Harry, this is my husband, Nick.”
Fuck.
Or the one where Harry moves to Washington DC to be a nanny and never expects that his past struggles with love will be brought to a head. He definitely never expects the solution to it all will be the man of his dreams that just so happens to be married to the other man of his dreams.
Tell Me It’s The Strongest Shape by @louandhazaf (Nick/Elgar/Louis, 73k)
Nick and Elgar have it all. They’re famous, successful, and engaged to be married—and sometimes they play with others.
When uni student Louis gets street cast by Elgar for a GQ photoshoot, he's drawn into Nick and Elgar’s complicated relationship.
They've always invited mates into their bed. It doesn’t ever mean anything. Until… it does.
it hurts, but it's worth it by words_unravel (Liam/Harry/Louis, 14k)
Liam finds the shots of the three of them, rolling around and laughing, a week or so later during a late night. After a moment's pause, she saves one of the photos, giving it some inane, boring name. She shuts down her computer after that and goes to bed.
It takes a long time before she falls asleep.
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Text
KanSang Week Day 05 Wang Clan! Liu Sang
Pairing: Kan Jian/Liu Sang (established, past, future)
Genre: Angst, sad boy hours, angst with a hopeful ending Trope: sad boys in bathrooms, letters from away, things get worse before they get better Author Notes: in my head as I wrote this there was far more ugly crying going on Word Count: 2,470 ish
-
Kan Jian and Wang Sang had been kinda-sorta dating for years. They'd met by chance while Wang Sang was in Hangzhou for an interpreter job, translating for a foreigner looking at a business merger or something. (Kan Jian had been listening when Wang Sang explained it, it's just that that level of business doesn't interest him enough to understand it.)
He'd talked about Wang Sang to his Laoban a lot, about how smart and funny and pretty Wang Sang is. It was his Laoban who helped him figure out that he was in love with Wang Sang, because everyone was just so easy to love, it took a more objective eye to realise there was a difference in the way he loved Wang Sang.
Their date tonight was an anniversary, Kan Jian was going to Wang Sang's for dinner. He didn't know if he'd be staying the night, he had clothes in Wang Sang's place but...
Kan Jian was going to ask, he was going to start the discussion, it was time. He was going to ask if Wang Sang wanted to move in together. Either of their apartments or a new one, Kan Jian hadn't really thought that far yet, but he knew Wang Sang was it for him. He was certain of it.
Or maybe it was just that the one year anniversary of defeating the Wang clan was coming up and everyone was feeling pretty pleased and positive.
-
The fact that Kan Jian had to knock on the door meant something was wrong. He didn't know how Wang Sang did it, but he'd always known when Kan Jian was there and opened the door before he could reach it.
“Wang Sang?” he called through the door, trying to hear any sound beyond, “Sang-ge? Are you there?”
Kan Jian was just about to use his own key when the door opened slowly.
Wang Sang didn't look date ready, he actually looked sort of awful. His pretty hair was lank and greasy like it hadn't been washed recently, Wang Sang's face had the shadows of sleep deprivation under his eyes.
Something from deep in the apartment smelt burnt.
“Babe?” Kan Jian reached for his boyfriend, but stopped when Wang Sang flinched. “What's wrong, are you hurt? Sick? Can I help?”
Wang Sang sniffled, and Kan Jian realised Wang Sang's eyes were bloodshot not just from lack of sleep, but because he'd been crying.
“Ca-” Wang Sang's words caught in his throat, he sounded like he was about to cry again. “Can you come in, I need to- I need to talk to you about something.”
Kan Jian nodded, because of course he'd go inside, of course he'd talk with Wang Sang. He followed through the familiar entryway, past the familiar kitchen, an unusual amount of mess on the stove, traces of smoke still wafting from one of the pots.
But Wang Sang didn't stop there, he lead Kan Jian all the way to the bathroom where a small hand-towel was sitting by the sink.
Wang Sang tipped it in over the edge and turned the tap on hot, letting it gush down onto the towel.
In the back of Kan Jian's mind, something started screaming. It was like a ringing in his ears so loud that between it and the running water, he almost couldn't hear Wang Sang.
“There is something about me that I need you to know," Wang Sang spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation, "because you can't not know, and I can't, I can't keep... I don't want to lie to you anymore, because I'm not even sure if it's real or not. If it's just a lie I've been telling myself since-”
The speed of the water was faster than the towel could take and the excess filled the sink, spilling over with a loud splash, startling them both. Wang Sang lunged for the tap and turned it off, and both of them stood there listening to the odd sounds of the water slowly draining through the towel and into the pipes below.
“I don't understand,” Kan Jian said, a hollow widening in his chest.
“Yes you do,” Wang Sang replied, his voice barely above a whisper, he sounded tired. “You aren't stupid Kan Jian.”
“What was the first lie you told me?” It wasn't the thing Kan Jian should have been asking, but it was what came out.
“I wasn't a freelancer when we met,” Wang Sang said as he picked up the towel to squeeze the excess water free.
'That made sense,' Kan Jian thought, because of course Wang Sang wouldn't have been a freelancer, but that was a lie he would have told anybody.
“Why me?” Kan Jian regretted asking, because he didn't want to know.
“Because we'd met,” Wang Sang flattened the towel and began taking off his shirt.
“What?”
“The first three times we met, I had no idea who you were in the grand scheme of things,” Wang Sang set his shirt down on the driest patch of sink he could find and picked up the towel, turning to Kan Jian. “I just thought you were cute and that I could get away with pretending my cover story was my real life for a few drinks. Then my handler saw you, and they figured, I already had an in, so you became a mission.”
Wang Sang's voice turned bitter towards then end, and he held out the towel with a shaking hand.
Kan Jian didn't want to take it, he wanted to pretend this was all just a joke gone horribly wrong. He took the towel, it was so hot it almost burned, and he pulled Wang Sang into a hug as he reached around to press the towel to Wang Sang's right shoulder.
He didn't know what to ask, what to say, but Kan Jian opened his mouth anyway and hoped something coherent came out.
“How much of you is real?”
“I don't know.”
If he waited until the towel turned cool, if he didn't see the tattoo, then it wasn't real. Kan Jian didn't want this to be real.
He couldn't let the lie linger, and peeled back the still warm cloth.
The Phoenix tattoo is a brilliant mark across Wang Sang's shoulder.
The world was gone from beneath his feet, Kan Jian didn't know how to breathe.
“Did you ever love me?” He didn't mean to ask it.
“It would have been easier if I hadn't, it would have been so easy to stay if it was just a role to play.”
Kan Jian's ears were ringing again as the implications seeped into his brain. He held Wang Sang tighter.
-
Wu Xie felt like an asshole. Something was wrong with Kan Jian and he hadn't noticed until he'd stuck his foot in it.
He'd been so happy to have Xiaoge back, that he hadn't even realised Kan Jian and his boyfriend had broken up.
“Everyone's coming to the 'we beat the Wang's' anniversary party,” Wu Xie had wrapped an arm around Kan Jian, full of jubilation, “even Li Cu and his friends are coming, this would be a great time to invite your mysterious Wang Sang, finally let everyone else meet him.”
Kan Jian had gone from fine to crying in the space of a breath.
Wu Xie learned, through ragged breaths and sobbing tears, that Kan Jian and Wang Sang had broken up. Kan Jian wouldn't say why, insisted that Wang Sang wasn't at fault. He got angry when Wu Xie offered to track Wang Sang down. Kan Jian had never been angry at Wu Xie before.
Wu Xie apologised and pulled Kan Jian in for a hug. Kan Jian continued to cry, his sobs and words muffled by Wu Xie's shoulder.
It was like a bucket of ice pouring down his spine when Wu Xie picked out the words “I don't care who he was, I just want him back.”
Wang Sang.
It was a coincidence. Surely. There'd never been an information leak that could be traced back to Kan Jian, Wang was an entirely common name.
Just to be safe, Wu Xie sent out a few enquiries looking for this Wang Sang, but who ever he'd been before, he was a ghost now.
-
The first letter came while Kan Jian was on a job. He'd been a little more vicious than normal, his heart was still hurting and he'd let that leak out. It always surprised people when he was violent, like they had no idea it was in him. Way down deep and sleeping, sure, but it was still there.
They forgot because he used a slingshot, but Kan Jian was still a sniper.
He almost did what the letter's opening line advised, heart-sore anger making him want to abide “you can burn these letters if you want.”
But he didn't, because he still missed Wang Sang.
Kan Jian had made his way through the emotional fall out, moved from anger to worry over whether it had been hard on Wang Sang to play the part of boyfriend. Had he secretly been repulsed every time Kan Jian had touched him? Kissed him? Kan Jian had moved back to anger, then to aggravation at the idea that nobody could have scripted all their interactions, had torn himself up trying to figure out what had been training and what had been real reactions.
Real feelings.
In the end it was mostly hollowness and aching that left him grumpy and sharper when his edges showed.
But he wanted to know, so he read the letters instead of burning them.
-
Wang Sang had always spelled his name as 王桑, with the Sang for mulberry.
The letters weren't signed at first, though Kan Jian knew who they were from. He learned a lot about the letters' author, because the author was learning a lot about himself as well. Kan Jian had no way to reply, but he kept every letter in the hope that one day, he could talk to the other man about his journey to figure out who he was when he wasn't being told who to be.
Kan Jian had known that Wang Sang had a brother, but it's not until the third letter, when Wang Can is mentioned, that Kan Jian understands what that means.
He wonders which of the dead had been Wang Can.
He wonders if he'd killed him.
-
The eighth letter is signed.
刘丧
Liu Sang.
Sang, for bereavement.
But the letter says it's the name he'd been born to, the one he'd chosen to take back, so Kan Jian is less worried about Wang... about Liu Sang's mental state, and more about the parents who'd named their son like an omen.
-
Kan Jian almost burned a letter.
“I kissed a boy.”
He shouldn't feel betrayed, but he does.
Until he managed to calm himself and read the following lines, because Liu Sang hadn't been able to do anything but compare this stranger to Kan Jian and find him lacking.
-
There's an excitement in Liu Sang's next letter, somehow contained in every character. Kan Jian doesn't understand exactly, but he feels excited too as he reads about the new teacher Liu Sang has found, how he's training his hearing.
Kan Jian remembers hours later, as he's lying in bed, the hearing servants of the Xin Yue hotel, and suddenly a whole lot of things start making sense.
-
Kan Jian's life didn't stop, didn't become nothing but heartache and waiting for each letter. They made it easier to crawl out of the empty place in his life where Wang Sang had been, they reminded him that he had things to figure out too.
He made new friends, he moved on.
(He kissed a stranger or two as well, but they don't make his soul fizz with excitement like Wang Sang had. Like Liu Sang's letters do.)
-
Years slipped by.
There was jobs and friends and parties, and the occasional hospital visit of varying degrees of seriousness because of jobs and friends and parties.
And then there was the Sea King tomb, and Kan Jian was sent to pick up some sonar mapping expert from the airport. He and two others waited on the hood of the truck, and Kan Jian was beginning to wonder if the master they were picking up had missed the plane when:
“Hey, look at that guy,” his friend said, and Kan Jian looked over.
His first thought was: “what kind of excavation master dresses like a real estate agent?”
His second thought was: “how the hell did I forget how attractive he is in person?” Because walking towards them with a rolling suit case in a well fitted suit, hair radiant in the sunlight, was Wang Liu Sang.
The suitcase was shoved towards one of Kan Jian's companions and Liu Sang's gaze is directed at him.
“Wu Erbai sent you to pick me up?”
Kan Jian managed to nod, and not say out loud 'your voice is amazing.' But then Liu Sang was frowning, and turning away and leaving. Kan Jian followed after him because he couldn't lose him again.
-
Kan Jian felt a little bad about stomping on an innocent man, but as they watched the car drive away, Kan Jian was more concerned about Liu Sang, who looked like he was dying inside.
And Kan Jian knew, from whispered words years ago in the dark, and from ink in letters more recent, he knew why Liu Sang had reacted that way.
“'It's better to be wrong like this,'” Kan Jian said, one hand reaching for Liu Sang but not making contact, “'than ignoring it and being wrong the other way.'”
Liu Sang looked at Kan Jian, scared and bare as he recognised his own words, “you could have burned them.”
Kan Jian shrugged, “well, I didn't. I kept every one I got.”
Liu Sang flushed, somehow even more embarrassed than he'd been a moment before. He was anxious, Kan Jian could see it, so Kan Jian took a gamble.
“We don't really know each other very well,” Kan Jian said, and Liu Sang looked startled, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “Since we'll be working together for a while, let me introduce myself. I'm Kan Jian, I like slingshots, and my laoban, and your hair and I'll be your driver today.”
Liu Sang pushed his glasses up his nose, but Kan Jian could see the smile he was clearly trying to hide.
“It's nice to meet you, I'm Liu Sang, I specialise in sonar cartography, I like meerkats, and your smile, and my ouxiang Zhang Qiling. I look forward to working with you.”
Kan Jian grinned... and lasted all of twenty seconds before he asked “wait, did you really get the tattoo?”
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blissfulalchemist · 2 years
Text
WIP Wednesday
Tagged by @honeysides and @scungilliwoman Thank you my loves
I haven’t had too much done but I think this is something that I can actually finish later tonight (probably could have happened at work if I didn’t have work to do). But here’s a little taste of it nothing to big.
No pressure but tagging: @faithchel @belorage @heroofpenamstan @jamesbvchanans @lilwritingraven @chyrstis @strafethesesinners @adelaidedrubman @amistrio @vasiktomis and anyone else that wants too! Brain a little empty sorry
“Then you must be a friend of mother’s,” her dark blue eyes look up at me. “Is she your friend? I thought you didn’t have friends.”
“No I don’t have any,” I run my fingers through her brown hair, “Do you know why?”
“Because the betrayal of a friend hurts more and is more easily done,” Ozana smiles, Sabine blanches as I give my daughter one in return, placing a small kiss on the top of her head.
“Li, how- how could you stomach teaching her that?”
“You want to know how I’m going to stop the future you see from happening, by teaching my daughter how to spot danger from miles away. Something you should have done with yours.” Ozana tugs on the skirt of my dress, “I almost forgot, Zana, you came in here so excited to show me something, didn’t you?” Her small brow knits together, biting her lower lip, glancing between me and my twin before nodding. 
“Is this your way of sending me away, sister?”
I hum, “More like ending this conversation,” I kneel smoothing out Ozana’s hair, my voice softening, “Why don’t you start to head back to your conservatory and I’ll meet you there.” 
The young girl nods, giving a slight curtsey, “It was lovely to meet you Miss.” I stand watching as she makes her way out of the room. She turns once more, opening the heavy door, a frown pulling on the corners of her lips.
When the echo of the closed door dissipates I turn with a glower at Sabine, “I hope you know the reason why I never told her about you.”
“Don’t do this,” she hisses, “It could only ever end badly for you and Ozana.” I roll my eyes, huffing, “She won’t have you for much longer if you con-.”
“She will have me for many years, decades even,” I snap, “I would never abandon her.”
“Not by choice no.”
------------------------
When it came to end me they were smart in stabbing me three times in the stomach before lighting the fire, the smoke burning my lungs as the last of the toxins left my body. Just enough to break myself free, magic or not I was still going to make it out of this alive. 
The searing, skin melting from bone, fabric clinging and molding to where it shouldn’t, it was all concentrated on my legs but it may as well have been my whole body. I couldn’t even feel the pinpricks of the rocks and pine needles on the soles of my feet, struggling to get to the forest, find a place to hide, to wait out what they had done to me. That list of names grew with every step until I finally could no longer stand. Collapsing beneath one of the trees where it’s branches hung low enough to shield me from prying eyes. 
Gasping and clutching at my abdomen I found myself repeating any healing spell that could come to mind, over and over until I could feel the tingling sensation of my magic once again. The moon was nearing its highest point when my breathing slowed, my eyes closed, and limbs the heaviest they had ever been in my life. The dark had finally come to engulf me and I for the first time in my life allowed myself to fear it. 
I didn’t fear it for what may come after it, I had no regrets for my actions and thoughts, I simply feared being suspended in it for the rest of time. Would I forever be conscious in this state? Is this what happened once one died? My soul, spirit, whatever you want to call it stuck here while my body rotted away. If I was never found in this generation would they know who I was when my body was finally found? I thought I had left a mark….one could only hope that if I was known, that I’d be known and remembered how I hoped to be.
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charlieweasleyxmc · 3 years
Text
Christmas
at the
Burrow
She could feel the cold of the stone as she padded across it on bare feet.
“Where are your shoes?” Dora exclaimed as she emerged into the (Y/H) common room.
“What?”
“Charlie,” Dora gawked at her. “He said he was leaving for home an hour ago.”
(Y/N) gaped, sweeping so quickly past the decorations in their dormitory that she sent a floating present spinning in the air across the room. It looked as though some of her roommates that were staying at Hogwarts were already getting their dormitory into the Christmas mood.
She dashed out with her case barely closed and a pair of boots and coat pulled over her pajamas, sprinting for the great hall. She stumbled out into the opening hall a few moments later.
And there, standing with their trucks packed by their sides and their coats on, were five familiar figures with red hair.
The two taller ones, followed by the smaller three, turned towards her.
“(Y/N),” Charlie said smiling, “we were just going to send Fred and George to go get you. The twins grinned, and all of them seemed to catch her disheveled appearance. “You didn’t think we were going to leave without you, did you?”
(Y/N) grinned, feeling very foolish as she felt one of the bottoms of her pajama pants falling out of her snow boot.
“Of course not. This is how I like to travel,” she said with a wink. “Ready to go?”
She leaned down to tuck the corner of her pajama pants back into her boot. Charlie smiled and stepped forward to grab the handle of her trunk with his free hand.
“Just so you know,” he whispered, leaning towards her. “We wouldn’t have left without you.” A smiled grin graced his features and (Y/N) dimly heard Bill requesting them all to come on.
(Y/N) moved past Charlie and they walked to join the others.
“Good to see you, Bill,” (Y/N) smiled up at the familiar twin pair of hazel eyes.
Bill beamed at her; “ready for Christmas at the burrow?”
(Y/N) opened her mouth to answer, catching Charlie’s smile out of the corner of her vision when she was interrupted.
“You better be ready,” Fred said.
“Good luck,” George sang.
“You’re gonna need it,” Fred countered.
Crystalline spheres of ice twinkled past, the light catching off them just right so that they sparkled in (Y/N)’s vision. Traveling by broom wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the middle of December with the first snow falling down. But she was grateful for the tiny muggle heater attached to the broom, shrunken and spelled by Mr. Weasley so that each of the kids would have a warm broom as they flew. She was more than thankful for this as she traveled in her cotton pajama pants and a fingerless pair of gloves. The warm broom beneath her seemed to warm her to her very core.
A shout came from her left and (Y/N) flicked her head around to see one of the twins, Fred or George—she couldn’t tell—picking up speed and racing past the rest of them. He was speeding towards a dark blob in the distance, long vertically, that (Y/N) could not make out through the hazy snow pelting past her face.
Another shout followed the first and the other twin followed behind the first. (Y/N) stayed back with the other three Weasley brothers, Percy on her right, Charlie on her left, and Bill behind them. The building slowly came into view as they came in and eventually, (Y/N) could make out doors and windows when they finally landed in the yard less than a hundred meters away.
Percy hopped off his broom, grabbing it with one hand as he raced after the twins, who had disappeared through the brown wooden door.
(Y/N) lightly slipped off, turning to meet Bill and Charlie as they got off their own brooms and fell into stride beside them. She blinked up as they approached the stone and wooden building, a twisted and lopsided collection of haphazardly stacked pieces that looked as they would have fallen much longer ago than the wood seemed old if not having been held up or put together by some kind of magic.
Bill and Charlie chatted beside her, one of them saying how excited they were for something that their mother was making. They stopped just long enough for Charlie to separate from them to open the plain wooden door.
Bill held out an arm, gesturing for her to enter first.
She did, stepping into the warmth, she hadn’t realized how cold she was from that short walk to the house. Her pants, she realized, were soaked, and the rest of her hadn’t faired much better. But all of it was immediately surrounded by warmth as she took a couple steps into the house, leaving just enough room for Charlie and Bill to enter in behind her. It was a haphazard room, the collection of household items put here and there in no obvious recognition of order. The colors were mostly of warm hues. (Y/N) caught sight of a set of knitting needles clicking away on their own above a cushioned sitting chair and a broom swept past in front of her.
“Where are your brothers?” she heard a woman’s voice call from one of the adjoining rooms, blocked from view.
Excited boys voices chattered and Bill and Charlie moved past her through one of the open doorways. She followed behind them cautiously.
And into a world of heavenly smells.
It was only then that she realized that some of the warmth she had been feeling was from the smells wafting through to the entrance.
Cinnamon. Ginger. Chocolate. Roasted chestnuts. Cranberries. Apples.
They all filled her system and (Y/N) unconsciously lifted her nose up to them as she entered the little kitchen. A woman, her round form partially obstructed by the twins currently hugging her, raised her arms out to the two new arrivals. Charlie, and then Bill, falling into her arms for a quick greeting embrace.
“Dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, one of her hands lingering on Bill’s head, “You’re hair has grown much too long. I need to cut it before tonight.”
Bill shook his head, saying nothing as he moved away, Mrs. Weasley’s vision now unobstructed from what lied beyond them.
“(Y/N)!” Mrs. Weasley beamed, lightly brushing off the twins to step forward and wrap (Y/N) in a similar embrace to her own children. “Oh dear,” she said, her face immediately dropping as she pulled away, “you look absolutely run out. Ron!”
Another ginger head popped through the door.
“Take (Y/N) and her trunk up to Ginny’s room. She needs to change before brunch. All of you do,” Mrs. Weasley said, spying the wet marks that her boys had left on her clothes. She shooed them out the door, causing all of them to hustle towards the stairs, (Y/N) following behind the small ten year old redhead. Charlie waved goodbye to her on one of the landings as Ron led her into a young girl’s room.
The girl in question, her fiery red haired wreathed around her pillow as she lay on her bed, her ankles clicking together in front of her, looked up from the book she had been reading to grin at (Y/N).
“Oh! You’re finally here,” she said jumping up. “Borrow anything you’d like,” she said, sprinting past the boy and (Y/N), out the door and stumbling up the steps outside. Ron gave (Y/N) a shrug before following after the fiery redhead girl.
(Y/N) looked around. A collection of posters lined the walls, mostly quidditch, but she spied a few other posters, including a Weird Sisters poster. The snow drifted outside the glass pane of the window, but the room was completely clothed in warmth, not too much, just enough to be cozy, but not overbearing. It was like a gentle hug in here, with good air flow. (Y/N) grabbed the trunk Ron had left by the door and swung it open, picking out the clothes she wanted to change into.
(Y/N) heard a sound like a griffin moaning as she descended the stairs. The sounds got louder all the way up until she entered the lovely smelling kitchen. Charlie sat in a tall chair, his mother clipping away at his ginger locks, and him making now smaller sounds of protest as they fell to the ground.
Apparently, being unable to get her hands on Bill, Mrs. Weasley had satisfied herself with chopping off Charlie’s shorter set of locks.
(Y/N) put a hand to her mouth, stifling her snort.
“Oh yeah,” Charlie hummed blinking his eyes to her, “laugh it up, find joy in my pain. Please. I don’t mind.”
A snort came out before she could stifle it as she heard Bill laughing beside her before she saw him.
Charlie rolled his eyes at them overdramatically and gave them a good humored pout.
“You gotta hold a stronger line, little brother,” Bill said, “or she’ll walk all over you and shear you every time you come home, leaving you with nothing left.”
“I’ll try that next time,” Charlie said with a good natured sigh as he stared at the ginger strands of hair littering the ground before him.
Holding her next chuckle in behind her hand, (Y/N)’s eyes flicked to the dining room table behind the set of Weasleys, where a small redheaded girl, Ginny presumably, was arguing with Ron about how lazy he was being. The boy in question was sitting in one of the dining room chairs as Ginny was setting the table for brunch.
As if drawn by some sort of spell, (Y/N) felt herself pulled across the kitchen on enchanted feet, stopping only once her tether had landed her at the edge of the rounded table.
There were sausage rolls, their edges just slightly golden brown to indicate their perfectly cooked temperature, still steaming with the warmth coming off of them and the spices beneath. There was pumpkin juice, Yorkshire pudding, and fresh strawberries. How Mrs. Weasley had managed to get fresh strawberries in the middle of winter, (Y/N) had no idea, but the smell coming off of all of it was intoxicating. Indeed, (Y/N) would never tell them, but she did not think even the House Elves could have created this meal. It was not the style of a perfectly professional feast, but a home-cooked meal cooked to a perfection professionals never would be able to reach when not in their own home.
Mrs. Weasley had finished creating her brunch meal and it looked like the delight of (Y/N)’s lifetime.
The cider already felt like it was warming (Y/N) to her core and she hadn’t even drunken any yet.
“Tuck in, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, finishing off her sheering of Charlie’s head from the kitchen area. “We don’t stand on ceremony for morning meals. Too many hungry stomachs and impatient mouths.”
Digging into the meal was like choosing her classes for N.E.W.T. She didn’t know where to go to first. Did she inhale a sausage roll, start with some strawberries, or stick her whole face into the syrup Mrs. Weasley was now bringing over for the Yorkshire pudding.
The others didn’t seem to have any hesitation. With reckless abandon, the Weasley siblings devoured the food before them as though it was something they got every day, and (Y/N) supposed, that between living at the Burrow and the House Elf supplied meals at Hogwarts, it was. It was only after brunch had rolled to an ending, the lot of them stuffed as though they were planning on becoming the Christmas turkey themselves, that (Y/N) felt like she was at home, waddling over to the sofa that Charlie sat on in the sitting room by the back door.
“Don’t get too comfortable boys,” Mrs. Weasley called from the kitchen where she was already hard at work preparing the Christmas Eve dinner. (Y/N) glanced back to see a turkey levitating in the air and basting flinging around the room, guided by her wand. “I’ll need you to go pick out a tree and decorate it. Your father and I just simply haven’t had the time. He’s been working extra hours for the ministry.”
Charlie sighed from where he sat on the couch, his hands over his bulging belly.
“Alright, Mom,” Bill called from the sofa across from them. “We’ll head out in a few minutes.”
“And won’t you de-gnome the garden while you’re out there?”
Now it was Bill’s turn to groan.
“Mom! Can I join them?” Ginny called back.
“No, Ginny dear. I need you to decorate the inside of the house while they are de-gnoming and gathering the tree.”
Ginny folded her eyes with a sigh.
They all got there few minutes of rest, (Y/N) getting dangerously close to a nap after the food she had eaten, and the soft, plush couch she was sitting on; she started tilting to the side, sliding ever so slowly towards Charlie’s shoulder beside her, but they were all roused when Mr. Weasley came in, his voice booming.
“I heard you took the heated brooms,” he yelled, “how’d it go?”
“Heated brooms,” Mrs. Weasley said quizzically from the kitchen, “some sort of spell, Arthur?”
“Uh…yeah,” Mr. Weasley blushed as he crossed through the sitting room to the kitchen to greet his wife.
A moment later, he popped his head back out and caught (Y/N)’s eyes, “Oh, and good to see you with us this year, (Y/N).”
(Y/N) blushed as Mr. Weasley popped back out of view.
“Well, I think we better get moving before we all pass out in here,” Bill said, jumping to his feet. “Should we split up the work? Fred, George, Percy, and Ron can go de-gnome the garden while Charlie, (Y/N), and I go pick out a tree?
Ron groaned and Percy looked no more thrilled by the plan than he, but Fred and George were already out the door before anyone could say ‘treacle tart.’
(Y/N) grabbed her jacket, which someone had set on one of the hooks by the door, and pulled on her boots, also by the door. Charlie passed her a knitted wool scarf before they headed outside.
In the hours since they had been at the burrow, the snowflakes in the air and gathered on the ground, leaving a layer of white that they trudged through on their way across the field in front of them, to the small wood at the other end. The trees, lightly layered with snow, were hard to see their shape, but, eventually, Bill used a melting spell on them, the snow turning to water in a matter of seconds on a tree of his choice and sliding off to the ground where it froze back into snow again.
“What about that one?” (Y/N) shuffled away from the large tree the twins were looking at to a slightly crooked tree to their right.
Bill spoke a word, causing the snow to fall off the chosen tree with one sweep of his wand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I like it,” Charlie beamed at (Y/N), “let’s take it.”
“Alright,” Bill shrugged, aiming his wand at the tree, “diffindo.”
The trunk split with one clean swipe, the tree tilting and then thumping on the ground, free of its earthly bonds.
Charlie waved his hand to (Y/N), “would you like to do the honors.”
A small smile graced her lips, but she pointed her wand at the tree, sweeping it in an arc and then flicking it, “wingardium leviosa.”
The tree rose up a few feet into the air, hovering horizontally where (Y/N)’s wand guided it. Together, they made their way back to the burrow, their victorious tree collection coming along with them as they crossed back over the fields to the home on the other side.
A few hours later, the tree stood above them in the living room, the collection of ornaments hanging from it teetering softly. Fred and George had “found” an angel for the tree, the likes of which looked suspiciously like a frozen and golden-ed gnome with tied on wings, but (Y/N) didn’t ask any questions, preferring instead to admire the tree.
“Looks great, kids,” Mr. Weasley said, as he left the kitchen to come out into the living room, “but I think it’s missing something, don’t you?”
Percy grinned, and the expression was so unexpected on his face that (Y/N) had no idea what to do with it.
Mr. Weasley smiled as he pointed his wand at the tree, “coruscent lux,” he sang as he waved his wand through the air, the tip of it making great curved arcs as he flicked it before the tree.
And (Y/N) tried not to gawk as tiny sparkling orbs of light started to careen out of the end of his wand, floating to the tree, they settled amongst its branches until every inch seemed to have a glowing orb of light sitting there.
(Y/N) failed her attempt not to gawk and she gaped.
“Well, I suggest you kids go out and get a quidditch game going if you want to. I suspect this will be the only few hours you have free for the rest of the day.”
“I don’t think I want to play.”
“Come on, Perce,” Fred whined at him. “We have even numbers. If you don’t play, someone else will have to sit out.”
Percy sighed, but nodded, smiling slightly.
“That’s settled then,” Charlie said, pointing to the groups of people standing there, a collection of worn brooms in their hands. “Bill is terrible, but Fred and George are good so they’ll be on the same team. Percy we’ll be on my team to even things out, and we’ll take (Y/N) and Ginny. Ron can be on the first team.”
“Get ready, big brother,” Fred said, placing his hands together, “we’ve been training Ron as a keeper during the summers. I bet ten galleons he won’t let any one of your quaffles get past.”
“You can’t bet ten galleons when you don’t have two galleons to rub together,” Bill called back to them from where he had already traveled to halfway across the field they had chosen for the game.
(Y/N) grinned as they all followed him.
Fred and George, who she knew were already beaters on the Gryffindor team despite being only in their second year, were surprisingly adept at being chasers as well, and (Y/N), was actually having a hard time at keeping up with them. Despite being quick on a broom, some of her quidditch skills themselves were somewhat lacking and she found herself grateful that they had Charlie and Ginny on their team, picking up for the slack from herself and Percy.
Ron, it seemed, sometimes was pretty good at blocking a goal, and he managed to block everything she and Percy threw at him, even blocking some of Charlie’s shots. But he never, not once, blocked a shot from Ginny. Still, Ron laughed along with the rest of them when one of Charlie’s shots hit him in the face, giving him a bloody nose.
They took a break then, of course, retiring into the burrow after a couple hours of playing to let Mrs. Weasley repair his broken nose.
When Ron returned to the living room, his long nose back in the shape it was supposed to be in, it was to tell them all that Christmas Eve dinner was ready.
They all filed into the dining room, (Y/N) finding herself, once again, stuffing herself to complete fullness.
She woke slowly, first becoming aware of the gentle sunlight blinking through the window at her and then the warm sheets and blankets surrounding her in a cocoon of warmth. She stayed there for a while, just enjoying the burrito like feeling of safety in the warm bed.
Finally, after long moments of enjoying the cushioning bed, (Y/N) sat up, Ginny’s room smiling down at her.
She had complained about taking the other girl’s room for the time being, but Ginny had insisted and Mrs. Weasley had reminded her that Ginny was easily sharing a bed with Mrs. Weasley while Arthur slept on the couch. (Y/N) felt like it was her that should be sleeping on the sofa, but none of the Weasleys seemed to feel that way.
(Y/N) stretched her arms before scooting off the bed and to her feet, calling accio on her wand so that it flew into her hand. She tucked it into the pocket of her pajama pants before heading out the door and down the rickety stairs on bare feet.
She was not the first to arrive in the main room, the lights of the tree still somehow twinkling at her the day after they were made. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, a pair of ginger heads looked up and she grinned.
“Happy Christmas,” Charlie said, his grin equal to matching hers.
“Happy Christmas,” Bill echoed from where he sat on one of the sofas, with a cup of something hot that steamed.
“Happy Christmas,” (Y/N) couldn’t stop smiling as she made her way over to the sofa Charlie sat on.
“Didn’t realize I was the third one awake,” she said, curling her feet beneath her.
“Fifth,” Bill gestured to the back door. “Fred and George have been up for hours. I sent them outside to wear off some energy playing quidditch.”
“That’s not what they’re doing,” Charlie shifted from where he sat.
“Then what are they doing?” Bill countered.
Charlie shrugged, “all I’m saying is I’ve heard a couple small pops that sound like really tiny explosions.”
Bill looked worriedly at the door and then got to his feet. “I better check on them,” his voice attempting to be casual, but an energy of urgency there.
Charlie turned to (Y/N) as he swept out the door.
“Are you ready for a Weasley Christmas?”
“So ready.”
The chaos began a few minutes later, as first Ginny, then Mrs. Weasley reached the bottom of the stairs. Bill hauled in the twins a few minutes later, right when Percy and Mr. Weasley were coming down the stairs. Something exploded in Fred’s hand and it went shooting off, crashing into the side of Percy’s head. He went down and even after Mr. Weasley helped him up and got him settled on one of the couches, his hair stood sticking up, and (Y/N) could have sworn, was a little bit burnt on one side.
Then there was only Ron, who Fred and George volunteered to go wake up, but after the Percy debacle, Mrs. Weasley was looking at them with a suspicious gaze. In the end, it was Bill who went to collect Ron from his likely deep slumber.
(Y/N) moved to the floor to make room for Bill when he came back, sitting in front of Charlie, just in front of the sparkling tree.
For the first time, she paid attention to the Weasley’s presents, an assortment of strangely shaped packaging, there was a set of string on one that she swore kept moving. On another, the bow hovered less than inch off the present itself, and on yet another present, there was actually green mistletoe growing on it.
(Y/N) tilted away from the gift with the moving string and looked up as Mr. Weasley shot a ball of cider out of his wand.
Charlie caught it in his mouth and they all hurrahed. She could hear Mrs. Weasley sighing from the kitchen, but when she came out a few minutes later, Ginny with the remains of cider that had crashed on her face, she was smiling as she cleaned it up with a wave of her wand.
By that time Bill had hauled Ron down the stairs and they joined the rest of the crowd of Weasleys on the floors and sofas around the room.
Ginny, it seemed, was the resident present deliverer and got up to take presents from the tree and bring them to the recipient.
The first one, from Fred and George, actually exploded in Mr. Weasley’s face, but he was grinning as he reached in and pulled out a spark plug.
“Thank you, boys,” he clapped George on the shoulder from where he could reach him on the floor in front of him. “Best gift this year.”
But Ginny had already handed off two more presents and while Ron was wrestling off the moving string parcel, Mrs. Weasley was listening to the floating bow explaining her present from Percy to her.
Another explosion wracked the house and (Y/N) snapped her head away from Ginny, who was passing Fred a present, to Percy, his face covered in ash.
He didn’t look overly concerned, for Percy, that is, as his mom waved her wand from across the room, wiping it clean so he could reach into the gift box and pull out a tomb, at least a thousand pages wide. He was smiling by the time he thanked Fred and George. Both of which were hanging the bit of growing mistletoe from the wrapped present over the hanging of the back door with the intention of catching their parents under later, (Y/N) guessed by their suspicious expressions.
But (Y/N) was drawn away from their conversation for a moment when Ginny held out a parcel to her.
“…for…me?” her hand was out, but she took the present hesitatingly. Ginny nodded urging her to take it, and she did, drawing her hand back with the present in her grip.
Ginny was already moving back to the tree as (Y/N) ripped the paper slowly aside, revealing a medium sized box, it’s top cut off so that she was already admiring its contents.
She pulled the first object out and it curled up on her hand.
A glowing glass phoenix, its wings folding beneath it as it closed its eyes as if ready to go to sleep right in her palm, but he flicked an eye open just once to glance at her with a glowing stare.
She set him reverently on the floor in front of her and then reached in with another hand, pulling out a sweater that unwrapped itself, unfolding to the floor as she held it up. It had a letter on it, her initial and she set it gently beside the phoenix as she reached in once more and grabbed the last thing out of the box.
A pair of knitted lamb wool socks.
She stretched out of her legs to put them on her bare feet and when she looked up, Mrs. Weasley was watching her.
One of the tears on (Y/N)’s face dropped to the ground.
“I didn’t get you anything,” she said, her voice not at its best.
Mrs. Weasley shook her head, “you came to spend Christmas with us, didn’t you?”
Two more of the tears pattered to the ground.
“Happy Christmas, (Y/N),” Mr. Weasley said from where he sat, his spark plug, a package of bertie bott’s every flavor beans, and a new pixie wool hat laid out on his lap.
“Happy Christmas,” she answered, as the rest of the Weasleys continued to dig into their array of assorted gifts.
It turned out ChristmascDay was very similar to Christmas Eve, while many of them spent some alone time for a few hours that day, some using their brand new presents, they all reconvened, even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for a game of quidditch in the afternoon.
Charlie, Percy, Bill, Mr. Weasley, and Ron’s team won, to the surprise of everyone, considering Charlie was about the only decent quidditch player on that team, but Mr. Weasley, it seemed, wasn’t unskilled at maneuvering a broom and Ron was passably good even if Percy and Bill were terrible.
Some of them, due to some nasty falls, hadn’t gotten muddy, so when the game ended, Mrs. Weasley all shooed them inside to wash up. (Y/N) found herself mesmerized by the shower in the bathroom that Ginny, Percy, Bill, and Charlie all shared.
It had no head, instead, when one spoke a word to the wall, it just began raining, warm, fat, tropical raindrops that wiped her clean.
She pattered down the stairs that evening, feeling refreshed, her new pair of socks gracing her feet as it was too warm inside for the sweater. Bill and Mr. Weasley were playing a game of wizard’s chess as those who weren’t helping Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen waited for dinner, (Y/N)’s glass phoenix flitting around them.
When Mrs. Weasley called to them, (Y/N) was the first to come.
And heaven reached her eyes and nose.
Potatoes, that was the first thing she saw, directly followed by yams and all other kinds of side delights. A warm glass of butterbeer was graced next to every plate and to top it all off, a giant beef pot roast in the center of it all.
Her mouth was already watering.
It turned out that after the meal, the family spent their time in the family room together, playing games and listening to Celestina Warbeck on the enchanted radio in the corner. (Y/N) watched her phoenix lazily fly around the room. She almost fell asleep on that comfortable couch a few times and it seemed she wasn’t the only one crossing into the realm of sleep when Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had to carefully carry up their two slumbering youngests to their beds.
(Y/N) got up from her couch then, crossing to the back door and pushed it open gently to let the cold air wake her up.
It reached her face almost immediately, a frosty air cooling her and causing her to open her eyes all the way. She could hear footsteps behind her and turned slightly to see Charlie in her peripheral vision.
They watched as the new snowfall fell gracefully to the ground, turning the world around the burrow white.
“Hey, you two,” Fred called from his place on the ground beside George, eating sweets on the floor. “Look up.”
(Y/N) glanced up, expecting a pack of snow to come sliding off from the house and land on her head, but it was just the bit of greenery and white berries, the mistletoe that had been growing on the present and that Fred and George had hung on the door hanging earlier this morning.
“Think there’s a bowtruckle living inside?” Charlie whispered and she laughed, finding that his returning laugh sent a spark of delight through her.
“May I have this kiss, (Y/N) (Y/LN),” he asked, his eyes warm, the eyes of a thunderbird.
“You may,” she whispered.
The Weasley siblings cheered them as their lips met, flecks of snow joining their kiss.
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sabraeal · 3 years
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All That Remains, Chapter 8: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 5]
[Read on AO3]
Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 3: Strength Upright: Compassion, Courage, Self-Control Reversed: Weakness, Doubt, Discord
Once upon a time, a troll makes a mirror.
Is that not how we started this story, so long ago? How so many start: a vile creature forges an object. Who and what change in the telling; a troll makes a mirror, a god conjures a box, knowledge grows in a garden. In the end, it is all the same: what is once contained is opened, unwitting. Or lost, foolishly, in a heart so cold and cruel that it becomes bent to another purpose entirely.
But that is merely an allegory, a fiction composed to cover the raw edges we leave when we rub against each other. For that is the truth, is it not? There is no fell creature, no capricious and omnipotent beings to blame for our misery. There is only us, carving our place in our story by smoothing pieces off another. A snow queen is not made from frost and cold but by the blades of others, slicing slivers from her flesh until only ice remains.
That is the truth we cannot bear: the only monsters we face are the ones we have made. The only poisons we drink are those human hands have brewed.
And it starts like this, always: a girl in a garden, remembering the image of a rose, and wondering, how could I have I forgotten?
“You were quiet at dinner tonight.” Shirayuki hasn’t been at court long-- or rather, in court, privy to all its secret signals and capricious undercurrents-- but she knows that this is as close to an “are you all right?” as Haki can come. If confrontation is only allowed the glint of a knife, affection is stifled to a hint of warmth, a fire made in a room one is forbidden to venture. “I hope that the meal agreed with you.”
A flash of pharmacy white flutters at the corner of her vision, frustratingly out of reach. It’s been so long since she’s been there, since she’s thought of anything but silverware and schottische; when she tries it’s like a hundred voices shouting at once, each demanding to be heard. Just like being at Lilias, heads bent over a knotty problem--
“Shirayuki.” The consort does not crouch; it’s best, Lady Mihoko often remind her, to pretend one has no anatomy beneath the waist. But Haki does perch on a cushioned stool, her brows drawn tight over the elegant line of her nose. “You are not...indisposed, I hope?”
A solid shake dispels the fog mired around her. “What? Oh, no! I only...” It would be a mistake to speak of loam between her fingers, of the satisfaction of hearing a pod snap from its stalk. “I didn’t have much to say with my, erm, conversational partners.”
Royal brows raise to stunned arches. “Is that so? I would have thought you’d find much in common with Lord Kazunori and Lord Seiichii.”
They had both been older men, southern lords drawn to court for Seiran’s summit. Kind enough, but they spoke to her as they would their own daughters, which is to say: warmly, but brief. Not of any topics that one might sink their teeth into, lest it leaving lines around her mouth.
“I think they were more interested in talking to each other than to me,” she admits. In part because of her sex, and in part because-- well, her body may have been in that chair, obscuring the twining gods and goddess painted across it, but her mind had been a wing away, wondering if it was yet time to harvest the roku berries, or whether this year’s crop of apprentices knew akegi from yura shigure. “It seems there’s much to discuss before they all meet for, ah...discussion.”
Haki hands her a rueful smile. “There always is.” With a sigh, she sweeps to standing, as statuesque as any marble in Wistal’s halls. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to ask the majordomo to find you some more scintillating seatmates tomorrow.”
“Ah..!” Tomorrow. Never had a day seemed so far away, so much more than a handful of hours between dawn and dusk. At Lilias, the nights had wavered between seasons, some so short she hardly slept between sun set and rise; and others so long that she woke in darkness, only to leave the lab in the same. But still, none seemed so long as this, and for no reason at all.
“Is something wrong?” Haki turns to her again, concern rumpling the curved lines of her mouth. “Do you have plans...?”
“No!” Shirayuki rushes to assure her. “It’s only...you mentioned dinner, and suddenly I felt so...”
“Weary?” Haki offers, when she won’t. Her eyes soften with mouth to match, smile turning her from heavenly to beatific. “I’m not surprised. You have been hard at work these last few months.”
And hardly anything to show for it, in Lady Mihoko’s learned opinion. Shirayuki bites back a groan. She would be sixty before that woman found her approaching passable, and even then, she still wouldn’t be good enough for a prince’s wife. Not when his children might have some chance, no matter how slim, of seating their sullied bloodline on the throne of Clarines.
“Perhaps you have earned a break.” Shirayuki blinks, staring up into the consort’s glowing face. “A private dinner seems in order. A night of no pressure of expectation.”
It sounds too good to be true. “Oh, no! I couldn’t--”
“Give me but a moment.” Haki hesitates at the door to her boudoir, lips lifted in an impish grin. “Perhaps my good brother might find himself available as well?”
Her mouth snaps shut. It’s been ages since she saw Zen, just the two of them. He came to dinner rarely-- understandable, with the summit only weeks away, and entirely under his purview, despite Seiran’s tacit position as host-- and where he went, Mitsuhide and Kiki went too. Haki had been her closest companion these past few weeks, the only friendly face, but Shirayuki longed for someone who didn’t look at her and see a princess, but--
Nervous energy courses through her, jolting her to her feet. Her hands itch, wanting for something to do, and with no plants to hand, they land upon the package on the receiving table. It’s wrapped in humble brown paper, folds clean and crisp, twine tightly tied. Haki’s medication, she realizes, dropping it from her numb hands. Made in the pharmacy. There’s a note on top-- instructions. She’d recognize them anywhere; after all, she’d written more than a few of them herself.
It’s curiosity that makes her pluck it from where it sits. It’s been ages since she’s been in the lab, but her knowledge hasn’t faded; there’s no harm in seeing whether there are any mistakes. An apprentice could have made this, after all. The dose does, as Garack was so fond of saying, make the poison.
She flips open the card, already flushed with the thought of being useful, but--
It’s not some apprentice’s writing at all. Oh no, she knows this spidery scrawl all too well. It was on every jar at her bench, every treatise she read late into the night.
It’s Ryuu’s.
Ignorance is bliss, they say. Always with a laugh, but stewing beneath it is envy and longing in equal measure. A pining for times past, for a childhood never quite as innocent as we remember.
For that is what we miss: innocence. Not the not-knowing, but state of not needing to know. The trust we felt towards those who always knew in our stead, who kept us safe from the dangers that pressed in around us. The ones who protected us with little lies; the small pauses to omit what might scare us, the careful editing to make our worlds the giddy fantasy we dreamed.
But there comes a day where all children must grow up. There is a day we must know these things for ourselves, so that we may see the world with clear eyes. For even innocence can be a cage, should some other hand try to lock you within it.
Ignorance is bliss, they say, but oh, only if they can keep you from knowing what it is you do not know.
May I ask you a question? the little girl asks, her gaze no longer on the garden, but the horizon beyond. It is bent in her vision, the glass made in such a way that each diamond blows out the edges, warping the world around it. She had never noticed when she looked only at the garden so near to it, but now...
Now the imperfection is all she can see.
Anything, the sorceress replies, her fingers wrapping around the caps of her shoulders. They’re cold, as cold as the glass beneath her palms.
The girl looks at their reflection, at the way the wave of the glass make those fingers bleed into talons. Where have the roses gone?
Shirayuki’s hands tremble, her eyes tracing every last loop, every hurried curve. “I didn’t...”
Haki peers around the jamb, letter folded in her hand. “Did you say something, my dear?”
This is the closest she’s been to Ryuu in months; even from where she holds it, the scene of lavender and akegi shigure waft from its paper. Not scented, not on purpose, but just from being left in a desk’s cubbyhole with his hastily tidied samples. His parchment smelt the same in Lilias, fragrant as the hothouses themselves.
Her chest can hardly contain her breath. “I didn’t realize that Ryuu was overseeing your treatment.”
A shadow flickers over the sorceress’s face, her grip painful for but a moment before she is her usual smiling self. A moment that could have been imagined, if only the girl was so sure it was not.
Roses? the sorceress asks airily. I’ve never grown any roses.
“Excuse me?”
“It only makes sense,” Shirayuki hurries to add, placing the card back atop the package. “He’s taken over for Chief Garack, and she always oversaw the royal--”
“Shirayuki.” Her name is firm from Haki’s lips, just shy of a scold. “I’m quite sorry but...who are you talking about?”
So many tales speak of trust as a blade, one that may be used to cut, that breaks when forged from brittle iron. A weapon, wielded and forgotten on the battlefield once the story is done.
But you and I know better: trust is a spell, woven to protect. It is a shield, unseen but always felt; sense by faith and not by fingers. And when it wavers, it does not break, does not shatter like a blade upon a stone; no, nothing so dramatic as that. Instead, it frays, unwoven one thread at a time, unnoticed until--
Until the hole can no longer be ignored.
She doesn’t leave the consort’s chambers meaning to break her curfew; oh no, when the door closes behind her, Shirayuki has every intention to head straight to her own. Her feet drag beneath her, weary from contorting herself into a mold that barely fits. There’s nothing she’d like more than to divest herself of all these courtly trappings and pass effortlessly into oblivion.
But she turns a corner, her mental map of the palace resolving, and she realizes: in one direction is her room, and in the other, the pharmacy. It’s late, but Ryuu would still be there, committing his last-minute thoughts to page while the offices emptied around him. She misses him, a longing so intense it aches.
It would only be a short visit. If Izana brought her before him in the morning, trying to act as both judge and jury-- well, Ryuu would be her physician, once she and Zen finally managed to make it down the aisle hand-in-hand. It only made sense to keep a cordial relationship with the man who would bear the next branch of the Wisteria tree into the world.
And if she missed him, the boy who straddled the line of friend and brother and son both-- there was no need to explain that to the king. It wasn’t as if Izana made a habit of confessing his ulterior motives to her. Though strangely, she thought he might understand that better than anyone.
Or all but one. And he...
Well, if there was a single person who might know where he went besides her, her feet were carrying her to him now/.
Were you to ask the girl, she would say she had not chosen night on purpose. The sorceress had housed her, fed her, loved her in her way; even with the image of the rose burned behind her eyes, she trusted her still, in the desperate way one does when one knows they should not, but cannot bear to contemplate why.
Opportunity chooses for her; the late afternoon sun burns hot, and when they finish their dinner, the sorceress excuses herself to lay down in the dark, to merely rest her eyes-- and does not wake, not even when the door creaks as the girl slips around it. The moon guides her steps when she walks into the garden, bright as the day itself, but she does not need it: her feet carrying her better than memory could.
There is one there, just as there was this morning: a petal, pink and sweet, fragrance so familiar she knew it even without sight.
Come out, she murmurs, digging her hands into the earth. Come out my lovely, my dear. I have been searching just for you.
A tendril spirals up from the ground, tentative. It flips and flaps, and oh, she is too shocked, too awed to help it. Even still, it finds her, wrapping around her finger, and with a single drop of blood the bush emerges, whole and dirt-smeared, from the soil.
What, it murmurs, impatience tinging its words, took you so long?
In the day, the pharmacy is all rush and chaos: apprentices burning tinctures and ushering patients to their rooms; masters emptying drawers as soon as they are filled, only for other herbalists to hurry to replace them. Guards arrive with injuries and nobles with ailments, no moment ever dull while the doors are open.
But at this hour, when the lords and ladies are all tucked in their beds-- or are at least pretending to be-- and the work is done, the pharmacy sleeps. There is no herbalist at the front desk, only the push bell Ryuu despised when she was his apprentice, since it always meant she would be pulled away from him or he away from his project.
A necessary nuisance, he called it once, and Obi had laughed. Just like me, eh, Miss?
She no longer remembers what she said-- it was early enough when he was one still, though she’d like to think she was too kind to say it-- but now she wishes, even if just for a moment, that she could tell him how much of a gift he was to her. How much he had made tedium bearable, even when she hadn’t known it for what it was.
Instead she bites her lips, rubbing at the ache in her breast. It’s hardly the first time she’s forgotten to say what matters, but-- but this won’t be her last chance. Obi might be away now, but he will be found, and she will tell him...
Everything. Every last thought she had since the moment they last spoke; her apologies and her worries, her failures and her triumphs. Because Obi hearing them-- that’s what makes them real.
Her hand wraps around the third door’s knob by habit; even now she expects to open it and see her projects spilled across her desk, to see a curtain closed beneath the other, and a window open between them. To see it waiting for her the way her heart waits for them, empty and waiting to be filled.
But there’s nothing of them there anymore. Nothing besides memories that no longer fit over the space it has become.
Her feet carry her onward, down to the last room, a sliver of light slipping across the hall where it’s been left ajar. She still expects to see a curled mass of blonde hair bent over the desk, long tables sprawled with books and half-finished studies, a bottle of roka medicinally sitting in the corner. But instead--
Instead it is a dark one, a riotous shrubbery of walnut and teak in desperate need of pruning. That had been her job in Lilias, along with Yuzuri’s helpful hands, but is seems no one here has yet talked the Chief Herbalist to task.
Give it a few years, Garack would tell her, and he’ll have herbalists as eager to get into his hair as you three were with me.
She leans against the jamb, a sigh slipping past where her heart clogs her throat. Ryuu had once fit beneath a desk half this size, and now he towers over it even seated, looking more and more like Shidan with each passing day, a man overgrown by time and deadlines.
“Ryuu.” It’s a palpable hit when their eyes meet. Everything else about him might change, but that gaze, so wide and thoughtful-- that never does.
Until now. One moment they spark, a fire lit behind blue glass, and the next...
It gutters, his gaze slipping away.
“Shirayuki.” His voice is so much deeper than in her memory, so much older. And colder too. “Excuse me, Lady Shirayuki. Is there something you need?”
“No.” She clings to the doorway, too aware of how fine her dress is, of how little it belongs in this place, his sanctum sanctorum. How little she belong here, now. “I saw a card you wrote to the consort, and I...wanted to see you.”
“A card?” His eyebrows twitch; she can no longer tell if it’s in surprise or confusion, not on this stranger’s face. “Ah. The powder for her migraines. Did you want some as well?”
“No, I’m-- I’m well.” It feels like a lie, even as she says it. It wouldn’t have, only hours ago. “I just...I’m here for you.”
His knuckles blanch where he grips his pencil. “Well, you’ve seen me. I trust you know your way out.”
You’re too late, too late, the roses say, their sing-song jangling in her ears. I’ve been hidden away for so long, and even now I cannot find him. The betrayal in their voice is thick when they ask, How could you forget us, your flower and your boy, when we have always grown together?
“Ryuu.” It leaves her lips cracked, broken; her mouth no longer knows how to form the shape that calls to him. “I know it’s been...a while, but please don’t think that I didn’t want to-- that I wasn’t thinking about you. I just...”
His pencil pauses on the page, but he does not speak. He just looks at her, the way he would at a stranger, and this room is suddenly a desert and ocean both, too far and deep to go by foot alone.
Still, there is nothing she will not brave, not for him. “It was hard to come,” she admits. “I’m not allowed in the gardens, and I’m not allowed to take patients. Coming here, watching everyone working the way I always have...”
It would have been like watching someone eat a feast while she was starving. 
His eyes soften, even if they don’t precisely thaw. “I know that you’re marrying the prince, and that you don’t have time for m--” his lips press tight-- “this. I’m not upset because you’ve set your career aside.”
“But you are...” Her words limp as she says them, wounded fawns searching of an elusive mother. “You are upset.”
His hands flex as he places them on the wood, utterly silent. “I knew...” he breathes, so harsh it scrapes her own throat too. “I knew you’d have to give things up--important things. But...”
Ryuu had always spoken slowly, thoughtfully. But still, these moments when he meant what he said, when he composed rather than conversed-- it had never taken him to long to tell her what he meant. He trusted her, knew that even if his words came out garbled or his message was lost in a sea of ellipses, she would salvage it, gluing it back together with his intention.
So when he sits silent, it wounds her almost as much as his words.
At last his gaze lifts again from his work, but the glare he fixes on her-- “But I never thought you’d let one of them be Obi.”
Her mouth works, but the well from which she draws her reason is empty, leaving only pain in its wake.
“I didn’t...I didn’t let him leave,” she murmurs, more wind than whisper. “He never told me he was going. He just left without even...”
Saying goodbye. As if all these years had meant nothing at all.
“There’s a guardsman,” she says instead, her voice trembling toward something approaching even. “He said he saw Obi leave with--” a woman-- “someone.”
Ryuu grunts.
“He ran off with Torou, once.” She wants the words to come easy, but each one emerges from her trembling, the way her fingers are against her skirts. “On the way back from Tanbarun. That’s...that’s probably what this is. An old friend that needs help, and then he’ll come right back--.”
“He won’t.”
Each breath is a stab, deep in her chest. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He stands; a production with how much of him there is now. Cautiously, his hand extends, a fist hovering over the knotted wood of his desk.
It takes all her courage to take the first step, and all of it again to take the next. On and on until she’s crossed the room, hand outstretched, quivering beneath his own.
His palm opens, and into hers falls...a seed. Tiny. Blue. As clear as glass.
“An orbia seed?” Shirayuki lifts it up to the light, the plumule a hazy bead nestled in its luminous cotyledon. It’s impossible to tell by sight, but still, she’s sure-- it would germinate, if she planted it. “I was collecting these before we left.”
“I know.”
“It’s funny,” she murmurs, a smile lifting her mouth. “I never did find a blue one.”
“I know.” His explanation comes in fits and starts, a path never worn in the telling. “I had one. I gave it to Obi.”
“You...?” The thought catches in the light, just like the seed between her fingers. “Oh. Oh. But...” Her mouth curls, a silent question: why?
“I don’t know. I thought he might...” Ryuu’s shoulders twitch, as narrow as Obi’s when he first blew in with the wind. Before he settled into the man he became. “When he was ready...”
Of course. Her hand closes tight around the seed. Obi had what she needed all along. And she’d never known, not until...
Not until he was gone. “Where--?”
“I found it on my desk.” Ryuu’s fingers flex, falling by his side. “The morning after he left.”
Where did he go? the little girl asks, desperation choking her as surely as her tears. Where can I find him?
How should I know? the roses reply, thorns in their words as well as their stems. You are the one who left me buried under the ground. How could I watch him when you let us be trapped together?
“Did you...” Her mouth works, cutting itself against her question. “Did you tell Zen’s men, when they came? Do they know that he...?”
Said goodbye, she cannot say, to someone at least.
“No.” Ryuu blinks, his eyes as round and innocent and blue as ever. “They never did. Come by I mean.”
This is not the first time we have spoken of betrayal, is it? Of the wound that never heals, the jagged cut that scabs over only to be ripped open anew. The injury that teaches one to be wary, lest one be inflicted again.
But that is only after the wound is made. When it is first done...
Well, it is strange how long a heart can bear a blade through it without ever feeling the killing stroke. 
“You are thinking,” Haruka remarks, with no small amount of disapproval. “I can tell.”
Shirayuki blinks down at her place setting, expecting to see broth dripped across the tablecloth, or perhaps the edge of her sleeve dipped in yolk, maybe even her tea dribbling over the edge of her cup--
But there is nothing. The white linen is pristine beneath her gold-rimmed plate, her sleeves and elbows tucked up and off the table, and if anything, her beverages of choice are picturesque in their vessels, juice beading with moisture and tea gently steaming. “What am I doing wrong?”
It, historically, has been the wrong question to ask the marquis, sure to send him into a silent huff that will stretch from first course to fifth, disapproval deepening with each sorbet. In his vaunted opinion, the fact her inexperience might cause her to trespass the unspoken rules of good manners is bad enough, but to not know precisely when and how it was done-- now that was truly unforgivable.
However, today he merely settles back in his seat, rubbing his fingers against the cloth tucked over his lap, and fixes her with his unerring gaze. She doesn’t shrink beneath it; oh no, instead something in her chest shifts, almost as if-- as if it grows.
His lips twitch, just the slightest upward tremor. “Nothing.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, stymied. “Then how did you know?”
A single, noble arch lifts. “Because you have never once stopped.”
It is to the tiger-lily the little girl turns, after the roses. They are a pompous flower, no doubt, as proud and self-important as any big cat, but despite their bluster, they are honest. The noblest flower in this garden, hearty and constant, and though they sniff when she kneels down upon their bed, dirtying her hem, they listen.
Have you seen him? she asks, heart lodged tight in her throat. Have you seen my precious boy?
“So what is it,” Haruka murmurs into his glass, “that has you so engrossed, young lady?”
Her lips press together, teeth plucking at the scar. “You told me once that I should know who is my ally, and who is my-- Zen’s.”
The rim has hardly touched his lips, but Haruka sets down the crystal, hands folding behind his plate. “I did.”
“But those are not the one two options, are they.” It’s not a question, not anymore. “Sometimes they may seem to be one or the other, or both at the same time, but really-- it’s their own, isn’t it? Everyone is just trying to do what they think best.”
“That is...” The marquis takes in a steady breath. “A very mature way to see a frustrating problem.”
“The consort has said that she is my friend,” she says slowly, each word shaken loose from her heart. “But she is also lying to me.”
“Is she?”
Haruka, she had said once, these long skirts tangled around her legs, binding fast as any chain, he’s hard to read.
Is he? Zen’s hand was cold against hers, like touching marble. Izana’s had been the same so many years ago; she wonders if it might be a problem with their circulation, perhaps passed down from a parent, but this doesn’t seem the time to ask about his mother’s medical history. He’s always seemed clear as crystal to me.
Though, he continues, mouth set in a rueful grin. After a childhood of lectures, maybe it’s easier. I can tell how stupid he thinks I am just from the degree of his eyebrows.
His brow is furrowed now, a tight knot over the bridge of his nose. There’s no angle, no lift, and Shirayuki isn’t quite sure what that might say about his perception of her intelligence. If it were anyone else, she might even call it concern.
“Is she lying to you,” he asks, posing it like Lata when he wants to ask something particularly perverse as a rhetorical. “Or are you not asking the right questions?”
Her fingers clench tight on her lap, linen rucking up between her fingers. She likes this far less than Lata’s. “Your Grace...”
Now his brows raise, shock stark on his face, “Yes, Miss Shirayuki?”
“Do you...?” The words stick in her mouth; to ask them is to admit defeat. No-- distrust. That the best interests everyone has been working towards are not her own. “Do you know where Obi is?”
I have seen no precious boy, the tiger lily trumpets, as proud as ever. Only a little girl loved by all who see her. How lucky she is to garner such attention!
I care not for me, the little girls mutters, impatient. Where do you think he has gone?
Away, away. The flower bobs beneath its own self-importance. He has been taken away. Down and gone and buried with the roses. Perhaps you are the better for it.
“No.” It’s the truth; he wouldn’t bother to lie to her. “As of now, his location is unknown, even to the king himself.”
She licks her lips, nails biting into her thigh. The orbia seed burns a hole in her hip. “Are they looking for him?”
A shadow ripples over his face, gone before she can follow it to its source. “Someone might be.”
“I mean Zen,” she clarifies. “Or Izana.”
“I know,” he replies, voice impossibly gentle from such a forbidding mouth. “I think we’re ready for the next course, don’t you?”
Innocence and ignorance, truth and illusion, trust and betrayal-- we have meditated upon each, as if they are but separate concepts that can be held to the light and have each facet revealed in turn. But surely you seen that they have all brought us here, to this part, to this singular place: a knife buried in a breast, a garden made into a cage. A girl in each, who has finally seen the truth beneath the illusion.
We should rejoice, should we not? For these girls who might free themselves, might heal themselves? But yet you do not, do you? For you know the trick of it:
A wound does not truly begin to bleed until the blade is removed. And a girl like this--
Ah, her hand is already at the hilt.
For once, Shirayuki is relieved that it is her round-faced guard that awaits her and not a more experienced one. Or worse yet, Kiki, who would anticipate her before she could get a word in edgewise.
But luck is on her side; this dear boy springs from his place on the wall, every muscle tense with anticipation, quivering to do his duty, and she-- she is ready to take advantage of it.
“Ready, my lady?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a hound eager to be given his leash. “It’s off to the ballroom next, isn’t it? With Master--?”
“Not today,” Shirayuki informs him swiftly. “I need you to take me to the king.”
The color leaches from his face. “The...the k-king?”
She nods, tight, officious. The sort Lady Mihoko gave her maids; the sort that belonged alongside a command obeyed.
“But, my lady...” He shuffles on his feet, loath to disappoint her. “Don’t you need an appointment to see His Majesty? I don’t think you can just go right in and--”
She’s already walked past him, chin held high. “He’ll see me.”
It may seem humble before the dawn, its petals as rumpled as bedsheets, drawn over its head like a child-- but when the sun casts its fiery crown over the garden, it is the convolvulus that is ascendant. It needs no dazzling pattern, no fanciful pinwheel of petal and sepal to make itself stand above its floral brethren, but only purity of color. For there is no other here that is so purely white, that has a color so simply blue. The tiger lily might roar among the plots, but it is to the convolvulus it bends, when it rises from its nightly slumber.
The little girl watches as the sleep falls from its petals, witness to its splendor. What, it asks, ruffling its delicate mane, could have made you seek me out, girl?
There is a not-insignificant portion of her life that has been spent waiting; not in the way of most of her colleagues-- for water to boil, or a titration to drip, or even for a letter of acceptance to arrive-- but for men with nothing else to recommend them but birth to decide they’re bored enough to receive the royal pharmacist. Shidan had called it fundraising and Kazaha glad-handing, but Shirayuki can admit now, as she flies past Izana’s steward, leaving him and her guard in her wake, what it really is:
Insulting.
The view always arrests her when she enters the royal solar, and this morning is no different; the sun setting, finishing its bright arc through the sky, but the angle of it, with the windows as they are-- it sets the king’s hair alight, a halo burning.
A target, she names grimly; and she the arrow. With his steward calling her name behind her, she takes a determined step toward him.
“Have you not heard then?” Izana asks, hardly bothering to look up from his papers. “I already approved your request to be excused from dinner.”
Shirayuki hauls up short, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Dinner?”
“Yes.” His brows raise, as does his gaze, already bored. “My brother already spoke about at length this morning. So if you seek to move me as well, please note that I have already stepped aside.”
“I...” She blinks. “I wasn’t here for that.”
Interest sparks in his eyes, quick as a struck match. “Then by all means, scold away. At least--” his mouth quirks, too amused-- “I assume that is your intention, marching into my office unannounced as you are.”
“Forgive me.” The steward presses a hand to his heaving breast. “Mistress Shirayuki--”
“It a force of nature,” his master replies, mouth curling like parchment corners. “So I have often had occasion to find out. You may leave us.”
“Your Majesty--” Izana merely lifts his brows, and the man stutters to a stop. “Of course. As you wish.”
“Now,” he hums as the doors close. “Just which wind sent this storm spinning into my office?”
Bound here you might be, but I know the trick of this place, the girl says, kneeing at the bed’s edge. What roots grow here touch the roots of all the morning’s glory. And you who wake with the sun-- you keep the closest watch on the horizon.
If there are any in the garden who know of my precious boy, she continues, the breeze rippling the convolvulus’s ruff. It would be you. So tell me, please...have you see him?
“It’s Obi,” she admits, heat stinging her cheeks. “I want to know the, er, status of the search.”
Izana blinks.
Oh, how kind it would be if this confusion was feigned, if it were all just a show to drag out her loyalties; to force her to admit that even if Zen was her heart, she could not turn her back on her home. That this was simply another moment where she would show him that friendship was strength, and the walls he erected himself were merely a folly.
But there is no smug satisfaction buoying his words when he asks, “The search? Didn’t Sir Obi leave my brother’s employ months ago? The beginning of the summer, I believe--”
“He didn’t quit,” Shirayuki insists, even as the seed weighs heavy between her skirts. “He disappeared, and Zen said he had put men out to search for him.”
A flower has no face, but the girl need no smile, no hooded eyes to discern the sorrowful bent of its stem.
I am but the morning’s glory, the convolvulus sighs, and when the night comes, I fold myself tight. Your boy does not pass me in my waking hours, so perhaps it is that he travels in the night.
But what does that mean? asks the girl. Why would he only travel at night? He is but a boy, a boy, and he walks in day.
The convolvulus is quiet, swaying in the garden’s eternal summer. I do not know, he admits. I do not know at all.
“Ah.” His eyes soften, no longer the unrelenting velvet of the night, but the waves of deep water, and Shirayuki finally has cause to find out: to experience Izana’s pity is a thousand times worse than his disdain. “I am not privy to the movement of my brother’s men, so long as I do not need them in attendance. He must not have put in his last report...”
“Please.” Her hand flies up between them, earning her an incredulous lift of a brow. “It only makes it worse that you are being decent about it.”
His laugh surprises her. “So you’d like me to gloat?”
“No.” Her breath saws out of her, great heaves that shake her shoulders. “I want you to grant me leave to find him.”
“You?” His brows raise, even his eyes widen, but to his credit, he does not ask, but what could you do? Instead his mask settles back over his face without a ripple, the king staring out from behind it. “It would be a waste. I have heard from your tutors that you are making good progress. Lady Mihoko even ventured to say you might make a passable princess, if you pushed out an heir fast enough.”
Her mouth twitches. Only yesterday, she would have nearly fainted with relief, but today-- “What praise.”
There’s a stern tilt to his mouth, a forbidding set to his eyebrows; if she didn’t know any better, Shirayuki would call it concern. “As I recall, our agreement did address this.”
“Then you mean...?”
“Yes.” He nods, splaying his palms across his desk, almost as if he were bracing himself. “If you leave the palace grounds, you forfeit your chance to be the one at my brother’s side. A princess leaves such things in the hands of her guardsmen--” his mouth twitches-- “and her husband.”
You want her to go, do you not? Even now you quiver at the edge of your seat, begging this little girl to open her eyes, to keep them open, to see through the illusion and run as fast as she can. You want her to leave the garden, to break through the last of this enchantment and leave safety behind.
But tell me, what would you do, with the knife quivering it in your chest? To forget it is to live with the pain. To remove it is to be free.
An easy choice, you might say. Who could live with a blade in their breast? Ah, but do not forget:
There is no way to know if the wound is fatal until the knife is removed.
“There is something I wonder, Mistress Shirayuki.”
His musings shatter the brittle silence between them; that fragile bulwark that has kept her in his skin. Now that it’s gone, she trembles, every muscle in her body fighting the urge to cross the king’s study and shake him until decency falls it.
A hopeless quest if there ever was one. “Is there something else you could possibly say to me?”
She says it sweetly; most would hear only that-- the tone rather than the content. But Izana has not sat so long on his father’s throne by being that sort of man; no, his mouth curls, amused.
“No. It’s only...” he hums, gaze lifting from his paper. “I wonder when you started to think Obi left.”
Then what do you know? the girl says, anger and bile rising in her tone. What good are you?
A flower cannot smile, but she feels teeth when it replies, I know that it will cost you, and cost you dear.
Izana might as well have struck her. Shirayuki rocks back on her heels, only just catching herself before she trips over her own hem. “I-I...what do you...?”
“When you came in here, you first talked as you had before.” Long fingers knit beneath his chin, though he does not deign to rest on them, not alert as he is. A cat before a kill, still toying with with the prey between his paws. “You insisted on his disappearance-- the implication being, of course, that you deny his own agency in his departure. Kidnapping or coercion, one might say.”
She cannot see its teeth, but Shirayuki isn’t so foolish to believe there is no trap. “Y-yes..”
“But now you come to me and ask after my men.” His mouth quirks. “You ask for my permission.”
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” she asks, fingers clenching in her skirts. “A princess wouldn’t depart without the approval of her liege.”
“Of course.” He waves a hand, as if all those rules she spent late nights learning mean nothing at all, as if they were worth less than the paper on which they had been printed. “A princess would. But you, Miss Shirayuki, you--” his eyes spark, the way she only saw that night in Lilias as he closed the gates-- “you jump from windows. You follow a flower into a cave. If you truly believed your companion in danger, I doubt there is a single promise that would keep you by my side.”
She cannot breathe, let alone hazard an answer. Not when even a flutter of an eyelash could give her away.
“Which begs the question, doesn’t it?” His gaze fixes her to where she stand, pins through a moth’s wings. “Just what reason would make him leave?”
Me? the girl cries, already thinking of her lovely red shoes, of the boat they bought her down the river. Why me?
Because my dear, the convolulus hums. It is your fault that he has left.
The doors swing open, and the steward steps inside, sparing her an infuriatingly smug glance. “Sir Lowen, Your Majesty.”
“A moment,” the king tells him, “Mistress Shirayuki and I are nearly done her.”
The man nods. “I will tell him to await your will.”
Shirayuki blinks. “What--?” It’s trial to catch her breath, to make her heart stop pounding in her breast. “What is Mitsuhide doing here?”
“You need an escort to your dinner, do you not? I thought he would be the most palatable option for you.” Izana fixes her with a meaningful look. “I do hope you find your answers, Mistress Shirayuki.”
You don’t know me. Obi’s gaze is raw in her memory, too gold. You don’t know anything about me.
You know how he is. Zen’s smile curls at the edges, brittle, like parchment pasted to vellum. Obi has always come back on his own before.
Zen will take care of it. Mitsuhide won’t meet her gaze. I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.
“Don’t worry.” It’s a miracle that the words don’t catch between her teeth, the way she’s clenching them. “I will.”
A hand wraps around a hilt. A breath shudders. And with one, swift tug--
The blade moves but an inch.
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elephart-hi · 3 years
Text
The Mortal Maiden: Witch AU
Chapter 1: A (doomed) Mission at Hollow Hall
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with a Jude wip for a larger piece, I'm doing for this fic!!!
Set during The Cruel Prince
Summary: For her whole life in Elfhame, Jude had been convinced that mortals were unable to do magic. She clearly remembers Madoc telling her that there were no witches in fairyland. She assumed he meant that they didn't exist, not that they had been hunted into extinction. During one of her missions at hallow hall, Jude received information about a spell that requires a unicorn and a witch and her whole world gets turned sideways as she discovers why they were eradicated. After another mission where Jude saves a strangers life, an ancient grimoire finds its way to her bed with a note from the stranger thanking her for saving them and warning her to only read the spellbook but not to practice the magic within, lest she wishes to be burned by the folk. Jude heeded the warning as if Oriana had given it to her herself, that is she completely ignored it and did what she shouldn't. Tensions are high as the coronation swiftly approaches and Jude finds herself more deeply entwined with the web of lies that ties the Greenbriar line together than ever before. With nothing but her wits and her secret sender to aid her magical studies, Jude can only hope to make it out unscathed.
Rating: Mature but not explicitly till later chapters!
Ao3 chapter 2
AN: This is set during the cruel prince. I absolutely love the different character development of the characters from book to book. Specifically, Jude in book one being like I have no clue how to be a spy I’m going to fucking die and it’s my fault for making a deal with Dain! curse me, god! Always made me laugh. So playing with that and with Cardan’s talking door. I like to think the door can move around hollow hall so that is a headcanon in here. We were robbed of spy jude content and all it’s potential so here. we get to the witches later I promise
Jude Duerte had, on numerous occasions now, cursed herself for thinking she could ever be a spy in fairyland. For starters, she was a seventeen-year-old mortal up against fairies a hundred years her senior. Her mortality happened to be the very reason she couldn’t use magic, which brings us to the second reason being a spy was a foolish, foolish thing for her to be: she was at a monumental disadvantage to everyone else in fairyland because they were magical assholes by nature.
As she raced through the crowded party at Hollow Hall, ducking between dancers and enslaved mortals caring trays of fairie wine, trying to avoid the guards who caught her stealing, Jude realized that being mortal had another disadvantage since it probably made her incredibly disposable to Dain, the prince she served under and who she was, for all intents and purposes, enslaved to thanks to the geas she struck with him. Her death would be of little consequence to the prince.
She reached her hand out and grabbed the ostentatiously carved banister to her right, using it to swing her momentum in a direction where the guards wouldn't have her surrounded. She barrelled into a stairwell hidden from the view of the ball as people started shouting. Jude had at least remembered something she’d learned from her short time training in the spy’s keep: always find multiple exit routes. She had scouted out the stairwell before her mission had gone sideways as she mingled amongst the folk.
She raced up the stairs nearly tripping on her gown as she began her climb, heart racing so fast she thought it would burst out of her corset. Her geas with Dain would protect her from fairy enchantments but it wouldn't protect her from being impaled by a sword or spear. Regardless of how skilled she was with a blade herself, ten immortal guards against one human did not seem like good odds.
As Jude continued her ascent she realized that her exit route was less of an exit and more of a path further into the manor. The roach would have her neck for her idiocy… If she lived to ever see him again. She should have gone for the servant’s quarters instead, she thought with a groan. From there she already knew her way out of the manor. She didn’t think she would have guards chasing her on her way out so she had, rather foolishly, assumed she would be able to explore more of the massive grounds and figure out the layout better for the next time Dain sent her here to spy on his elder brother: Prince Belkin. Now Jude just hoped she would live to see another night, much less another mission.
As she continued her ascent up the round cobblestone stairwell, the noise of the party became lost to her and she couldn’t hear the guards in pursuit anymore. Perhaps her quick exit had been in her benefit after all. If she had gone for the servant’s quarters they surely would have seen her use it and would have gone after her. Each turn up the stairs, she passed a candle in an alcove, lighting the cobblestone steps beneath her. She paused to rest on a dark step outside the reach of the candle’s glow, lest someone use the stairs and see her hunched over in its flickering light catching her breath.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the note she not so subtly nipped from her target. Right as she had grabbed the note out of his pocket, a fairy with copious amounts of cologne passed her and made her sneeze. The messenger in front of her immediately spun around but before he could get a word out Jude had him in a chokehold; his cries for help dying in his throat. She had thought herself so clever until the goblet in his hand clattered to the floor, gaining the attention of a nearby guard. Then she had felt like an idiot, as the guard called for reinforcements.
The manor would be crawling with them now, but they would all be looking for a fairy with horns, yellow eyes, and pointed ears. Jude had gotten the costume from a gothic store in the mall of the mortal lands and tonight it proved to be useful. She chuckled to herself as she pulled the horns from her hair and removed the fake ears and colored contact lenses. She tucked them all into a large pocket of her skirt, making sure to put her contacts into their case. Once her breath had settled and she looked nothing more than a mortal servant again, Jude continued her ascent up the stairs, hoping that she wouldn't gain any more unnecessary attention until she was a long way from the manor and back in the safety of the spy’s keep.
Once she reached the door atop the stairs, Jude leaned her ear against the wood, listening for any potential passersby in the hall. She nearly pissed herself and fell back down the flight of stairs when a doorknocker, which certainly hadn’t been on the door when she leaned against it, blinked and spoke to her.
“Looking for trouble or hiding from it, my dear”
Jude didn’t have a clue what to say. What does one even say to a doorknocker? No matter how long she has lived in fairyland, the world and its strange magic always managed to perplex her. So she just stared at the metal face that was now molded into the door completely dumbfounded.
“You’re being rude.”
Jude shook herself from her stupor, and raised her chin, “Neither. What would make you think I was in any kind of trouble?”
“Probably something to do with you pressing your ear to the door to see if the coast was clear,” the doorknocker said with a stern face.
Jude pressed her lips together. Once again cursing herself for thinking she could be a spy. It was obvious that she wasn’t the encorcelled servant she was posing to be. She internally groaned; the stars were certainly against her tonight. If she said she was hiding from trouble she would be admitting to some extent of guiltiness; with that thought a scheme started taking form in her mind.
“Looking for it,” she said decidedly, mustering up a smirk that she didn’t feel, “do you know where I could find any?”
The door squinted at her, judging the truth of her words as he eyed her round ears, “try the second to the last door on the right,” he said, swinging open for her with a returning smirk on his metal face that made Jude uneasy.
“Perfect,” she replied mustering more false bravo into her voice, “and afterward when I need to hide from the trouble I find what direction would you point me in?”
The door beamed at her then, a grin stretching the brass of its face.
“Down the hall past that door there will be a stairwell hidden behind a tapestry depicting a pixie orgy. Take the stairs to the bottom and you will find yourself at the stables,” the door still smirked at her, as if he knew what she had been planning all along.
Jude curtsied at him and went on her way, planning on foregoing the ‘looking for trouble’ bit but, to her surprise, the doorknocker’s face appeared on the backside of the door when it closed behind her. Jude was certain now that the doorknocker hadn’t been there when she arrived. It must be enchanted to move as it pleased. Now he watched every step she took. Jude would have thought it a very clever way of safeguarding one’s manor if the door was not a huge liability for her now.
As she proceeded down the carpeted hall, the doorknocker’s face magicked from one door to the next, smirking at her as she made her way past ancient doors, scenic art of battles and kings long past, and tapestries woven by the hands of skilled sprites. Every inch of the hall radiated extravagance, much like the two fairy princes who lived here.
She had no option but to go ‘looking for trouble’ now, Jude realized with irritation, not if she wanted the door to keep quiet about her lurkings. However, Jude hardly needed to look for trouble, she could hear the cries of guards searching the manor for a thief. She had already found enough of it today as is.
When she reached the second to the last door on the right, the one the doorknocker had instructed her to find, she realized that she recognized it from her last mission at Hollow Hall. Her stomach felt squeamish at the memories it brought up. Of Belkin and the belt. Of the owner of this room kneeling on the floor taking the beating.
The annoying doorknocker appeared on the wooden door, right in front of her face, his eyes squinting at her.
“Just what kind of trouble will I be getting into?” she asked, “is Cardan inside?”
Jude dreaded the answer. The door probably brought her here to turn her into him. She had the sinking feeling that she was a dead man walking. She could only imagine what Cardan would do to her when he caught her, mind drifting to the note with her name furiously scrawled onto it over and over again. A chill ran down her spine.
“I was assuming you were looking for the fun kind of trouble, Jude,” the door replied, his brass eyes glinting in mischief as he said her name as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking of. She wondered if he had watched her steal the book from Cardan’s room. She wondered how he knew her name. The torches of the corridor cast a golden gleam on the metalworking of his brass face, the craftsmanship reminded her of her father’s blades and metalworking. Her chest squeezed at the memories of her late father, but not before she shuddered at whatever the door considered being ‘fun’.
“How did you know it was my young prince’s chambers?” the door asked dubiously, suspicion laced his voice. Perhaps he hadn’t witnessed her previous mission after all.
Jude ignored his question since he ignored one of hers, “how did you know my name?” she snarked back.
The doorknocker averted his eyes, clearly not wanting to answer. She smirked and continued.
“What would you do if I were to bolt?”
“Then my prince would hear of your suspicious whereabouts,” he replied, a smirk returning to his metal face. Jude wasn't sure which prince he referred to, Belkin or Cardan. She knew one was worse than the other. Cardan was only nineteen with no true courtly power since he was still in school. Belkin on the other hand was the eldest prince to the High King, was centuries old, and was in no shortage of power.
Jude realized, as the sound of the guards searching the manor grew closer, that she had no options that were beneficial to her. She did, however, have one option that was far better than the other. The guards in question would be in the hall at any second by the sound of it. She could either bolt now, get captured by them, and have the doorknocker spill her secrets... or she could face whatever was on the other side of this door.
For all that she knew Cardan could still be at the revel a few floors down. Drunk on wine and merriment like he always was and balls deep in a pretty sprite.
The door swung open in front of her, leaving her no chance to rethink her decision as she stepped inside the threshold of the chamber, closing the door behind her. On the other side, she could hear the guards storming into the hall where she had just been standing.
“My prince,” the doorknocker called out, his face now on the backside of the door, peering inside the room, “your mortal maiden has come calling for you.”
Jude’s heart plummeted to her stomach. She couldn’t believe she had hoped that Cardan would still be enjoying the festivities downstairs. Ugh! Of course, the knocker would’ve known he was inside. He could magic from room to room after all. It seemed that the stars truly were against her that night.
She smashed her eyes shut in fear of what was to come next but all she was met with grumbling coming from the beautiful four-poster bed.
Jude peeked her eyes open and saw that Cardan hadn’t even bothered looking up to acknowledge the door. He laid on his bed sprawled out on his side, head hunched over with his nose shoved into a book, his black hair hanging in his eyes. He had one of his black nails caught between his teeth as his eyes darted across the page. He looked so... disarming like this. Nothing like the wicked boy she had come to know at school.
He probably hadn’t the slightest clue about the chaos Jude had caused downstairs, as he sat there completely wrapped up in his own world. From the way he was positioned, Jude guessed he was getting to an interesting part of his book. From behind him, Jude spotted his tail darted in and out of sight, swatting from side to side. It was almost humorous watching his tail change its pace as his eyes flew across the page; the tail speeding up and slowing down depending on what he read before him. This was a wholly unique side to Cardan she had never seen before, not at school, nor the palace revels, nor during her spy missions. So this was the person Cardan was when he was all alone?
The Cruel Prince of Elfhame was… a bookworm?
The door grumbled beside her loudly, clearing his throat, while a small incredulous smile tugged the corners of Jude’s lips.
“In a minute,” Cardan drawled slowly, as though speaking through honey, like his words had to travel all the way back from whatever far off land the book had charted him off to.
“My prince,” the doorknocker urged.
“I’m in the middle of a very important scene, my door, I don’t care for your taunts right now,” Cardan grumbled to the doorknocker, putting the same amount of emphasis on ‘my door’ as the door had on ‘my prince’. They were obviously very familiar with each other from how they spoke. “And she’s not ‘my’ anything!”
The knocker barked out a laugh followed by a wink towards Jude and with that, he vanished. Leaving her alone with Cardan. She turned to the door and tried the handle but it held firm, refusing to turn. She heard the sound of the doorknocker chuckling from the other side of the door; standing guard and locking her inside to face whatever punishment Cardan deemed fit for her. She dreaded what was to come but... he had yet to even notice her there.
Cardan reached over to the bedside table with the hand he had held hostage between his full lips and grabbed a goblet of wine from a tray of cheese, faerie fruit, and crackers. From what she could see before her, Jude decided that Cardan had the makings for a wonderful night of relaxation. The sight made something stir within her, perhaps she did want to look for trouble. How privileged of him to be able to sit here with such comforts while Jude had to enslave herself in a geas and become a spy just to get a scrap of power. He had everything she did not.
Jude realized that there would be no better trouble to find than a chance to ruin Cardan’s perfect night. And just as he was getting to the good part of his book she thought with bitter humor. Boohoo! The poor little prince! She rolled her eyes as resentment swelled within her. Resentment and rancorous jealousy. If the stars wanted her in trouble tonight then who was she to work against them.
She looked him over; his hair the color of raven feathers looked as if he had raked his hands through it a few times, probably in distress for whatever was happening in his book. How lucky he was that he only had to worry about his book and--
--and Balekin's wrath.
All schemes of trouble froze at the sickening memory of the wet sound of Cardan’s blood meeting the leather belt. The memory was a cooling draught to the burning resentment that boiled within her. Perhaps his books were a means of escape from the abuse he endured…
But none of that excused the bullshit he put her through at school! Jude was made to feel small every day since she was stolen away from the mortal world, but you don’t see her taking it out on every person she met.
And just like that, her resentment began to simmer anew. Although less powerful.
She continued to look him over, contemplating just how to ruin his night of relaxation. No adornments graced his ears for once, nor rings on his fingers. Cardan wore a plain sleep shirt whose strings were loose, leaving much of his lean chest exposed; she could see bits of his scars peeking over his shoulders.
Jude thought again about how strange it was seeing him like this. He was still heartbreakingly as handsome as usual except now, with the lack of finery and makeup, Jude almost found him more lovely. All the extravagance that he draped himself in distracted from how naturally breathtaking he was on his own. Now with nothing to distract from his unearthly beauty, Jude found herself almost speechless at the sight of him. It made her furious. How could someone so lovely on the outside be so hideous within?
Jude shook the annoying thoughts from her head and tried the door once more. Locked. Damn it.
Seeing no other option, Jude cleared her throat and spoke at last.
“I supposed I could come back another time then, your majesty,” she sunk into a curtsy to hide her grin when she heard him choke on his wine, realizing that he wasn't alone in his room.
“I would hate to interrupt... especially if you’re ‘in the middle of a very important scene’,” she phrased the last bit like a question, implying its inherent rudeness to dismiss someone over something as trivial as a good book. Although if Jude were to be honest with herself, she wouldn't mind that being a reasonable excuse to dismiss someone.
She looked up and barely choke down the laugh that tried to bubble out of her throat at the sight before her. Of a flabbergasted Cardan with wine now staining the front of his sleep shirt and his black eyes ringed with gold bugging out of his head at the sight of her. He may be beautiful but he looked ridiculous at that moment.
“Now how does your door know my name and why did he refer to me as your maiden?”
chapter 2
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captain-emmajones · 3 years
Text
in the palm of your freezing hand
Here is my contribution for Neverland New Year. Bigs thanks to @neverlandnewyear for organizing this and to @carpedzem for reading this over for me <3
I apologize for any grammar/spelling mistakes. They are all mine! 
Summary: 
Post 3x09: On their way back from Neverland to Storybrooke, Emma is alone on deck of the Jolly Roger while everyone is asleep...or is she really alone? 
Hurt/Comfort -- 1,6k words -- Ao3
The ladder creaks under Emma’s footsteps as she climbs out of Hook’s quarters where Henry lies peacefully asleep. 
The ocean breeze greets her outside; it tangles and dusts salt crystals into her hair. Goosebumps run across the exposed skin of her neck as the wood of the Jolly Roger exhales sighs of content, lulled by the waves. 
Emma breathes in -- 
After Neverland, and the lost boys, and saving Henry, everything is so distinctively quiet on deck. It has been deserted; there is not a human soul to be spotted. 
-- and exhales a sigh of relief, looking up with leaden eyelids towards the starry sky. 
Lazy, white clouds twirl around the moon; they seem to be competing for her attention as she bathes the ship in a cold, silver light.  
Another gust of wind swirls around Emma; she folds her arms around her body to smother a shiver and paces forward. 
It is her first moment of peace, all by herself, in forever. 
She licks her lips, tastes salt on the tip of her tongue, as she walks towards the ship’s bow. And repeats cautiously to herself: Henry is safe. We are going home. Henry is safe. 
Everyone’s settled down in the crew’s cabin, with the hammocks and the bunk beds, but Emma knows she will not get any sleep tonight. 
She still feels on the edge of a precipice, can still feel the void calling to her and the restless shaking of her legs.  
The bitter taste, at the back of her throat, will not be swallowed down and this foreboding knot in her stomach will not stop whispering, murmuring, that something terrible has yet to happen. 
Henry is safe. We are going home. Henry is safe. We are -- 
Emma wraps her arms around herself in a tighter embrace to gather a surplus of heat. Angry shivers run down her spine, but she needs the fresh air, she needs the distraction in order to remain afloat and -- 
“Are you alright there, Swan?” 
She startles, heart racing, and spins around to face Hook emerging from the shadow, his coat swinging around him. Fuck. Shafts of moonlight sweep over him and slowly illuminate his features, touch by touch, until Emma can make out his eyebrows furrowed in a line of concern above eyes that have no business being this blue.
Her gaze lowers, flutters along pink lips and lands onto the pile of blankets folded against his chest. This sight brings her back to a few hours ago, when Hook safely tucked the blue bed cover of his single bed beneath Henry’s chin before standing up with a quiet smile and letting Emma and Regina flood in his room. 
“I just distributed those, but you weren’t anywhere to be found below,” he continues, stepping towards her. 
Emma blames his sharp and knowing gaze for her pounding heart and her anxious step backward. She thinks hurt flashes in his eyes, but it is only a momentary flicker and it soon dies into a gentle smile. 
And Emma’s figured out in Neverland that there isn’t much she can do, against that smile, and this earnest look on his face.  
“I’m okay,” she finally exhales, but it isn’t enough to dissipate the uneasiness she sees in his eyes. 
A playful gale interrupts her, preventing her from adding anything else, and she shuts her eyes under the cold surprise, muscles stiffening. 
Before she knows it, something soft embraces her and Emma lifts her eyelids to see Hook in front of her, securing a blanket around her shoulders.  
“There,” he whispers, even as his fingers skim lightly over the skin of her neck and then stop, “That’s much better, isn’t it, Swan?” 
Emma swallows down. Her hands fasten over the blanket, trembling fingers brushing against Hook’s. Her eyelashes flutter and a wobbling smile flickers across her face as his musky scent fills in her lungs. 
“Thanks.” A tender smile curls up the corners of his mouth and Emma’s heart lurches an unfair amount. 
Yeah...Fighting against that side of Hook is definitely harder than it looks like. 
Before she can catch herself gazing longer into his eyes, she whirls around to face the green waves that cradle and crash against the Jolly Roger. Although she cannot see him, Emma feels Hook’s hovering presence settling beside her. 
They stand there in a comfortable silence, shoulders almost touching, and Emma thinks it has been weird to see the pirate persona fade away, yielding to the Captain beneath it -- a Captain who has made sure everyone was safe and sound on his ship.  
She saw him proceed calmly, organized as he ordered everyone around and Emma thinks she caught a glimpse of the pirate Captain who, for three hundred years, was the only leader aboard this ship.
Emma also thinks it is odd how easily he gave up on his leadership, in Neverland, but then she stops thinking about it because those are dangerous territories to explore. 
Something bubbles up in the sea, beneath them. Emma squints. It must be a fish. 
“Did you eat anything?” He suddenly asks, shattering the silence. 
She shakes her head, blanket twirling along with her, and aims for a detached tone when she mumbles: “Nope. Wasn’t hungry.” 
And lowers her gaze for proper emphasis.
He sighs next to her. “You need to eat, Swan. And sleep. Savior or not, you are still human.” 
She scowls. “I’m not seeing you doing a lot of sleeping either.” 
A small laugh escapes him and Emma instinctively tilts her face to stare at him, biting her lower lip to smother a smile and clutching hard her blanket. 
It must be her lack of sleep, or just the euphoria of finally leaving Neverland, but Emma feels slightly drunk. Now that she thinks about it, her eyelids burn. 
“Point taken, Swan. However, this ship still needs a Captain. And once we’ll be in Storybrooke, I’ll have the rest of eternity at least to rest with the lots of you out of my ship.” 
He isn’t looking at her, and Emma has all the leisure to see the too big, too bright grin on his face fade into a frown and this unfamiliar and disconcerting look settle on his features. 
Emma’s stomach twists. 
“Oh yeah, don’t worry,” she hears herself say, “You’ll soon have this ship all to yourself.” 
Silence falls, dull and heavy. Even the sea seems to hold back her waves beneath her bosom, scared to shatter it. 
Emma gulps down. She does not know where to look. Gazing at him somehow feels too intimate. Something is clenching at her throat. She drops her gaze, stares at the blanket around her shoulders and then -- 
“Aye.” 
-- and then, looks back at him. Always back at him. (That will become a pattern, but Emma does not know that yet.)
Fuck. His head is lowered, stubborn wisp of hair hanging in front of his eyes; he seems to be examining the rings around his fingers, and Emma wishes he would look at her instead -- but he doesn’t. He remains frozen. 
A wave of heat overwhelms her and her free hand abruptly grips the wooden rail next to his. Although she winces at the cold, the desired effect occurs; he looks up, surprised, and delves into her eyes. 
Emma’s heart might sink to her feet but she goes on: “What are you going to do once we reach Storybrooke anyway? You know I won’t let you pillage and plunder this town, right?” 
The joke falls flat with the implications of her words and she sees his eyes go back and forth between hers, trying to read her. 
Panic sweeps over her. She just assumed, she just assumed that he would stay in Storybrooke, with them, as if, as if he belongs there or something -- 
Thankfully for Emma, Hook’s answer comes quickly and is delivered in a gentle, soothing tone that sends a loop in her stomach.  
“I’m not after these kinds of tresors anymore, Swan.” 
Emma nods, although her heart is now beating inside her mouth and her legs have turned to stone. 
“I’m happy to hear that. I wouldn’t want to have to chase you around Storybrooke.” 
Another laughter. Even the moon looks as though she is scrunching her nose and smiling upon them. 
“I beg to differ.” 
In a moment of clarity, Emma does think she should go and try to get some sleep, before her fingers end up doing something terrible, like grabbing the lapel of his coat. 
Eventually, there is just enough willpower left in Emma to allow her to slowly retreat. She blinks, inhales, gathers strength. Sleep. She needs sleep. 
“I’m sure you do,” she exhales and takes a step backward. 
As she passes him by, her right hand instinctively brushes across his arm; Emma sees Hook’s eyes widen at their contact, but he does not make any comment. 
A smile, she smiles -- 
“‘Night Hook.” 
-- and allows herself to look up and gaze into his eyes. There is something exhilarating, about staring into his eyes. Emma does not know why.  
Without looking down, she is able to predict the spontaneous jolt of his fingers towards her, fingers that rise and reach for her, and then stop, as if asking for permission and Emma meets him halfway. 
“Goodnight, Swan,” he answers back, as his hand curls around her knuckles, how can his skin be this warm?, and there is that stupid grin on Emma’s face again. 
She nods as Hook’s warm touch sends electric trails circulating all through her body. She is definitely too exhausted to care. 
Instead she keeps on smiling, fingers lingering in the comfort of his palm… 
...And then slowly backs away into the night -- a small, serene cloud floating along with her. 
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generouswindow · 2 years
Text
Tonight
by AGHA SHAHID ALI
   Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar                         —Laurence Hope Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight? Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight? Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—” “Trinket”—to gem—“Me to adorn—How tell”—tonight? I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates— A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight. God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar— All the archangels—their wings frozen—fell tonight. Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken; Only we can convert the infidel tonight. Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities multiply me at once under your spell tonight. He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven. He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight. In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed. No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight. God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day— I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight. Executioners near the woman at the window. Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight. The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight. My rivals for your love—you’ve invited them all? This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight. And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee— God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
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