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novelconcepts · 3 years

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Prompt: Dani and Jamie's second time. Or first time post Bly/post "do you want company?" It seems like there'd be interesting emotional ground to cover there: Dani, still Pretty New to This (being with a woman, sure, but also with someone she actually has romantic and sexual feelings for), but also on the heels of a MAJOR trauma. And Jamie, who had every intention of giving this thing time and space to take root between them, but has suddenly had to go all in, all at once. (1/2)

So there's all that baggage, but also, you know, the thirst. Anyway, I think it would be interesting in the hands of someone with your knack for using sex as a vehicle t explore character dynamics/emotions. (2/2)

It’s not planned. Not that the first time was a plan, Jamie thinks. The first time was less a plan, more a tumble--a leap--a decision. You’ve shown me yours, it’s only fair, she’d thought, with the dizzy exhilaration of making a choice you might very well regret come morning. Dani had spent so much time walking through the dark alone, not a hand to grab, not a light to shine. It had only seemed right, for Jamie to meet her halfway.

And tumble they had--into Dani’s bed, into this thing Jamie hadn’t been looking for, but hadn’t quite been able to look away from, either. They’d fallen onto the mattress, every move fresh and new and exhilarating. Jamie hadn’t done this in years; Dani, not at all. And there had been something to it, something nearly immaculate that Jamie had almost felt unworthy of--the way Dani muffled laughter against her skin, the nervous skid of her voice pressed into Jamie’s neck as she’d stood there in jeans and damp hair. It had been soft, and careful, Dani gently folding her jumper and setting it aside, Jamie stretching every new beat out as long as she could stand until it was clear--more than clear, certain--that Dani was ready for the next.

It had been lovely, and almost simple, and for all the nerves in the world, it had felt like stepping into the light for the first time.

And then, not a day later, everything changed. Change is good, Jamie knows; organic and expected, even if not exactly predictable. Change is right, Jamie knows; a world without change isn’t natural. Still, she’d thought--hoped, maybe foolishly--that they’d get time before the change swept in. That it would be a gentle shift over months or even years, rather than a sudden assertion of new facts.

Facts like: there are things in the world neither of them are prepared to handle.

Facts like: those things have grabbed hold of Dani in ways Jamie can’t reach.

Facts like: even now, outside the gravity of the manor and the life they’d begun there, the shadows are darker than she could ever have comprehended.

Truths, every last one, and Jamie has never been one to argue against truth. The world is set by laws and regulations--one season drifts into the next, the weather speaks for itself, no one can stop the spread of roots beneath the earth. These are good things, true things, rational things she has based her adult life around.

And still, she wishes. Wishes she could have had more time with Dani’s nervous skidding laughter. More time sitting back, her favorite shirt on the floor, watching with amusement as Dani gently folds her own top and sets it aside. More time making it all as easy as she can for Dani to learn.

Instead, they’re both learning--and it’s not the kind of thing any past relationship can prepare for. Not for the way Dani disappears into her own reflection sometimes, gazing for hours into the passenger mirror as though unable to keep her eyes from searching for something Jamie can’t see. Not for the quiet uncertainty of Dani’s smile, so unlike the bright, hopeful expression she’d worn when Jamie had kissed her that night. They can’t prepare for eyes that change color without warning, for beasts lurking unseen, for a promise made without fully understanding the consequences.

They can’t prepare. But they can walk into it together. That matters.

At first, Dani hadn’t seemed to want to touch her. Or hadn’t seemed able to touch her, maybe; she’d hugged herself close, put her hands in her pockets, kept her distance. But, slowly--as they’d made their way through England, as they’d bought plane tickets and planned for adventure across the pond--that had dissolved. Slowly, she’d come back. One day at a time, a little nearer. Brushing Jamie’s hand on the flight over. Her shoulder pressed lightly to Jamie’s in the car rental office. Her body sliding past in a hotel room.

Small touches. Glancing, testing, experimental touches. Nothing big. Nothing like what they’d already uncorked in a bedroom back in Bly.

The weeks unfold, and every night, Dani curls a little closer. Sometimes, Jamie finds herself unable to sleep at all, with Dani’s head on her chest. Sometimes, it feels so much like playing champion that she feels too small, too fragile, unworthy of the honor. Dani, groaning in her sleep, clutching at Jamie’s shirt like she’s in danger of sliding away, seems not to notice. Dani is fighting her own battles, and she’s doing so without letting Jamie so much as hand her a weapon.

The weeks unfold, and the air between them seems ever to tighten. Every time Dani catches her eye and holds. Every time Dani takes her hand without looking. Every time Dani stands, swaying, her body leaning forward as she had in a hallway once upon a lifetime ago.

And still: nothing. Jamie doesn’t push. Jamie can’t bear to see the crease in Dani’s brow, the flinch from an unexpected touch. Dani is not fragile, she is sure; Dani Clayton is still so much stronger than either of them could have imagined, she knows. Still. Still, she can’t be the thing to break any part of Dani open.

Dani has to come to her.

And, without plan, without intent, Dani does.

They’ve been on the road for almost a month, two people learning one another without the easy fall-back of sexual intimacy. It is unlike any relationship Jamie’s ever had--though, in fairness, she supposes she figured that out about Dani before she even knew they’d wind up here. Before she could even guess. Dani has always been different.

In a past life, she would be building the blocks of their future on physical touch. On hands sliding into clothes, on lips tracing and tongues tasting. She understands that much very well--that a person can give so much up without meaning to, can have so many trunks unlocked by simple virtue of getting naked. It’s easy, watching people, learning what they need. Easy, if you’re willing to pay attention.

But it’s easy, in its own way, learning Dani this way, too. Learning how she leans into uptempo pop-rock, and turns up her nose at twangy folk-country. Learning how she claims not to be hungry, only to steal half the food off of Jamie’s plate. Learning how to read the serious cast of her eyes when she’s thinking, how it’s different from the purse of her lips when she’s about to spiral into panic. It’s easy in every way, as she’d never expected it to be.

Except for this. Except for the electricity. She can’t for her life find a way to read that--because it’s always there. Always between them, this intangible heat springing up at a moment’s notice. One minute, they’re laughing--Jamie bending to pat a retriever who has bounded across the park to make a new friend, Dani chatting idly with the middle-aged woman apologizing for the dog’s exuberance--and then:

Then it’s like they’re back there, back at Bly, back in that bedroom. Back with Jamie’s arm looped gently around Dani’s waist, Dani’s hands framing her face, all warm breath and lips not quite touching. That same heat, that same lightning-in-a-bottle irresistibility, punching up between them.

It’s in every shop, the aisles so slender, they find themselves pressing tight as they inspect wares. In every diner, Dani leaning nearly out of her seat into some unseen gravity Jamie can’t seem to help producing. In every hotel room.

Every single hotel room.

It’s hers, Jamie thinks, even as her heart pounds and her fingertips seem to go numb with anticipation. It has to be hers. Dani’s choice. Dani’s willingness to, once again, tumble with her into something new.

It’s hers, even as Dani seems to burn on the other side of a bathroom door Jamie has left cracked open while she showers. Dani’s choice. Dani’s willingness to want this with her, for her own reasons, and not simply because they’ve done it once before.

It’s hers, even as Jamie slides into bed with the quiet uncertainty of yet another night not quite there. Not quite ready. Dani’s choice. Dani’s willingness to set aside the thing she insists is watching her, waiting to pull her under.

The air seems especially fraught tonight, somehow--she thinks maybe it’s the August of it all, pushing in through the cracks in the windows. August in the American Midwest is hotter than she anticipated, a deeper heat than she’s felt in a long time. There’s a thick quality to the humidity she doesn’t like, and she finds herself wishing for the affectionate chill of autumn.

Especially now, with Dani stretched out beside her on the sheets. It’s too hot for much; Dani had looked almost apologetic, stepping out of the bathroom in a long t-shirt and underwear. Jamie, who’d spent the previous night tossing and turning in an ill-advised pair of sweatpants, tried to look easy shrugging.

“S’too bloody hot for anything else, right?”

There had been relief in Dani’s eyes, but slipping between the sheets had felt like stepping into a house without turning on the lights. The air is simply too heavy to be allowed. The bed is simply too small.

Dani is simply too close and too far at the same time.

It has to be her, Jamie thinks again, a constant mantra against her own desires. It’s a personal doctrine, a requirement. It has to be--

Dani is breathing in the dark, slow, hitching breaths that sound almost like a nightmare. She’s laying on her side, facing Jamie, two people curled not quite to meeting, and every time Jamie opens her eyes--Dani is gazing back. In the dark, it’s hard to make out the mismatched colors. In the dark, she can almost believe both of those eyes are still blue.

Dani, breathing deeply. Saying nothing. But one hand, Jamie realizes, is moving. One hand, drifting almost like a dream, resting lightly along Jamie’s hip.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t close her eyes. Only shifts, slowly, her legs straightening against the warm rustle of stiff sheets. Dani’s hand remains where it is, a fixed spot in a room which seems suddenly to be adrift.

Jamie, slowly, raises a hand to match. A light brush of fingers, curling around until Dani exhales and lets her own body inch nearer.

Dani, who seems so far and so impossibly close.

Has to be, Jamie thinks, the only words coming to mind as the hand on her hip drifts up, slowly sliding along her ribs. Dani’s palm is warm, her fingers trembling, slipping up under the cotton t-shirt. She rests there, halfway up a ribcage which seems suddenly too brittle to hold the crash of Jamie’s heart, waiting.

Jamie, slowly, matches her.

This will be, she is sure, as far as it goes. Dani is pushing her own boundaries tonight in ways Jamie hasn’t let herself even think about, but it’s so hot, and the air is so heavy, and there is simply no way--

Dani’s legs, bare and smooth, are brushing her own. She drags in a breath, aware Dani can feel it beneath her hand, and can’t find it in herself to be embarrassed. Not with the way Dani is curling closer, the bed--already so small--shrinking to nearly nothing.

Dani, who has been close, but hasn’t looked at her quite like this in weeks. Dani, who has been so distracted by her own reflection, by the monster she senses beneath the waves. Dani, who seems now, for the first time since leaving England, to see only her.

“We don’t have to,” Jamie hears herself breathe. “We don’t--”

Dani makes a noise: maybe a laugh, maybe a bid for silence. Her hand is sliding higher, her fingers tracing the underside of Jamie’s breast with the barest contact. Jamie swallows the next words, her own hand flexing in response.

Dani is nearly on her pillow, she realizes. Her head lifts slightly, her eyes searching Jamie’s, and there is a moment where Jamie thinks, She’ll run now. She’ll flinch back. She’ll do it again, and it will hurt again, and there’s nothing I can--

Dani is kissing her, and if Jamie had feared a loss here--if Jamie had feared Dani might forget how to do this, or how to want her--there is no point entertaining that fear any longer. Not with Dani’s lips pressing gently once, twice, then harder. Dani, banishing the rest of the distance in a single fluid motion, sliding across the mattress and pressing Jamie down onto her back.

It is not planned, she can tell--from the heady breath catching in Dani’s chest, from the dark glaze in Dani’s eyes as she gazes down at her. Dani is as surprised as she is, even pressing her body down, her hips rocking against Jamie’s almost accidentally. A flush rises in Dani’s cheeks, her lip pulling between her teeth.

Jamie nods. Words, she senses, will break the spell--whatever it is Dani needs to do here, to prove to herself here, does not need words. Consent, though. Consent requested and freely given. That much feels right.

Dani presses down to kiss her again, even as Jamie is arching up to meet her, and it isn’t gentle this time. Isn’t easy and slow and stretched carefully out, each beat elongated until crashing hearts can level into something sustainably enthusiastic. This is a month of waiting, a month of electricity, the sweat-slide of muggy August air pressing down around them. This is Dani leaning out of the grip of whatever she most fears and into the desire she’s been fostering since a kiss in a greenhouse.

This is Dani’s hand’s exploring, her fingers in Jamie’s hair, tracing Jamie’s jawline, pulling Jamie’s shirt up over her head. This is Dani’s mouth at her ear, gasping in surprise when Jamie’s hands close around her hips and jerk her down against one bent thigh. This is Dani rolling to meet her, one hand fumbling beneath her waistband, fingers searching and finding and stroking until Jamie’s breath is a hot spike in her chest.

It’s the kissing, she thinks, she’s missed most. No one has ever kissed her like Dani does--not like a secret to be hidden away, or a private scorn to look back on later, or even a hot glee no one should ask to understand. Dani kisses like she wants to be here. Dani kisses like she never wants to be anywhere else. Dani kisses her in this hotel, in this bed, with her fingers curling and her hips grinding mercilessly, with exactly the same excitement as in a hallway--in a grove--in a greenhouse. Every time, no matter what Dani Clayton carries, she kisses the same way.

She believes, in some part of her, that Dani will build those walls again when her hands have finished their pleasing work. That Dani will roll off of her, lay on her back, stare blankly at the ceiling as she waits for her beast to rise up.

Dani doesn’t. Dani makes soft, urgent noises against her upturned jaw, kissing and sighing as Jamie’s back bows off the mattress, and Jamie has barely found equilibrium again--legs trembling, hands buried in Dani’s hair--when she slides not off, but down. Down the mattress, kicking aside useless sheets, dragging the underwear off Jamie’s hips as she goes.

“You don’t have to,” Jamie begins, but Dani is looking at her around the almost leisurely kisses she trails down a shivering body, just looking at her as her mouth explores still-new territory, and Jamie sees no point in arguing. Not with the way Dani is sliding half off the small bed, her hands insistent and hopeful as they guide Jamie’s legs up over her shoulders.

No words, Jamie decides again, letting herself sink into Dani’s kiss. Letting herself rock against Dani in slow, easy rhythm, she grips the sheet in one hand and Dani’s hair in the other, guiding her with gentle pressure. Dani hadn’t done this, the first night. Dani had, in fact, spent much of that night on her back, shivering all over with excitement and trepidation and pleasure. Teach me, she’d said in a voice half-shy, half-brazen, and Jamie had complied with the joy of one who knows this kind of education can take a lifetime.

Teach me, Dani had said then, but now, it seems to be a different instruction. Let me, maybe. Let me learn. Let me want this.

Far be it from me, Jamie thinks dazedly; her mind may worry about going too far, about pushing Dani out of her comfort zone, but her body is familiar with this ride. Her body is all too delighted to find Dani picking up the signals of what she likes, Dani testing with soft kiss and rough lick to find what works best.

And maybe now, Jamie thinks with a mind wiped nearly blank, Dani will pull away. Maybe now, Dani will vanish on her without warning. Maybe.

Except, no--Dani is curling against her once more, one thigh draped over Jamie’s hips, moving against her with slow, indulgent thrusts. Her hand curls around Jamie’s shoulder, her breath coming in fast little puffs as she picks up speed, and it’s all Jamie can do not to flip her over and take the wheel. All she can do, to curl her fingers around Dani’s thigh, digging in as Dani presses against her, slides away, presses against her. It does not feel, she recognizes, as though Dani is trying to reach a conclusion of her own. It feels only as though Dani is desperate to feel her, to keep herself present, to make absolutely certain neither of them can forget she is in this bed.

No chance of that, thinks Jamie, weariness and arousal making the strangest bedfellows. All night, Dani could keep this up--all night, with sweat running down her back, with her lips tracking every inch of Jamie’s skin, drawing her tight and shattering her control. She wouldn’t mind. It’s too hot to sleep, anyway.

“Okay,” Dani says, her voice half a coiled groan, as she eases a hand down to tease at Jamie once more. “We’re okay. We’re here.”

“We are,” Jamie agrees, turning her head, kissing Dani with what she hopes is all the long, steady promise of a bedroom and an offer to keep company. Whatever that means. For however long Dani wants. “We are absolutely fine.”

For the first time, she’s pretty sure they both believe it.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #damie #this was requested here but also like. forty years ago. glad to finally have found the words for it

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no-other-words · 3 years

Text

Just a Bit Closer

Synopsis: Xie Lian suggests taking a relaxing dip in the pond. Hua Cheng slightly freaks out. Rated T | 3400w | canon-divergent, fluff, domestic, slight angst [ Read on AO3 ]

Never again will he be so bold. His Highness follows a path of virtue. His Highness is to be untouched. His Highness—

“San Lang?”

Hua Cheng snaps his head up. Xie Lian’s attention is fully on him, his face half-curious half-amused. He hasn’t been aware that his hands were rolled into fists until now.

“It’s only a bath.”

His Highness is requesting him to bathe with him.

Hua Cheng gulps. He may be a ghost king, but he is not equipped to face this challenge.

---

Hua Cheng has endured much throughout his life.

As a child, love was an alien concept and no friend of his when endless beatings and hate had accompanied him. He’s worn battle scars that no young man’s body should ever had to receive. Wars had been waged against godly figures from the depths of Mount Tonglu to the skies of the Heavenly Court. His soul has died again and again for the anguish that had ceaselessly pierced his one person—yet it is also his soul that lives again and again and refuses to fade.

Hua Cheng is a Devastation, a ghost king, one of the Four Calamities, if not the strongest. His very name demands unwavering respect and brings even the strongest of martial gods to their trembling knees. He’s been through a lot but not one of his past challenges can come close to this.

In just a thin layer of white robe, Xie Lian stands in the middle of the pond. He’s pouring another bucket load of water over his head, completely unaware of the silver allure cast upon him by the soft of the moonlight. His under-robe does nothing to hide the rosy peaks of his hardened nipples, peeking from underneath.

It goads Hua Cheng for a little contact, a little taste.

Long locks of wet hair stick to his skin, drawing out the slender curves down his neck and bony ridges of his collarbones. A few stray strands wound up over Xie Lian’s lips and it reminds Hua Cheng of their kiss in the lake. Their first and most likely the only kiss. The one he bravely stole in the heat of the moment when all he’d meant to do is give Xie Lian a little help.

Necessary on Xie Lian’s part, completely out of line on Hua Cheng’s. He’d let his worst part get to him at the expense of His Highness’ comfort. It’s obvious from Xie Lian’s reaction—a boundary had been crossed that left the martial god catatonic to the point where he had to lie to get away from the situation. The only redeeming hope had been from within Qiandeng Temple, where Xie Lian had thankfully taken to its charm.

His eyebrows pinch and he looks away.

Never again will he be so bold. His Highness follows a path of virtue. His Highness is to be untouched. His Highness—

“San Lang?”

Hua Cheng snaps his head up. Xie Lian’s attention is fully on him, his face half-curious half-amused. He hasn’t been aware that his hands were rolled into fists until now.

“It’s only a bath.”

His Highness is requesting him to bathe with him.

Xie Lian moves to the bank. The closer he gets, the lower the water level around his body becomes and reveals a shapely waist perfect for grabbing onto. Once again, that good-for-nothing under-robe does the opposite of what it’s meant to do and only serves to feed Hua Cheng’s tainted, invasive mind. The translucent material, wet to the core, plasters nicely against Xie Lian’s skin, emitting a pale pink hue.

Hua Cheng gulps.

He may be a ghost king, but he is not equipped to face this challenge.

It had started with a simple question.

“Do ghost kings not take baths?”

Hua Cheng paused mid-sweep and looked back at Xie Lian curiously. They’d been fixing up Puqi Shrine and cleaning the grounds, after leaving it unattended for several days when they went off to catch a runaway fetus spirit. Things were winding down for the day, with Lang Ying washing dishes after a not-so-successful meal and Guzi put to sleep.

“N-not that I mean anything by it! I was just thinking, how we ran around all over the land recently and we just spent a whole day cleaning the shrine, and I haven’t seen you gone washing since.” Xie Lian stopped to reflect. “I suppose there aren’t suitable places around here to properly do so.”

Hua Cheng pulled a small smile and continued to sweep away the last of leaves into a corner. “Gege needn’t worry to justify his questions. Any curious thoughts arise, this San Lang will gladly answer. I don’t know about the other ones and I don’t care to, but this one does well to remember to be clean. It would be an offence not to.”

He faltered and quickly added, “Does gege think this San Lang is filthy? I will—”

“Ah no! Like you said, it was just a curious thought” Xie Lian says. His eyes then sparkled, caught bright under the gleam of moonlight. “How about we take a dip in the pond nearby? It’s a nice little spot I found not so long ago, with a waterfall. The night is still early. I’m sure it’ll help expel the last of the adrenaline from our recent voyage.”

Which is how Crimson Rain Sought Flower has found himself in this current predicament.

Much to Hua Cheng’s dismay, it doesn’t really expel much. If anything, it invites more adrenaline and that is not what he needs right now. To be so close, in the intimate space of such private practices—Hua Cheng calls upon the 800 years of learned patience and discipline.

Xie Lian is still waiting for him. “Something the matter? I promise, this time there are no demon babies in the water.”

“…I’m dirty.”

“That’s the point, San Lang.”

That unassuming smile graces his face, as ethereal under the night sky as the time when Hua Cheng pulled him out of the lake in rescue.

How can he say no to his god?

He feels an excited trembling at his side and Hua Cheng looks down to see E’Ming wiggling to get out. A soft chuckle runs through the air.

“See? Even E’Ming wants a wash.”

Hua Cheng slaps his weapon in annoyance. “Ignore it, gege. This thing just wants to play.”

As if Hua Cheng had said a magic word, the silk band around Xie Lian’s wrist slithers itself free and gently glides towards him. Without warning, Ruoye grabs him by the waist and tugs him into the pond. Hua Cheng surfaces just in time to hear Xie Lian laugh. It’s music in the making and he hopes to hear more of it for the rest of his time.

“Looks like Ruoye wants to play too,” Xie Lian teases.

E’Ming responds by unsheathing itself and splashing water towards the white ribbon. The two sentient weapons go at it nearby, chasing frantically at each other in an almost comic-like scene. It comes to a quick pause when E’Ming casts a rather large wave of water right in Xie Lian’s direction and Hua Cheng blocks the attack with his arm.

The demon lord shoots his weapon a cold killing look. Xie Lian meanwhile tugs on an assailing Ruoye and reminds all three of them, “gentle”.

Reprimanded, E’Ming and Ruoye calm down and go off to find other ways to play. Xie Lian then turns his attention back to Hua Cheng. “San Lang, will you hand me your robe? It’s gotten dirtied from all the chores today. I’ll wash it together with mine.”

If Hua Cheng still had a beating heart, it’d be skipping out from his chest. But he doesn’t and it’s a momentary reminder of the many boundaries he mustn’t cross over. He stands unmoving, a good distance from Xie Lian.

“Is Your Highness suggesting that he wishes to see this San Lang strip? That is quite a bold request.”

“Your outer robes, San Lang! No teasing, please.”

“This one wouldn’t dare.”

Nevertheless, Hua Cheng takes pride in observing the red flush on Xie Lian’s cheeks. Rosy and heated, it’s a gorgeous contrast to his pale white skin. He often wonders what other things can make Xie Lian blush like that. A simple touch on his neck, a nip at his ear, perhaps a kiss on his—

He stops. Stop stop stop. His Highness would not appreciate these inappropriate thoughts.

His Highness, who is currently scrubbing his clothes, as if it’s not a baseless and undeserving task for a martial god to do. He does it so earnestly, as he does with everything else. Xie Lian’s eyebrows scrunch with concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from habit. Hua Cheng quietly watches, peeking under his arms as he lathers soap into his hair. This is a treasured moment not to be missed.

“It’s not the grand bathhouse I’m sure San Lang has in his manor, but I find this spot to be very relaxing,” Xie Lian says in a soft tone. “Hidden astray from the main road, not a lot of villagers know of its location. Nature is untouched here and it helps me ground myself.”

“My bathhouse is nothing compared to this. If gege wishes, I can build a fence around the area. Prevent outsiders from trespassing.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian chortles, “if people pass by, they pass by. If they don’t, they don’t. This place isn’t mine. None of it is, even Puqi Shrine. I’m merely borrowing the land from which the earth has gifted me.”

Hua Cheng sneaks a loving smile. He’s always admired this side of him.

After one final dunk in the water, Xie Lian wrings both their now-cleaned robes dry and drapes them over a low-hanging branch. He gives the red robe a long look, contemplation washing over.

“San Lang, if I may brazenly ask…”

Hua Cheng halts his scrubbing to give the man his full attention.

“Earlier when you said…it would be an offence…to whom would it be an offence?”

It takes several words out before Xie Lian flutters his gaze up to Hua Cheng, already bashful from making such an inquiry. But once Hua Cheng catches his eyes, he does all he can to hold them. He wills them not to look away, yearning to convey all the feelings locked inside. The fires, the bliss, the ten thousand words he’s thought up to say in the past eight hundred years. All the little tingles of emotions bottled up and will continue to be so for he has a beloved and that beloved cannot know.

Hua Cheng tilts his head slightly forward and softens his gaze. “Someone very important.”

A short moment of silence pass before Xie Lian hums in understanding. He grabs hold of the wooden bucket, floating forgotten nearby, and returns to his own washing.

“San Lang is a very earnest person.”

Only for his one god.

“Gege is not going to question further?”

“Whatever San Lang is willing to tell me, I will listen with gratitude. I trust you have your reasons.”

Hua Cheng purses his lips, not knowing what to do with this level of trust. So he dunks his head underwater and scrubs harshly at his hair. He’s determined to get all the dirt out. All that filth that sticks to him like a parasite, refusing to leave this place that Xie Lian considers his haven.

Get out. Get out get out get out. His Highness, in all his lack of self-preservation, has invited a Devastation for a private bath and all he wants to do is touch and feel and be close, so so close with him. Patience is his forte – it’s something he’s nurtured in the past centuries but there are moments of weakness. Moments like this when he cannot contain himself and wish he can kiss gege again.

Be a thief and steal another piece of bliss.

Hua Cheng lifts his head out, a thick curtain of black hair fall around his face. He’s done now, all necessary washing complete. He should get out of the pond and wait by the sidelines.

A warm hand places on his shoulder. Hua Cheng startles at Xie Lian’s sudden closeness.

“San Lang, that is not how you wash your hair,” Xie Lian chides, a slight pout to his displeased face. “You must treat it gently else you can get knots like that. Here, let me.”

Xie Lian pulls him towards the small waterfall in the corner, leading a winding path so they stay on a shallow path. Hua Cheng lets himself be turned around and a second later, feels gentle combing down his hair. He lowers himself to a kneeling position so Xie Lian doesn’t have to tip toe.

Somewhere in the depths of his chest, a ghost heart beats.

Here, under the lull of the waterfall and vigil of the moon, a god washes his follower’s hair. The consistent rhythm of Xie Lian’s fingers massaging soap on top of his scalp and combing through his hair length brings a soothing pleasure. It is here that Hua Cheng braves to think that once again, Xie Lian is okay with his touch.

“My mother used to brush my hair while I bathed.”

Somehow, Hua Cheng can imagine an overindulged young prince melting under his Empress Mother’s loving attention, just as he’s so lucky to be experiencing the same.

“Am I currently as well-behaved as gege was back then?”

Xie Lian answers with a light chuckle, “very. In fact, I was more of a troublemaker. I’d often want to go swimming and try to wiggle out of her grasps. Mother was always too lenient.”

“With good reason, I’m sure. Gege was a beloved son—” Hua Cheng stops, not wanting to bring up unsavoury memories, and quickly corrects himself. “And must have been very adorable in his mother’s eyes.”

His hair is tugged playfully. “Cheeky San Lang.”

Fingers run along his hairline, gently pulling back to catch every strand. When the same hand moves down to his ears and brushes against the outer skin, Hua Cheng shivers in delight. It feels like something forbidden, one he gladly welcomes. No one has ever come this close in contact and Hua Cheng resolves from here on out that only Xie Lian will have the privilege.

Washing turns to a pleasant session of grooming. Hua Cheng’s sure his hair is more than clean but he stays quiet in favour of Xie Lian’s touch. His eyes drift to a lazy close, the peace creeping up on him so sneakily that he almost misses Xie Lian’s murmurs.

“I don’t…I rarely reminisce on old memories, especially ones involving my parents. They were from so long ago.”

An image of the Xianle Empress flashes in Hua Cheng’s mind. She’d been looking worryingly over him, from that time when he’d been rescued from Xie Lian’s bastard cousin.

“Then San Lang is very happy that gege is sharing a piece of his memory with him.”

He’s rewarded with a final stroke of his hair before he’s pulled towards the waterfall.

“Come, rinse. Stand under here, the water is not that heavy.”

Hua Cheng dutifully complies, happy under Xie Lian’s full attention and care. When the waterfall hits him, he tips his head slightly back and feels the suds slide down his hair. He hums in pleasure.

“Gege is right, this is very relaxing.”

Hearing no response, Hua Cheng opens his eyes. Xie Lian is wearing a dazed look, his eyes round and staring at him almost in a trancelike state. Lips slightly parted, as if in shock after discovering something unexpected.

“Your Highness?”

That seems to shake Xie Lian out of his stupor. He swiftly looks away, a nervous smile slapped on to hide the quiver in his voice.

“Ah—sorry. You’re done. Clean now…I’ll leave you. Give you priva—ah!”

Xie Lian slips on a rock in an attempt to quickly turn away. Instincts take over and Hua Cheng moves to catch him by the waist, his arm holding firm.

“S-San Lang…”

Only when Hua Cheng registers that Xie Lian is safe and away from immediate harm that he notices their close proximity. Senses become hyperaware towards the man in his embrace—the heat emitting from Xie Lian’s stuttered breathes, the pounding of his very alive heart, the skin…

Oh the warm hot skin that sends tingles through every cell currently in contact with Hua Cheng. Only a mere thin material stands between them and it’s oddly erotic to feel the cold wetness. Hua Cheng flexes his arm and watches in satisfaction the way Xie Lian jumps. His muscles feel both hard and soft under his hold and Hua Cheng would like nothing but to memorize the ridges and curves.

“San Lang, I’m—I’m cold.”

This time, he’s barely whispering.

Hua Cheng takes mercy and slowly unwraps his arm around Xie Lian and steadies the man. “Gege, be careful.”

He receives no response but he doesn’t need to. That bright red blush on his face is enough to lift the heavy weight off his chest and unchain the shackles that has settled over ever since the time when Xie Lian scrambled away their kiss. Perhaps this is different.

Hua Cheng finishes rinsing himself under the waterfall, glancing over at Xie Lian from time to time making sure he’s alright. The god seems to be back to a normal state, no longer moving in jerky ways. They’re alright. It’s going to be okay.

He can stay by His Highness’ side for just a bit longer.

When time comes for them to wrap up, Hua Cheng grabs both of their outer robes from the branch. It’s still rather damp but better than having no covering on. Which…would be quite a problem because Xie Lian’s slowly getting out of the water, not even at all mindful of the obscene display he’s putting on.

Hua Cheng blames that under-robe once again. It molds perfectly to Xie Lian’s wet skin and paints a pretty pink picture of his naked body underneath. Hua Cheng accidentally catches sight of a rather perfectly-round bottom before looking away. Thick clouds roll over the moon, dampening any source of light. At least there is some protection to Xie Lian’s virtue by the night’s shadows.

But imagination doesn’t discriminate, not to a ghost king’s mind and definitely not to a cursed weapon with a cursed eye.

E’Ming jumps at the sight of Xie Lian, joyous to see its master’s beloved come up to the shore and even more so to see him…in that state. It does a shuddering whirl before launching itself at the man.

Hua Cheng makes a displeased sound and is about to snap his fingers when Ruoye whips around E’Ming and covers its red eye. The two weapons wrestle a short while before the scimitar gives and compliantly calms.

Hua Cheng huffs. Damn thing will have a beating later as punishment for even thinking of peeking.

Their walk back to Puqi Shrine is short but sweet. Now without the bright moon, there isn’t much light for Xie Lian to see. Luckily, Hua Cheng’s silver butterflies illuminate their path and the two take to an extra slow pace.

“They’re so lovely,” Xie Lian comments with a soft smile, a warm husk to his tone. He lifts a finger that a bold butterfly has landed on and watches its wings open and close. “I’ve seen them in action, but they’re so gentle and beautiful and—and…enchanting!”

Hua Cheng gives a teasing voice. “Gege, stop. San Lang can only take so many compliments in a day.”

“The butterflies, San Lang.”

“Oh? I guess I am none of these words that gege commends on.”

Xie Lian pauses and turns his attention on him. “That’s not what I mean! I said—well…San Lang is also gentle. And lovely.”

The smile on the ghost king’s face is ever-growing.

“Anyways! That was quite refreshing, right? I can already feel my muscles relax.”

He, too, can feel Xie Lian’s muscles. Hua Cheng’s fingers wiggle on impulse and he quickly brings his hands behind his back.

“Gege’s suggestions are always the best. I am at my cleanest state.”

Xie Lian laughs and the butterflies flutter to the musical cadence. One floats near Hua Cheng and he reaches to gently play with it. His hand grazes Hua Cheng’s shoulder and the latter promptly looks at Xie Lian, searching for any signs of discomfort.

None. Xie Lian is unaffected.

The butterflies grow more daring by the second and surround the god in an illuminating circle. He in turn gives every butterfly a chance of contact with his hands and hums in delight.

Hua Cheng relishes in the sight before him.

Perhaps it’s okay to be this close. Perhaps even in a way Hua Cheng hasn’t dared to think of before. And someday…maybe someday he can show His Highness just how close he desires to be.

---

a/n: somewhere between these paragraphs, dianxia drops the soap. cue shower-sex scene.

#hualian #tgcf #myfics #im so tired. ready to drop ded.#thank you cofferiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

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petri808 · 4 years

Text

Underneath the Same Starry Sky

My piece for the @fairytailcharityfanzine 💜 we can now share it, please enjoy!

Nalu Reflective piece that takes place during the one year hiatus, focusing on Natsu’s feeling during his training, and Lucy.

Every single muscle in Natsu’s body ached worse than being electrocuted by one of Laxus’ lightning bolts. His joints screamed like a banshee if he even thought about moving an inch for the rest of the night and he prayed that come morning’s light he could get up to do it all again. The training routine he’d carved out for himself was ten times harder than anything he’d ever attempted before, but it’s a necessary evil and one that numbed his mind to the reasons behind its mission. Tartaros was a wake-up call. A proverbial slap to the ego that brought the mighty Fairytail guild to its knees. Sure, they won the battle, but at a substantial cost.

He couldn’t afford to lose like that again. Not when there were so many things at stake.

But tonight, there’s nothing more he can do except lie on his bedroll staring up at the sky. If someone attacked him now in such a vulnerable state, they might win. He doubted it. Even the locals steered clear of the mountain he’d chosen. Too afraid of the rumors of a crazy fire wielding man who could shake the very bedrock beneath their feet. No, tonight it’s just him, Happy, and that sky. A beautiful expanse of darkened heavens with no clouds to dampen its effects.

Ugh! Nights like this were the hardest. Each time he opened his eyes and gazed upon those twinkling stars his partner would drift into his mind and throw it back into chaos. Lucy…. The golden queen who reigns over the celestial world, adored by her spirits, loved by her friends, and treasured by his truly.

Everything he did was to protect the ones he loved. And above all, her.

Just thinking about the attractive blonde sent a strange flutter through his core. Natsu wasn’t immune to the desires created in any hot-blooded male when seeing such an attractive female. But she’s different, special, not something treated like arm-candy or tied down by anyone unless of her own choosing. Besides, he didn’t feel worthy of her attention. Not yet. Maybe one day, but not until he could truly safeguard her future, even from his own demons. Besides, there’s still much to do. It’s only his second month and already the drain on his mind, body, and soul pushed him to his limits. But Natsu’s no quitter. Once he set his heart on something, he would move all of Earthland to see it through. Things would get easier over time as his body adapts to the training, so until then, no pain, no gain, and a blonde waiting at the end of this goal.

‘I really wish you were here Igneel…. Too many questions I never got the answer to…. Even new ones on things I don’t quite know what to do with.’ Natsu lets out an audible exhale. ‘I miss you…. It’s like a huge part of me’s gone and I know I’ll never get it back. Will that empty feeling ever go away?’ His eyes close for a moment as he remembers the pain of watching the fight between Igneel and Acnologia. He’d held out so much hope that Igneel would win, only to have that faith dashed against the rocks like a ship, wrecking along the shore. It was at that point, when Natsu felt like the small child again, alone and lost in the forest before Makarov had found and taken him to Fairytail. He’d promised Igneel to keep growing, to keep looking towards the future, and he will. He will get stronger! But such pain and sense of initial loss from his childhood had never fully gone away, just sidetracked once he’d met Lucy.

Again, with Lucy. That day in Hargeon was the last time Natsu’d gone off on his own in search of Igneel. Was that meaningful? It had to be. How else could one person, who he’d just met, unconsciously change his course in life if it didn’t have some major significance? What would Igneel have said about her? ‘Who am I kidding, he would love Lucy! I bet he would tease me about her if he were here…. I know she would have liked him too….’ She would never be a replacement for his adoptive dragon father, but… ‘Lucy fills some void.’ A concept he couldn’t deny any longer.

This training mission was the longest they’d been apart since, well, the day they met. It’s a little weird, Natsu would admit, and he missed her along with all of his friends. He wondered what they’re up to. Are they rebuilding the guild hall right now? Probably to be even bigger or better than before. ‘Yeah…. It’s gonna be so nice to see it again!’ He should have stayed to help them rebuild, but this is more important. ‘So, we don’t lose the next time!’ Did Gray miss their fighting, because he kind of did. He loved to rile that ice queen up! ‘I’m sure they’re all doing fine.’

But to take the power left to him by Igneel, he needed to strengthen his reserves and that took time. He really didn’t understand how long he would be away for. It could be months or even years; hopefully not the latter. Mastering this new secret art is his primary focus and he couldn’t go back until he’d attained it. It was his hidden weapon against his brother and it just needed to be perfect.

Long blistering days had turned into weeks. Laborious weeks dragged into months and as each one passed the physical pain had morphed into an emotional toll. Now five months into his training, Natsu sometimes lost track of time itself, and it was only with Happy’s help that he knew how long he’d been at this. The cheerleading Exceed made sure they had food or other provisions because the slayer would forget. Even his hair was now past his shoulder blades, but he tied it back when it got in his way.

Though it wasn’t all that bad, he’d made a lot of progress and was sure that it wouldn’t be too much longer till he could return home. So, after another long day and a meal of roasted wild bird, Natsu submerges himself up to his neck in a nearby hot pond. It was one of the few reasons he’d chosen this semi-isolated location. The broiling waters were a bit too hot for any normal humans, but for a fire dragon slayer, something perfectly suited to soothe away his aches, and maybe some of his anguish. Lately a few of Zeref’s parting words, “to kill or let live,” were toying with his mind. “The one to reach me will be you or END…” He still didn’t fully understand it. Igneel also told him not to look at the END book. But why not? Who is this END person?! “And what the hell did Zeref mean by passing to me, an even greater despair?!” Regardless of not understanding, the message was clear. Trouble was coming.

The steaming waters were making him sleepy, but he wasn’t ready to let it take him yet. He just need to hash out these thoughts so he could move on because if he couldn’t, then he wouldn’t be able to focus on his training. To concentrate the residual power, he needed a clear mind. A long exhale escapes and Natsu closes his eyes. Killing wasn’t the Fairytail way, so that wasn’t something Natsu even wanted to consider. There had to be another solution, but it was difficult to figure out what that could be since he didn’t even know who or what this enemy was. From the scant information they’d given him, END was the most powerful demon Zeref had ever created, one that not even Igneel could defeat. That meant END could be his most formidable opponent to date, aside from maybe Acnologia.

Acnologia… all the hairs along his arm tingle. The evil dragon born of a by-gone slayer era, is another problem that needed solving. How were they supposed to defeat a dragon that other dragons were afraid of? He remembered the quaking fear that all the slayers and dragons felt when Acnologia showed up. Everyone’s panic and trembling emotions were palpable. That vile creature had disappeared once more, but he’ll no doubt, show up at the worst time. “Argh!” Another beautiful part of being in the middle of nowhere, Natsu could scream all he wanted to. He relaxes his eyelids, letting the feeling of the steam envelop his senses.

Words unspoken passed between them as he hung his head whilst the tears flowed, and snot dripped. Lucy held on tight, her arms wrapped around his middle, her face buried in the crook of his back like she’d done the night they’d defeated future Rogue. Despite his promises to Igneel, Natsu’s heart had shattered and needed to fit back together like a jigsaw puzzle. He was thankful that Lucy didn’t prod, just allowed him to feel, to process, like she just knew he would come out of this. Her silent support meant so much to him, and she didn’t even know it.

“Can we just go home?” he whispers under his breath. “I’m tired.”

Lucy nods and moves to let go, but Natsu places his hand on her arm. “To your apartment, just for tonight? I’d… rather not be alone right now.”

“Sure, Natsu.”

It was one of the rare occasions that Lucy didn’t kick him out of bed. Maybe she was too tired. After a shower, Natsu crawls under the covers. Her calming scent of strawberry cream providing him some satisfaction, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone, and reminded him he still had a lot to live for. And as his eyes close, the vision of her sleeping form, so peaceful, sends him off into a dreamless, yet fitful slumber.

When light filtered through his closed lids the following morning, Natsu opens them to a fully awakened mind despite the pitiful amount of sleep he’d gained. Through the night, Lucy had latched onto his side, keeping him pinned to his back. She sighs, mumbling at his minute movements, before licking her lips and drifting away again clutched to his arm. He exhales, turning to his side to gaze upon her better. ‘Lucy…’ Natsu sweeps away some tendrils that had fallen over her eyes. ‘How am I to protect her when I couldn’t even save my father? How can I protect any of my friends from the dangers coming call?’ It wasn’t a matter of if he could, but a must. He places a kiss upon her slightly furrowed brow. ‘I promise you Lucy. I swear on Igneel I will protect you at any cost!’

Even though he’d decided that morning to leave on a training quest, he just couldn’t tell her, not in person knowing the pain it might stir back up for both of them. All he could hope for a week later when he clutched the letter in his hand, that she would understand. “Wait for me,” he whispers as he places the letter on her coffee table…

Natsu opens his eyes. Ugh, why was he dreaming about that now? He twists his body in the steaming waters to rest his head on his arms on the edge. How long had he fallen asleep for? Couldn’t have been long since the position of the moon had only shifted slightly. Maybe he was feeling a little guilty for leaving that letter the way he had. It was a copout. ‘Yeah…’ he sighs, ‘she deserved better from me, but I just couldn’t face her.’ Too late now to do anything about it.

It was almost over; he runs his hand over the new tattoo on his arm, reminiscing about the last 8 months. All the power condensed in his body thrummed like a child excited to play with their new toy. But it would have to wait and lay dormant for now. Until the time was right, behind the symbols it shall remain. This whole journey was one of self-recovery, through down-right struggles of the heart and mind. So, unleashing the full power of the Fire Dragon King too early would be a waste of all that he’d fought to attain. And that was okay, for through this self-discovery Natsu had become a lot stronger. The control over his element was down to pinpoint accuracy, and whether as a stream of fire or as a conflagration, it was all by his manipulation. He was giddy about showing this off and according to Happy, the perfect opportunity was coming up in just two months. All the more reason for him to buckle down and finish his training.

Lucy had hoped some of her friends would attend the games, even just to watch but no one did. It was sad to think, ‘I’ve been looking this entire year…’ she breaks down against the wall filled with all the information she’d dug up on her ex-guildmates. She knew where some were, while others… Sigh, ‘Still nothing on Natsu.’ There’d been wild rumors that could be him. Nothing concrete and they were always stories passed along from a friend of a friend. But it was enough to comfort her sometimes, to know they were still under the same starry skies. Ugh! Lucy missed them all so much. “Well, no point in crying about it tonight,” she laments to Plue. Tomorrow was the finals, and she needed her sleep. Lucy steals away to her bed and lets happier dreams bring her solace.

Ten grueling months has passed by, but they’d made it! The sun had yet to rise, but the pair arrived just in time to see the last day of the Grand Magic Games tournament. Natsu turns his nose to the wind, scenting from atop a hill overlooking the large city of Crocus. “Happy, I think Lucy is here!”

“But, why would she be here?” the Exceed queries. “Could she be here for the games?”

“Probably. We should look for her as soon as we can!”

“I thought you’re gonna challenge the winners?”

“Oh right,” Natsu smirks, “Imma go kick their asses and you look for her.”

“Aye sir!!”

Morning’s light came and Lucy already knew it wouldn’t be very exciting. The games only stirred up more pain from the loss of her friends and Fairytail, so it took a lot of self-motivation just to care. Sure, there were exciting moments during the tournament but nothing like the year they won. All the big guilds, their friends, no one took part this year saying it wasn’t worth it without Fairytail to compete against. Lucy couldn’t blame them. She takes one last longing glance at her wall and heads out the door.

‘Such a farce…’ Lucy stood there in the press box bored out of her mind. Sure, Jason was excited after she’d pointed out Scarmiglione’s plan not only to win but to rake it in with the brokers. Odds of 100 to 1 would pay out handsomely for anyone that bet on their win. To her it was cheating and a blight on the games. But no one had even noticed what they were doing. Sad. Then again, with none of the more powerful guilds in attendance, she guessed there wasn’t anyone around who could sense their true power levels except for her. Surprise, surprise, she rolls eyes. The crowds all jump to their feet when Scarmiglione’s last opponent falls, but Lucy is just happy it’s over.

But what’s this? A rumbling murmur filters through the crowds. She and Jason look over and see a heavily cloaked man walking into the arena. Who is that? What is this?! So much power! The hairs on her neck stand on edge. “Evacuate the arena….” She cries out, but… “Eh!” The power and heat radiating off of the figure is burning her top off! “Kiyah!” Her arms frantically wrap around her bust, forgetting all about the danger. As the smoke clears enough to see, she sees the culprit. Her eyes widen. “Natsu?!!!”

Screams of his name bounce around her. Everyone is excited to see the slayer!

“Long time no see, Lucy!!!”

She turns around to see the flying Exceed. “Happy?!! What are you doing here?”

The other participants rush out to challenge Natsu but when his power and heat spikes even higher, they turn tail and run, screaming monster. How hot does his power get?! This was a lot stronger than she remembered him to be!

The Exceed chuckles, “Natsu always tends to overdo things.”

But by then Lucy had stopped paying attention to the chaos going on around her. The stadium was melting, members of Scarmiglione were out cold on the arena floor. And all she could do was stare at the man she’d been wanting to see for so long. It was really him and not a figment of her imagination! A deluge of emotions floods her mind so quickly that there is no processing any of it. Happiness, sadness, anger, nothing. It was simply, in shock.

With the rest of the challengers running in fear, Natsu finally realizes something. He looks up and they lock eyes for a moment. So fired up from his entrance, he’d almost forgotten she was here.

“Yo!” his grin so wide it covers from ear to ear. “Been a while, huh? Lucy!”

Same old Natsu, she sighs, what had she expected? With a crinkle of her eyes and a softening of her expression. “How’ve you been?”

#nalu #natsu dragneel #Lucy heartfilia #one year apart #One Year Apart Zine #nalu fan fic #nalu fanfiction #fairytail #natsu x lucy #reflective piece #underneath the same starry sky #petri808

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jade4813 · 4 years

Text

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 5

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Never had the hours moved so slowly as it did that evening, the passage of time marked only by the steady beat of Margaret’s heart. In the morning, Mr Thornton would come to her in anticipation of her response. In the morning, she would agree to marry him. Due to the confluence of honor and respectability, her life would be irrevocably changed, with no hope, even, for a long engagement in order to grow accustomed to the idea. The possibility of a child forced Mr Thornton’s hand as much as her own, and they would have to marry as soon as was practical, but not so quickly as to invite further comment and speculation.

She would leave her father’s house. She would become John’s wife – his property in the eyes of the law, although her nature rebelled against the notion of belonging to anyone other than herself – with no recourse to either of them, should regret ever become the natural conclusion to their marriage.

Miss Margaret Hale. Mrs John Thornton. Mrs Thornton. Margaret Thornton. Over and over, she played her future moniker in her mind, attempting to grow accustomed to the weight and feel of it. Margaret Thornton. Margaret Thornton. Margaret Thornton.

What an unlikely pairing. What an odd collection of syllables. His name had long since inspired the comfort of familiarity, the warmth that came at the reminder of a dear – if complicated – friendship. The full force of emotion evoked by the joining of their names together was too complex for her to interpret and too frightening for her to consider for long.

Mrs John Thornton. Mrs Thornton. Margaret Thornton. It would not happen immediately, but this would soon be the name she would carry for the rest of her life. Mrs John Thornton. I am soon to be Mrs John Thornton. Margaret Thornton. Please, God, do not let him come to hate me for it.

And so her thoughts occupied the hours as sleep eluded her, until the grey light of dawn breaking through her bedroom window compelled her to arise and prepare for the day. Mrs John Thornton, she reiterated one final time as she gazed at her reflection in grave contemplation. Her features were pale and drawn, the deep shadows under her eyes testament to her sleepless night, but she otherwise appeared respectable enough. Today is the day I agree to become John’s wife.

It was futile to expect that Mr Thornton would arrive late to their engagement, or that he would shirk his duty entirely, but she allowed herself to entertain such hope nevertheless as she ate her meager breakfast in resigned silence. Her father failed to notice her preoccupation, engrossed as he was in his own ecclesiastical ruminations. For her part, Dixon appeared to suspect that something was amiss, but she seemed content to keep her own counsel, demonstrating an uncharacteristic lack of both curiosity and opinion about Margaret’s lowered spirits.

Once the breakfast things were put away, Margaret attempted to lose herself in the day’s chores, though her mind remained fixated on the upcoming visit. In her distraction, she accomplished several tasks, but none of them well, until Dixon shooed her out of her precious kitchen and directed her to take her inattention elsewhere. So she returned to her room to gather Mr Thornton’s things and await his arrival.

It came all too soon, his rap upon the front door traveling to her from the ground below, and she attempted to rise to her feet only to find them too weak to support her. Brushing her palms along the heavy fabric of her skirt, she tried again, this time with greater success. Clutching his things in her arms, she swept out the door and down the stairs, this time without pausing to check her reflection in the glass. She knew she was unlikely to look her best at the present moment, but her future husband would have to take her as she was, regardless.

Dixon had showed John into the drawing room, to await her company. Fixing a smile upon her face, she tried to be brave as she prepared to engage in the interview that would change her life, but then she saw John, Mr Thornton, her future husband standing by the window, his back to the room. At the sight of him, she felt her knees give way, and she had to grab for the threshold to avoid falling upon the floor and making a fool of herself.

He turned at the sound. “Miss Hale,” he greeted her, giving her nothing to reproach in either his expression or his voice.

“Mr Thornton,” she responded in return, gratified when her voice sounded more confident than she felt. After a momentary hesitation, she turned to close the door, regretting the impulse that had compelled her to leave his abandoned items on the table in the entryway, for him to retrieve before his exit. If she still carried them, it would give her hands something to do, other than to tremble and be useless. Hiding them in her skirts, she stepped further into the room, her gaze falling – as it so often seemed to do as of late – to his chest.

“You’ve thought about my offer?” he asked with a forthrightness that she had often admired in the past but which caused her a measure of dismay now. If she’d had her way, they might have occupied the next several minutes in idle chatter, avoiding the subject that remained unspoken between them, although such avoidance could only be temporary in nature. But perhaps it was for the best that they address the topic right away, affixing her future with a sense of permanence in her own mind.

“I have,” she agreed, even as her mind went blank. Were there words that were customary to offer in such a situation as the agreement to a proposal issued in honorable obligation? Surely there were, but she could not for the life of her imagine what they might be. If only she had spent some time mulling over the words of her acceptance, rather than merely upon its outcome! “I – I thank you for your offer and would be—” she hesitated, searching for the proper word. She could not claim in good conscience to be pleased (at least under the current circumstances), but neither did honored seem an appropriate term, as it had been her own dishonorable behavior that had led to her present predicament.

She tried again. “I am grateful for your kindness, and I accept your offer.” As the words left her mouth, her throat stung with the bitterness of unshed tears. With such tepid words, she had accepted his proposal and changed the course of her life! Were their lives together truly to begin on a note of such indifference?

“I don’t want your gratitude,” he snapped, sounding cold and impatient, seemingly as disgusted by her reply as she found herself to be, and she winced.

He hadn’t moved, and so she gave into the impulse to step toward him and take his hand in hers. It had once been inconceivable that she might take any man’s hand in such a manner, her aversion causing great offense early in their acquaintance. She had yet to grow entirely accustomed to the ways of the North, each time having to overcome her own natural aversion to shaking any man’s hand but his. Though they shook hands rarely, John’s touch was hardly unfamiliar to her now.

Marveling in the weight and the strength of his palm, she trembled as she lifted it to press her cheek against the back of his hand. “No,” she breathed in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry. I’m not – I’ve never learned how to accept – to accept an offer such as – such as yours.”

“I’ve never learned to make such an offer. At least, I’ve never learned how to do it well,” he replied in return, his voice low and soft. It swept around her like a caress, making her long to lean into him. He turned his hand in hers, cupping her cheek in his palm. His thumb brushed along her lips, and she closed her eyes with a sigh.

“John, I—” she began, lifting her gaze to his face, where the blue of his eyes stole both her breath and her reason. Before she could continue, a sound carried through the closed door.

“Is John here? Margaret said he would call on me today—” Her father’s voice trailed off, out of hearing, but that brief reminder was sufficient to cause her to drop his hand and step away.

“My father is waiting for you,” she breathed, pulling out of his reach. Turning toward the window, she waited until she heard him leave, and then she whispered into the silence, “Margaret Thornton. Mrs John Thornton…”

There had once been a time – before age, disappointment, and regret had instilled within her breast a degree of measured practicality, and before the upheaval of her entire life to an unfamiliar town in the North – that Margaret had entertained more romantic sensibilities than she indulged today. She had once considered her future married life with eager anticipation, although her life’s partner was yet unknown. In her more romantic musings, she had wondered if her eventual engagement would have such a profound impact upon her person, her heart, and her future that it would slowly overtake the world around her, like ripples in a pond. In her very most romantic contemplations, she imagined that an engagement would impress upon her with such importance that reality itself would be fundamentally altered, and all would know at a glance of her good fortune and supreme confidence in her future contentment.

As it turned out, her engagement to John did not have such an immediate cataclysmic impact upon her life. Her father had received the news of her engagement to his friend with a combination of joy at her good fortune in capturing the devotion of such a man and astonishment that they two were anything more than indifferent acquaintances. He had never anticipated a forming attachment on either side, convinced as he was by her initial dislike of the rugged industrialist. For a brief moment, Margaret had hoped that Dixon might be on her side in sharing reservations about her future marriage, but even she abandoned Margaret to her misgivings, having been moved by Mr Thornton’s kindness towards her mistress during her final decline.

So Margaret bore her apprehension in silence as she accepted congratulations both reticent (most notably from Nicholas, who still carried an intense distrust of the Master of Marlborough Mill and – soon enough – of her life) and heartfelt. She hid her misgivings as she wrote to her family to inform them of the news, feigning an excitement she didn’t feel to Frederick, in particular, lest he worry over her in her present course.

She didn’t dare write the truth of her feelings even to her dear Edith, who graced her missive with a quick reply.

My darling Margaret,

I was so pleased to receive your most recent letter, but imagine my astonishment to read of your engagement! Although I am certain I will not be the first, allow me to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials. I hope you will not be too cross with me when I confess that I had begun to wonder if you might have formed an attachment to your Mr Thornton. Your attitude toward him had undergone such a marked changed in recent letters, although I had no thought that your heart might be so engaged! I know you’ll think it very silly of me, but I had hoped that you might reconsider Henry’s suit, as I already love you quite as a sister. But, no. I suppose it was not to be. No matter. You had written before of Mr Thornton’s severity and harshness, but if you have formed an attachment to him, he must be the most worthy of gentlemen. I can only hope that – if you haven’t yet! – you may one day develop genuine affection for him, as I have for my own dear Colonel.

As much as I hope for your future happiness, I was surprised to learn that your wedding would be so soon! Could you not convince your beau to give you a little more time? Surely his regard for you would allow you sufficient time to travel to London to purchase your trousseau. Sadly, I fear it would be impossible for us to travel to Milton to attend your wedding as is. The weather has grown colder, and poor Sholto has been out of sorts…

Margaret folded the letter and put it aside, letting her gaze drift out the window as she lost herself in her thoughts. Reconsider Henry’s suit? She’d never dreamed her cousin entertained such hopes, or she would have gently disabused her of such a notion. He was a good man, but she had known from their first meeting that they would never be more than friends. She could only pray that Henry was as ignorant of Edith’s intentions as she had been, and that her defection would not cause him undue pain.

The thought of Henry set aside, she turned her attention to the more pressing (and, perhaps, distressing) part of her cousin’s missive: her speculation that Margaret had developed real feelings for Mr Thornton. What was it in Margaret’s letters that had given rise to such an idea? Was she to be plagued by suspicion that she had secret designs to trap him into marriage as far away as London?

With a huff of dismay, Margaret rose to her feet and walked briskly to the hall to gather her things. The hour was growing late, and she had agreed to meet Mrs Thornton to discuss plans for the wedding breakfast. Whatever she had once imagined her life to be upon her engagement, the reality was less like a sudden, cataclysmic shift and more like a boulder rolling down a hill – moving slowly, at first, but gradually gaining in steam until it carried on entirely out of her control. Plans were made, dresses discussed, menus debated. Margaret approached each decision with feigned enthusiasm, pretending more interest in the details than she truly felt, more for her father’s sake than for the sake of anyone in the Thornton family. She had no illusions regarding their eagerness for the match, though both ladies treated her politely enough – or, rather, as politely as they were ever likely to do.

As was her nature, Mrs Thornton tackled each task like a general amassing her troops, relentlessly attending to each detail until it was resolved to her satisfaction, if not to Margaret’s preference. She remained polite, if distant, although Margaret could not help but recognize that the Thornton matriarch was disappointed in her son’s choice of bride, considering it (perhaps rightly) a slight against her family and her son that Margaret did not more keenly feel the honor that was being bestowed upon her.

Less concerned with familial honor, Fanny approached the task of wedding planning with greater enthusiasm, although she also could not entirely hide her disappointment in the recipient of her attentions. Her tongue was less guarded than the other members of her family, so she let slip more than once that she had hoped a certain Miss Latimer would stand in Margaret’s place – but, no, it was not to be, and she would somehow forebear. Margaret tried not to let these barbs shake her composure, as she told herself the pain they left in their wake was caused by injury to her pride and not her heart.

And so it was that the three women danced around the subject of the engagement and the animosity that lingered between them, until the afternoon that Margaret received Edith’s letter. Distracted by the accusation of genuine attachment for the man she assured herself had touched her body but not her heart, she was inattentive to his mother’s conversation until even the Dragon’s patience was at an end.

Tossing the proposed guest list onto the table between them, Mrs Thornton made a sound of disgust as she gazed upon her future daughter with all the hauteur that was hers to command. “I promised my son I would be polite, but I must speak my mind,” she declared, her tone more than her words catching Margaret’s attention, pulling her mind away from her more distressing ruminations.

With the same blunt honesty that had marked all of their interactions to date, Mrs Thornton said, “I’ve won’t pretend to have ever liked you.” Though the two women had never spoken on that particular topic, Margaret couldn’t pretend to be surprised by the admission. Nor could she feign astonishment when Mrs Thornton continued, “I certainly don’t think you’re good enough for my son. But if you think you can make him happy, that’s good enough for me.”

It was not much of a capitulation, but it was more than Margaret had ever expected to receive, so she was contemplating how to gracefully respond when she realized that the older woman was waging some form of silent internal battle. It seemed prudent to hold her tongue until she learned which inner demon would be the victor, and she was unsurprised when her patience was rewarded with insult.

“I only ask that you consider your feelings. If you truly love this other man of yours, if you think you might one day wish that you had married him instead…as a mother, I ask that you be honest with John and release him from this engagement. He’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve a lifetime of misery.”

Margaret’s first inclination was to rail against this affront, to demand apology for yet another slight against her character. However, she struggled to bite back her initial response, reminding herself that she would soon marry into this family – a circumstance that would require a period of adjustment for all parties involved. In as civil a tone as she could manage, she replied, “I understand your position, although I am cannot think why I should owe you an explanation for why I agreed to marry your son. As for the man in question, rest assured that I need no additional time to examine my feelings for him. I do love him – very much – but I will never come to regret him, at least not in the manner you imply.”

Her answer failed to placate the Dragon; far from it, in fact. Rearing back, Mrs Thornton snapped, “You are an arrogant, unfeeling woman, with no thought to—”

“Mother.”

Both woman jumped at the sound of the single word, no matter that it was softly spoken, and Margaret turned to find her fiancé in the doorway, staring at the pair of them. She had understood that responsibilities at work were keeping him increasingly occupied, making it unlikely that she would see him at all that day. Her heart leapt at the sight, even as she recoiled slightly from the anger in his eyes.

For all his ire, he spoke politely to his mother as he continued in mild rebuke, “You promised that you would treat Miss Hale with respect.”

Mrs Thornton raised her chin, ready to defend herself and her actions, but Margaret didn’t give her the chance. Rising to her feet, she replied hurriedly, “She hasn’t offended me. She’s only spoken her mind, which is a sign of respect in itself, and I’m afraid I’ve spoken to her far more harshly in the past. I appreciate her honesty, as it allows us to come to terms with each other without risk of misunderstanding.”

She was babbling, speaking for too quickly for the situation as she felt mortification scorch her cheeks. Had he heard her admission that she loved Frederick but would never marry him? The rage banked behind his eyes gave nothing away, whether it arose solely from his mother’s uncharitable words or if a portion of his anger was caused by her own foolish tongue.

Since their engagement, Margaret had treated Mr Thornton with trepidation – not for the sake of his person but in recognition that he was the reason why her life would soon irrevocably change. In her haste to smooth over the lingering tension, however, she acted without thinking, approaching him quickly to rest a soothing hand upon his arm.

The move, insignificant as it was to her own mind, captured his attention, and she watched as he bowed his head to stare at the hand in question. Margaret found her gaze following his own, and she marveled at the paleness of her skin against the harsh black of his frock coat. Her hand trembled under his regard, but she did not pull it away, and she saw that the anger had ebbed from behind his eyes when he lifted his gaze once more to hers.

Ever since his second proposal, Margaret had found it difficult to meet his gaze as unflinchingly as she had once done. Too overwhelmed by her own shame, her uncertainty, the fear of what he might see in her face as much as she was confused about what she longed to see in his, it had been easier to keep her face averted, her eyes downcast. In her aversion, she had forgotten how hypnotizing his eyes could be, how they captured her and refused to let her go. Staring into them now, she felt her breath catch and hold as he overwhelmed her with the desire to learn more about the man she was to marry. To understand the emotion flickering behind the eyes that captivated her so. To fully comprehend the inner workings of his mind and of his heart.

Behind her, Mrs Thornton answered her son’s charge, but she might not have spoken for all either of them seemed to mark her words. Margaret heard nothing but the steady rise and fall of his breathing, in marked contrast to her own irregular breath. She told herself she should pull away from him, but she did not as she said in a low voice, for only his ears to hear, “I didn’t think I would see you today.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, though what emotion it was, she couldn’t say. “There’s much to do at the mill,” he replied. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Did you wish to see me? I’d have come sooner, if I’d known.”

“Yes,” answered unthinkingly. Then, realizing the answer betrayed an eagerness for his company that was at best improper and at worst misleading, she tried again. “No. I – the plans for our wedding – there’s so much to do.” The list of decisions that still required her attention seemed insurmountable, never mind that theirs would not be as grand an affair as Fanny’s wedding had been. Although John had told her to make such plans as would make her happy, without the presence of her extended family and in light of both the need for expediency and the lack of sentiment that had led to their engagement, she had opted for a simpler affair.

His hand covered her own, trapping it against his arm when she might have realized it had lingered there for too long and pulled it away. “I have some time before I must return to the mill. Will you spend the afternoon with me?”

The last time they had spent such time together had landed them in their current situation, and the peevish part of her that railed against their forced engagement whispered that she should refuse him. He would have the authority to lay claim to her attention soon enough. But she found she could not resist him when he looked at her as he did now.

To her surprise every bit as much as it was to his, she found herself nodding in reply. “Yes.” An inexplicable swell of happiness swelled within her breast, causing her to smile up at him in unfeigned joy. Before she could question the cause for her improved spirits, she laughed and gave herself over to the urge to tease him lightly. “But only if you promise that we will speak of anything other than wedding plans.”

John’s face, handsome even in severity, was truly transformed by his smile, slight as it was. “I can deny you nothing,” he responded in kind. “Certainly not a request as simple as that.” Leading her into the hall, he paused long enough to assist her with her outerwear, and then he threw open the door and led her outside.

It would be several minutes before Margaret realized she had left without wishing Mrs. Thornton goodbye.

#like moths to a flame #fanfiction #my fanfiction #north and south #john thornton #margaret hale #john x margaret

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broomballkraken · 3 years

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Title: Kiss Me Again, You Old Fool

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses

Pairing(s): Hanneman/Manuela

Word count: 3874

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Manuela is struggling with the emotional impact that the battle at Gronder had on her. She finds comfort in what others would call an unlikely source, but to Manuela, she could think of no one else she would want to help her through this difficult time.

It was a brisk, quiet night at Garrag Mach, but the cold winds of early spring could not compare to the icy chill that had settled deep within Manuela’s heart. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she wandered aimlessly through the monastery grounds, with no clear destination in mind.

A few days had passed since they had returned from their most recent march, but the horrors that Manuela had witnessed during the battle at Gronder still haunted her. She was expecting to have another sleepless night, and she thought that it would be better spent moving about outside instead of tossing and turning uselessly on her bed. The extra movement didn’t do much to distract her from her dour thoughts, however.

After wandering for a while, Manuela found herself at the fishing pond, standing at the edge of the dock. Kneeling down on the cold, damp wood, she stared at her tired reflection in the water. As the head physician for the Officer’s Academy, Manuela had seen her fair share of nasty injuries, but had managed to heal most without much difficulty. What she had witnessed at Gronder, however, was an entirely different beast.

Manuela slowly lowered a hand towards the water, her fingers twitching as she dipped them into the chilly pond. She pulled her hand back out, her eyes following the droplets of water as they rolled off of her skin.

She was suddenly back on the battlefield. Her hands were dyed crimson with the blood of a dying soldier, who pleaded with her to save him with his final breath. Screams pierced through the sounds of weapons clashing and magic bombarding the battlefield. The sickening smell of blood filled her nostrils, and the taste of bile rose up in her throat as she tried to keep herself from vomiting. War was a special kind of horror that Manuela had never experienced before, and this particular experience was one that she would have rather gone without. So much pointless death, and so many beautiful lives cut short…

The feeling of moisture on her face snapped her back to reality, and Manuela took a few shaky breaths to try and stop the tears from flowing down her face. It was a wasted effort, and she held her head in her hands, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to control her sobbing.

She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. What if the next battle was worse? Every life lost under her care made her feel more hollow inside, and she was afraid that by the end of this war, she would be left a shell of her former self.

“Manuela.”

A familiar voice hit her ears, pulling Manuela from her dark thoughts. She swallowed thickly and wiped her arm over her face, trying to clear away her tears. She glanced over her shoulder with narrowed eyes to find Hanneman standing in the middle of the dock.

“What are you doing here?” Manuela blurted out, her tone a bit more harsh than she had intended; being caught in this vulnerable position was incredibly embarrassing.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Hanneman said, moving to stand next to her, “I would have thought that you’d be drinking away your sorrows by now.”

Manuela pursed her lips and turned her head away from him. “How incredibly rude, Hanneman. Although, I really shouldn’t expect anything less from you at this point.”

“I...I’m sorry.” Manuela looked back at him with a confused eyebrow raised as she watched him fuss with his monocle. “I, er, meant that as a joke, to maybe help lighten the mood.” Manuela rolled her eyes. Hanneman was always the best at saying the wrong things at the wrong times, but nonetheless she found a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Well, it didn’t quite work, but...thank you for trying.”

“Er, yes, well…” An actual smile spread across Manuela’s face as she watched a light blush settle upon his cheeks. “May I sit down?”

Manuela hesitated only for a moment before nodding her head slightly, and Hanneman sat down cross-legged beside her. They may have a reputation for fighting like cats and dogs, but to be honest, Manuela regarded Hanneman as one of her closest friends and confidants.

To any outside observer, Manuela’s relationship with Hanneman would probably be described as tolerating each other at best, and open hostility at worst. That was a good description of their relationship during their first six years of teaching at Garrag Mach together. It always seemed like they couldn’t have a normal conversation without ending up at each other’s throats for one reason or another, and Manuela didn’t think that would ever change.

She had been wrong about that, however. The school year before the start of the war had been a hectic one, to put things lightly, if her brush with death after confronting Jeritza for kidnapping Flayn and her reckless encounter with the bandits she had mistaken for the Death Knight were anything to go by. Hanneman had been a key part in saving her from both of those situations, and Manuela was surprised each time by how worried he had been about her well being.

Manuela wasn’t one to leave a debt unpaid, so to thank Hanneman for saving her life twice, she decided to make him some warm, homemade meals when she found him working late into the night. On one of those nights, she had finally asked him why he worked so hard studying crests, and his answer had surprised her. He didn’t want anyone else to suffer like his late sister had, so Hanneman had dedicated his life to finding a way for anyone to obtain a crest. Manuela thought that it was a wonderful goal, and after that night, the hostility that they normally showed each other lessened considerably.

“Manuela?”

She was pulled from her thoughts when Hanneman’s voice hit her ears again, and she turned to find him staring at her, his head tilted slightly to one side.

“Er, sorry, did you say something?”

“Yes. I was just wondering if you needed someone to talk to,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly, “You seem rather distressed about something.”

Manuela snorted and turned up her nose. “Oh? What was your first clue? The crying? Or the fact that I’m out at the fish pond of all places in the dead of night?”

His eyes narrowed into a glare. “If you do not want me here, I can leave. I am just concerned about you. You have seemed a bit distant since we returned from Gronder.” Manuela locked eyes with him for a moment before she sighed and averted her gaze.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you, Hanneman. This war is just...taking quite a toll on me.”

Hanneman’s gaze softened and he nodded. “...I know what you mean. If you need someone to listen to your troubles, I am here for you.”

Manuela let out a chuckle and her gaze drifted to the pond. It was an odd thing to admit, given their constant bickering, but Manuela always felt at ease enough to let her guard down in front of Hanneman and tell him anything. It was something that she had missed greatly over these past five years.

During those long years away from the monastery, she and Hanneman had been separated as they were assigned to different groups to search for Rhea. That time had been rough, and had left Manuela with a hollow, lonely feeling in her chest. At first, she had attributed that to the dangerous travels across Fódlan, as well as being ripped away from her life as a professor that she had grown so fond of.

However, the real reason became clear to her when she returned to Garrag Mach, on the day when the millennium festival would have taken place. Seeing most of her former students and fellow faculty members helped to fill the hole in her heart, but when she spotted that familiar gray coat, distinctive facial hair, and silly monocle, Manuela had sprinted right up to Hanneman.

With a firm smack to his arm, she had berated him for not trying to contact her all this time - even though she had been moving around so much that it wouldn’t have been possible anyway - and he retorted by saying that she should have contacted him first if she felt so strongly about it. They fell into their familiar bickering, except that all hostility that had been present in the past had been replaced with a teasing, friendly warmth. The lonely feelings that had been festering within Manuela all those years had dissipated immediately, and were replaced by something...indescribable. That’s what she had told herself, anyway.

Oh, but she knew. She knew exactly what this feeling was, but she was too stubborn to admit that she felt this way about Hanneman of all people. The man who had been by her side through some of the hardest moments in her life, and whose comforting embrace she had longed for the entire time that they had been apart.

Manuela could no longer deny the fact that she was in love with Hanneman.

It was funny really, how she had always lamented about being unable to find the man of her dreams, when he had been right by her side for such a long time. She had been blinded for too long by their constant bickering to see what a wonderful man he was. He was proving it right now, sitting next to her on a wet dock late at night, foregoing sleep to lend an ear to help with what was troubling her.

Manuela swallowed thickly and took in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly to try and relieve the tightness in her chest. She turned her gaze back to Hanneman and finally spoke.

“I…I don’t know how much more of this horrible war I can take. Watching so many people die, including our former students, while being powerless to help some of them survive despite my best efforts. I can’t even imagine what I’d do if I met any of them as enemies on the battlefield…” She paused as she tried to choke down a sob, her eyes squeezing shut as a few tears escaped and ran down her cheeks.

“I wish I didn’t have such a bleeding heart, maybe...maybe then this would be much easier to deal with.” Manuela took a few deep breaths to try and compose herself, and when that didn’t work, she covered her face with her hands, succumbing to her sadness as she broke down crying. A sudden warmth descended upon her, reminding her that she was not sitting here alone.

Hanneman had draped his coat over her shoulders, and the sweet gesture only made her tears fall harder. Manuela threw herself into Hanneman’s arms, ignoring his startled grunt as she curled up in his lap and buried her face into his chest. She felt his arms slip around her and he pulled her closer, and just being held like this was enough to ease the pain in her heart, if only slightly.

“You know very well that is not true, Manuela. I imagine that killing does not come naturally to a dedicated, kindhearted physician such as yourself,” Hanneman said, his voice low and calm as he ran a comforting hand over her back, “And if you did remove your bleeding heart, you would be removing one of the best things about you.”

Manuela’s eyes widened at his words, and she sniffed as she looked up at him, her eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. Hanneman reached under his coat and plucked a handkerchief out of the chest pocket of his shirt, using it to gently dab away the tears left on her face. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming herself enough to muster a reply.

“How do you do it, Hanneman? How do you keep going when everything is burning up around you?” Manuela asked softly. He always seemed so composed, even when in the midst of battle, where he would wreak havoc with his effortlessly casted spells. She couldn’t help but envy his apparent ability to steel himself from letting the horrors of war consume him.

Hanneman didn’t answer her question right away. His eyes drifted from hers and she watched his gaze wander up to the star-filled sky. Manuela was captivated by the way the moon bathed his face in light, accentuating his sharp facial features and adding a brilliant shine to his beautiful blue eyes. He really was a handsome man, and the thought brought a light blush to Manuela’s cheeks.

“It is...hard to keep fighting some days, I must admit,” Hanneman said, turning his gaze back to Manuela, “War is terrible, and a drain on everyone’s physical and mental well being However, I do believe that winning this war will change Fódlan for the better, so I will keep on fighting the best that I can.”

“And…” He paused and closed his eyes, letting out a deep, wavering sigh. “...I cannot hope to change the system that killed my sister if the war is lost.” Manuela’s heart clenched at that; Hanneman’s mood always seemed to sour whenever he mentioned his sister. She couldn’t blame him, though. How awful it must have been, to watch a cherished family member suffer because of her lack of crest.

“I know that I couldn’t protect her, that I failed her,” Hanneman continued, and Manuela felt his hand clench into a fist against her arm, “That is why I will continue to fight, and to conduct my research, so that no one else will have to suffer as she did.”

A small smile crept it’s way over Manuela’s face. She really had fallen in love with a wonderful man. She lifted her hands to cup his face, gently turning his head so that he was looking at her again, his eyes wide and a confused eyebrow raised.

“You’re a good man, Hanneman,” Manuela said, her smile growing wider when his face flushed pink, “I...I really think you’re sister would be damn proud of you.”

Hanneman stared at her for a moment, before he chuckled and placed a hand over one of hers. “I do hope you’re right. Thank you.”

Manuela shook her head. “Really, I should be the one thanking you.” His words had lit a fire within her. She wasn’t going to let this war break her spirit anymore than it already had. She would fight, she would heal, and she would make it through this war to see peace in Fódlan again, and she would do so with Hanneman by her side.

“Okay! I’ve decided then,” Manuela declared, smacking her fist into her other hand, “I’m not going to let anyone else die under my care until we win this godsdamn war! We’ll make it through this, together. So don’t you go dying on me, or I’ll never forgive you!”

Hanneman let out a chuckle and nodded. “Of course. That goes double for you, then. My life would certainly be much less interesting without you in it.”

“Ugh, that’s so cheesy.”

“Excuse me, you started this.”

Manuela giggled at the pout that had crossed Hanneman’s face, and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against him. She felt him tense up a bit, but he slowly relaxed and his hand fell unto her head. He seemed to be hesitating a bit, but when she didn’t protest, he slowly brushed his fingers through her hair.

A smile crossed Manuela’s face, and she sighed, finally feeling the weight of her sorrows lifting a bit. “Yeah, yeah.” She turned her head and looked up, her eyes meeting his again. “Thank you, Hanneman, for everything. You really are important to me, you know.” That was a bit of an understatement, if the longing that had settled deep in her heart was anything to go by, and she felt her cheeks heat up when Hanneman smiled at her.

“I am glad to hear you say that, Manuela. You are very important to me as well, despite all of the bickering we seem to do.”

“Oh, it’s all in good fun at this point, right?”

“Heh, indeed.”

A comfortable silence fell over them for a while, but was broken when Manuela shifted against Hanneman as she reached into her cloak. A mischievous grin crossed her face, and Hanneman raised an eyebrow when she pulled out a bottle of wine.

“Want to drown your sorrows with me?” Hanneman stared at her for a moment, before he burst out laughing, causing a familiar warmth to blossom within Manuela’s chest.

“So you were planning on drinking tonight. And you chastised me for saying so!”

“It’s still rude to assume those things, even if they’re true.” Manuela ignored the eye roll that Hanneman directed at her as she popped the cork off of the bottle and took a generous swig. She offered the bottle to him, and Hanneman smiled as he accepted it.

“You do have a point, I suppose,” he said, pausing to take a drink, “Cheers, to a swift end to this horrid war?” Manuela grinned and nodded when she took the bottle back.

“Gods yes! I’ll happily drink to that.”

They passed the bottle between them until it was empty, and before Manuela drifted off to sleep under the stars, snuggled up comfortably against Hanneman’s chest, her heart in a much better state than it had been in a long, long time.

---

The sounds of birds chirping roused Manuela from her slumber, and she yawned as she rubbed at her bleary eyes. It was bright, too bright, and she wondered if she had left a candle lit in her room. She tried to stretch her arms out, but found it hard to move due to the pair of arms wrapped around her. But...she did not recall inviting anyone to bed with her last night...

“Huh?!?” Manuela’s eyes shot open as instinct kicked in, and she flailed her arms against the unknown person holding her. She heard them let out a surprised yelp, and she took the opportunity to push them hard with both hands.

“M-Manuela, what-Ah!”

A loud splash hit her ears, and Manuela quickly rubbed the rest of the sleep from her eyes. She finally was able to focus on her surroundings, and was surprised to find that she was not in her room, but rather sitting on the dock at the fishing pond. Her memories from the night before suddenly came back to her, and her eyes drifted to the angry, red-faced Hanneman glaring at her from the water.

“W-What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed, and Manuela stared blankly at him for a moment, before bursting out laughing so hard that tears started falling down her face.

“Why you…”

Manuela barely heard Hanneman’s angry mumbling, and that proved to be a costly mistake. Hanneman’s hand suddenly shot up and grabbed her by the arm, and Manuela let out a shriek when he roughly yanked her off of the dock. She hit the cold water hard, and she quickly resurfaced to find Hanneman still in the water next to her, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Manuela pouted at him, her eyes narrowing into a heated glare.

“Hanneman, you fucking jerk!” Manuela yelled as she splashed water at him, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hanneman pursed his lips together and splashed her in retaliation. “Me? You pushed me off of the dock first!”

“So? Maybe you should have taken the high ground this time! You know, forgive and forget?”

“Oh, what utter nonsense!”

Their arguing continued as their water fight raged on, but soon their bickering dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. Manuela had to grab Hanneman’s shoulders to keep herself afloat, as her laughing fit had her shaking too much to tread water properly. When they finally composed themselves, Hanneman sighed and shook his head, but a smile remained on his face.

“Well, this is certainly not how I expected to wake up this morning,” he said, another small chuckle escaping him, “You are always full of surprises, Manuela.”

“Oh, am I?” A sly grin crossed Manuela’s face, and before Hanneman could respond, she decided to surprise him once more by pressing her lips softly against his. The startled noise that he made caused Manuela to smile against his lips, but it was her turn to be surprised when he did not pull away and outright reject her bold advance.

Instead, Hanneman’s hands moved up to cup her face, and Manuela watched as his eyes slowly slipped shut. She soon followed suit, and he gently tilted her head so that he could deepen the kiss. The hairs of his mustache tickled her nose, causing her to giggle, and Manuela was kicking herself for not doing this sooner. What utter bliss it was, to finally kiss the man that she had loved for so long, and the warmth that filled her heart in this moment was unlike anything she had ever felt before.

When they finally parted, Manuela took a moment to admire the completely flabbergasted look on Hanneman’s face. It was a very rare look on him, and she couldn’t help but tease him a bit.

“Well? How was that for a surprise?”

He took a moment to muster up a reply, and the stuttering mess of it caused Manuela to giggle again. “T-That was...indeed quite, ahem, unexpected...But not at all, ah, unpleasant, mind you.”

A sly grin crossed Manuela’s face, and she pulled Hanneman closer so that their noses were almost touching. “So, you enjoyed it then?”

Manuela watched him, amused at the fact that Hanneman’s face had somehow turned an even darker shade of red. His mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish out of water, which was funny considering the fact that they were currently in the fishing pond.

“Of course I enjoyed it. I’ve...been wanting to do that for some time now, actually.”

It was Manuela’s turn to be surprised, and her eyes widened at his words. She never would have thought that he would have ever felt the same way about her, and she had never been more happy to be wrong about something.

“Manuela, I...The truth is, ah…” Manuela watched as Hanneman cursed under his breath, and she was relishing in this rare opportunity to see the normally articulate scholar completely and utterly flustered. “Gods! I cannot seem to find the right words to-”

“Words can wait,” Manuela interrupted, twirling a finger in Hanneman’s mustache, before gently tugging him closer, “Just kiss me again, you old fool.”

Hanneman chuckled as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. “I suppose you’re right, even if that jab at my age was uncalled for.” Manuela’s laughter was cut short when he kissed her again, and again, in the middle of the fishing pond of all places, but right now, Manuela wouldn’t change a damn thing.

#fire emblem three houses #hanneman von essar #manuela casagranda #hanneman/manuela #hi i care them a lot #fanfiction #jade writes fanfiction

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rubyleaf · 4 years

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There’s virtually no fanfic for Shadow of the Fox but I got hit by this AU idea where Yumeko and Tatsumi are childhood friends, and my hand slipped. Enjoy.

Sometimes the world is frightening to Kage Tatsumi, but at least he has Yumeko-chan.

They’re not supposed to be friends, technically. He’s part of the Shadow Clan and she’s just a commoner from the neighboring town, and the adults keep telling him it’s undignified for him to treat her like an equal. She is also half kitsune, something that would get her killed if people knew about it, so Tatsumi has promised her to never tell anyone about it, ever.

However, Yumeko is also one of the closest people to his own age, as well as the most fun by far. Playing with Yumeko never gets boring. She knows how to climb trees and befriend wild animals; she can make teapots dance and shoes walk off on their own, and on boring afternoons she can fill the hours with the most incredible stories she has gathered from passing yokai. Yumeko is Tatsumi’s best friend in the whole world, and they’re sticking together no matter what happens.

Today, as usual, Tatsumi is supposed to meet up with her after his daily shinobi training. The adults know, of course. They don’t like it, but Tatsumi is very good at his training, so they don’t really see a point in stopping him for now.

But today, after the training, Tatsumi is held back. His usual teacher stops him as he is about to leave, and into the doorframe steps a man he has never seen before.

“This boy?” he asks, his sharp black eyes sizing Tatsumi up from head to toe.

The teacher nods. “This is Kage Tatsumi, Master Ichiro,” he says. “The boy you are looking for.”

Master Ichiro’s eyes narrow. Tatsumi does his best to stand firm under that gaze. He doesn’t like it. It chills him down to the bone.

“Good,” he finally says. “Come with me, child.”

Tatsumi throws a questioning glance at his teacher, then follows. Over his shoulder he catches Ayame’s eyes. She seems worried, but quickly looks away once he meets her gaze.

“No looking back,” Master Ichiro says. “Follow me.”

Tatsumi does, on and on through the winding corridors and hidden passages of the castle, all along thinking of Yumeko waiting for him at the pond. They were planning to catch some tadpoles today. He hopes this won’t take too long.

On they go. Master Ichiro loses no word on where they’re headed or how long it will take. Tatsumi has lost his orientation long ago. He doesn’t have the courage to ask where they are or what this man wants from him. Maybe Yumeko would have said something. But Yumeko isn’t here.

Finally Master Ichiro arrives at a heavy door and pushes it open. Beyond it lies a chamber, small and dark and empty except for a single sword.

“This is Kamigoroshi,” Master Ichiro says. “It is the sword of the Kage demonslayer.”

A shiver runs down Tatsumi’s spine. He doesn’t understand the whole demonslayer thing, but even he knows the demonslayer and his sword are something dangerous, something to be avoided. Why lead him to this chamber—to this thing that sounds so bad?

Master Ichiro’s eyes fall on him, sizing him up and down, appraising. Judging. As if even he himself doesn’t know why he brought this boy here.

“And you,” he says, “have been chosen as its next bearer.”

Tatsumi freezes where he stands. He looks at the sword, then down at his hands, then back at the sword. It’s longer than he is tall.

And he’s…supposed to carry it now? He’s supposed to be the bearer of this sword?

But doesn’t that mean…

“Within this sword resides a demon,” Master Ichiro says. “Its name is Hakaimono, and it has chosen you to be the next Kage demonslayer.”

Him. The demonslayer.

“But—” Tatsumi ventures.

“No arguing.” Master Ichiro’s eyes flash. “The sword chooses the bearer, and it has chosen you. Your task is only to wield it, do what you’re assigned and not let the demon possessing it take over your mind.”

I can’t.

The thought is immediate, so intense that Tatsumi can just barely stop himself from saying it out loud. This sword is so big…this demon sounds powerful. And Tatsumi is neither of those things. He’s just…Tatsumi.

“Fear not,” Master Ichiro says. “We will teach you everything you need to know.”

Tatsumi nods stiffly. Master Ichiro strides past him into the chamber, picking up the sword and holding it out towards him. “Take it.”

He tries and nearly drops it. It’s heavy…too heavy for his arms. He can’t hold this thing!

Hello, human child.

Tatsumi does drop it this time.

“A voice…” he whispers, stumbling backwards, trembling. “There’s a voice in—”

“Brat! Who told you to drop it?” Master Ichiro snaps, shoving Kamigoroshi back into his hands. Tatsumi tries to resist, but he’s only a child, and Ichiro grabs his hands and forces them around the sword. “Stop showing fear! The voice in your head is Hakaimono. You must never show him any emotions, or he will take over your body and slaughter everyone around you.”

Tatsumi grips the sword in desperation. His face is reflected in the gleaming metal of the sword, but all he sees before his eyes is a giant shadow, adorned with the grinning, mocking grimace of an oni.

“What happens if I fail?” he whispers.

Master Ichiro leans down. It’s the one time he does something to be on the same eye level as him, staring deep into his soul with eyes just as black as the newly formed shadow in Tatsumi’s mind.

“If you fail,” he says, “we will have to kill you.”

---

Several days pass before Tatsumi gets to see Yumeko again. Master Ichiro has taken over his training, and he doesn’t allow him to go out and meet with friends. The Kage demonslayer, he says, must not have any friends. He must not love or get attached, or Hakaimono will instantly use that against him.

Tatsumi understands that. But his best friend is out there, waiting for him, probably mad at him for standing her up. And he just wants to tell her about all of this, and he can’t, and it hurts him.

Kamigoroshi remains in his room, unused for now, just lying on the floor like a harbinger of doom. At night Tatsumi lies awake, staring at the weapon, too afraid to touch it even though Master Ichiro keeps telling him to, saying he needs to get accustomed to Hakaimono’s presence. When he sleeps, he is still restless, and the demon continues to haunt his dreams.

It is late at night when something scrapes on his sliding doors. Something that doesn’t sound human at all.

More like a fox, really.

Tatsumi flings off his blanket and opens the door. In comes Yumeko, looking around before transforming into a human. “Tatsumi,” she says, “are you all right? You haven’t come to visit me all week, catching tadpoles was no fun without you!”

Tatsumi looks at her, her gentle eyes, her round, familiar face. The look of concern and understanding. Something no one else has shown him since he became the new owner of Kamigoroshi.

Tears well up in his eyes.

“Yumeko,” he says, “I’m the demonslayer now!”

Her eyes go round. She hasn’t heard as much, but even to her that name brings fear. “What do you mean, demonslayer?” she says. “I thought you weren’t big enough for a sword!”

Tatsumi wipes his eyes and motions to the sword. “The demon…Hakaimono,” he says. “He’s in there…in the sword…he chose me.” He swallows, sniffles, but his vision keeps blurring. “I have to do it now…and Master…Master Ichiro says I can’t ever have friends or feel things anymore or the demon takes me over…and…” His voice breaks. Tears begin to run down his face. “And they’re going to kill me!”

“What? That’s stupid!” Yumeko looks both shocked and angry. “Fighting and demons should be stuff for the grownups, not us! That’s so dumb!”

Tatsumi swallows, wipes his eyes and nods. Then waits.

“Are you scared of me now?” he finally asks.

Yumeko gapes at him. “What?”

“Because I…I’m the demonslayer.” Tatsumi sniffles and hiccups. “I’m a bad guy now…and…”

He doesn’t get any further before Yumeko grabs him and tackles him with a hug.

“Of course I’m not scared,” she says. “You’re my best friend! And best friends stick together, remember?”

Tatsumi doesn’t say anything. He can’t answer. All he can do is bury his face in Yumeko’s shoulder and squeeze her tightly.

“Actually,” Yumeko says, “let’s run away.”

Tatsumi pulls back. “What?”

“From all this,” she answers. “This sword and the whole…demonslaying stuff. Let’s get away and you can live a normal life, how’s that?”

Tempting. So tempting.

But…

“Impossible,” Tatsumi says sadly. “It doesn’t work that way.” He wipes his eyes again. “Hakaimono’s stuck with me until I die.”

“Or he does!” Yumeko answers. “There’s got to be a way to get rid of him!”

But Tatsumi shakes his head.

“I’m sure there is,” Yumeko insists. “We just have to find it. Hang in there, all right? I’ll find out a way to save you for sure!”

Tatsumi almost starts crying again, but instead he forces his lips into a wobbly smile.

“Thank you.”

---

Yumeko keeps visiting him in secret. Every night she sneaks inside to talk to him, sometimes tell him a story, and it means the world to Tatsumi that at least to one person he’s still not the demonslayer, not a monster, but simply Kage Tatsumi.

One night the little fox comes into his room bearing something in her mouth. She drops it in front of him when she transforms, and upon closer inspection Tatsumi finds it’s a small fox doll.

“That’s to cheer you up when I’m not here,” she says. “I made it myself!”

Tatsumi is pretty sure Master Ichiro would never approve of him owning a toy, but just the sight of that little fox makes everything so much easier that he takes it anyway and hides it far from the adults’ line of sight.

A stuffed doll? Hakaimono taunts him later that night. How sentimental.

Tatsumi closes his eyes, covers his ears. He doesn’t want to hear that voice.

You cannot keep me out this way, little one, the demon answers. I am within you. You can run, but you can never escape from your mind.

“Shut up,” Tatsumi whispers.

You seem to care about this girl a lot. There is a smile in the demon’s voice. How would you like it if I sliced this doll of hers to pieces, I wonder?

Tatsumi curls up under the blanket, shivering. The sword lies too close to him, too big and too close and too heavy to move.

And her along with it?

---

Hakaimono keeps taunting him.

Tatsumi tries to ignore it, but the voice is getting louder. Most of the time he can tune out the demon. He feels nothing anymore when people in the palace avoid him. He feels nothing when Master Ichiro beats him for making a mistake. He feels nothing when he is forced to kill small creatures, living beings that he knows Yumeko considers her friends. But when it comes to Yumeko…he can’t tune it out.

He can’t be uncaring when it comes to her. He can’t tear himself from this attachment, the last one he still had. His best friend. The only person still keeping him sane, keeping him human.

He does try to distance himself, for her sake. He has talked her into not coming over as often, and on nights without her he hugs the fox doll close and endures the fear and loneliness. But dropping her entirely? He can’t do that. He simply can’t.

Even if he knows it’s a weakness.

Even if he knows that, sooner or later, Hakaimono will use it against him.

---

Tatsumi finally arrives on Yumeko’s doorstep during the daytime, looking like he is carrying a heavy burden.

He is eleven now, tall and strong enough to wield Kamigoroshi, just barely. Most of the time it still looks like the sword is wielding him. But he keeps hauling it with him anyway, why, Yumeko doesn’t know.

“Tatsumi,” she says. “What’s up?”

For a moment something akin to pain crosses his face, then it transforms back into an emotionless mask. “Yumeko,” he says, “I need you to stop visiting me.”

It’s like a punch in the gut. Yumeko flinches. “What?” she asks. “But—”

“It’s Hakaimono. He keeps threatening…to kill you,” Tatsumi whispers. “I need to cut you off, or he will take over.”

Impossible. Impossible. All these years, and it’s been fine. “You managed before!” Yumeko bursts out. “What changed?”

“He’s growing stronger.” Tatsumi closes his eyes, and his blank expression wavers. “I can’t bear it much longer. We can’t be friends anymore.”

Yumeko swallows. Tears well up in her eyes. “But you’re my best friend,” she says. “What happened to best friends forever? What happened to no matter what?”

“I’m sorry.” Tatsumi’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “But if you don’t leave…I can’t promise I won’t kill you someday.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Yumeko says. “You would never—”

“Yumeko,” Tatsumi says. “Please.”

She doesn’t want to, but the look in his eyes convinces her that he means every word.

---

Tatsumi is twelve when Master Ichiro finally finds the fox doll.

“What did I tell you about toys?” he exclaims as he hits him, again and again, until Tatsumi’s back is blue with bruises. “No getting attached to anything, not even inanimate objects! Are you trying to get us all killed?”

Finally he stops beating him and shoves Kamigoroshi into his hands. “Destroy it,” he says. “Here. Now.”

Tatsumi stumbles back like he’s been hit in the face. “I—”

“No buts! Destroy it before it destroys all of us.” Master Ichiro narrows his eyes. “Or would you rather I do it?”

Tatsumi swallows, steels himself. The fox doll sits on the ground, looking up at him with black button eyes so similar to Yumeko’s own fox form. And suddenly it’s not a toy sitting in front of him. It’s Yumeko, looking up at him with pleading, innocent eyes.

No attachments.

Tatsumi lifts his sword, and pieces of stuffing fly all over the room.

---

The Silent Winds temple is burning.

Yumeko runs down the forest path, away from the oni, away from everything. Her chest hurts, and not from the smoke. She went to this place with Master Isao after Tatsumi ended their friendship, and it was her new home. Her family.

And now, once again, she is all alone.

Or would be, if not for the figure suddenly emerging in front of her.

Yumeko staggers back, expecting another oni. But the face before her is human—no, not only that. It’s familiar.

All these years, and she still recognizes him on sight.

“Tatsumi?” she rasps out.

“Yumeko,” he whispers. For a brief moment something akin to emotion flashes up in his voice.

“What are you doing here?” she says. “The temple—”

“I could ask you the same,” he says coldly. “I’m not here for you.”

“The temple is gone.”

Tears well up in her eyes, and Yumeko lets herself drop down to the ground. “The monks…they’re all dead,” she says. “The temple was attacked by oni, they sent me away, but…but…”

She wishes she could hug him like she would have done in their childhood. But the Tatsumi in front of her is no longer her friend. He is no longer anyone’s friend.

A hand lands on her shoulder, awkward but warm.

“Tell me what happened,” Tatsumi says. “I had an errand up there. A certain scroll…”

Yumeko thinks of the thing hidden in her furoshiki. Briefly she wonders if she should tell him. Better not. The way he is now…he might kill her, or else abandon her here in the wild.

Instead she thinks of something else.

“Master Isao sent it away,” she says. “He expected the temple to be attacked. The place it’s at now is…the Steel Feather temple, I think it’s called. He told me how to find it.” Her eyes meet Tatsumi’s. “I could lead you there, if you want.”

Tatsumi hesitates. Yumeko knows what he’s thinking: that this is a risk, and he’s playing with fire. Hakaimono threatened him over her before. But…

“Fine,” Tatsumi mutters, and it sounds like someone pronouncing his own doom. “I will follow you. But remember—I’m only your companion, not your friend.”

Yumeko knows that, and yet she can’t help smiling at the thought of traveling with him.

“I know.”

#i spent the whole evening on this #shadow of the fox #tatsumeko #kage tatsumi #yumeko #me and my writings #headcanons

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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forever is composed of nows (trixya) 1/2 - beanierose

AN: Title is from the Emily Dickinson poem of the same name. My eternal gratitude to nadia for keeping me sane and listening to me shriek about this at all hours of the day and night. Love you endlessly, baby.

(read on a03) | (find me at katiehoughton)

It’s a soulmate AU where you feel the opposite emotion to whatever the other person is feeling | 13,336 words

Nothing happens at all until Katya is seven years old. This is not unusual. Not everybody has a sestrinskoye serdtse, her mother tells her, using the old Russian term for it. Katya likes it better, thinks it’s romantic, and she rolls the phrase around in her mouth for a whole afternoon.

Her parents were not soulbound. It runs in some families; doesn’t run in others. No one in their recent history has been. There’s an aunt way back on her father’s side who, upon finding herself soulbound to an awful tyrant of a man, had walked calmly right into the water and never come back. Or so Katya’s brother had told her and her baby sister one night, sheets over their heads and a flashlight underneath his chin.

His white, round face had hovered disembodied in the darkness, illuminated from below like a carnival head. Anya had shrieked and writhed and put her hands over her ears, but Katya had been transfixed. She thinks about her a lot. The courage it must have taken, to look her fate in the face and tell it no.

It makes her sad, to think that she might not be soulbound. Lots and lots of people aren’t - most people. It occurs in populations with about the same frequency as red hair. Still, Katya can’t help but feel like she’s special. She knows it to be true.

“You’re still special, Katenka,” Mama tells her when she tucks her in at night, smoothing her hand over Katya’s mousey hair.

Sometimes she will pretend like she is. She will double over as if she has been suddenly struck down with grief in the middle of recess. Nobody buys it, and she doesn’t care at all. The idea of it fascinates her.

What must it be like? To be one half of the same soul. To feel the exact opposite emotion to whatever the other person feels. To know, when overcome with euphoria, that your sestrinskoye serdtse is hurting so deeply. To know that your own joy causes them hurt, too.

No one will tell her very much about what it’s really like, and she thinks it’s because they don’t know either. From what she gathers, it’s only extremes of emotion that are intense enough for the other person to notice. So you wouldn’t feel it if they get their favourite coffee in the morning, but if they lose a loved one you’ll have one of the best days of your life.

So far, Katya has met only one couple who are soulbound. They go to their same church and must be about a hundred and twenty years old. They are always holding hands; Katya has never seen them not holding hands. She wonders if they’re capable of letting go anymore or if they’ve grown entwined just like that, like the beech trees in the forest back home in Russia.

“Ne smotri,” Papa whispers at her during mass. Don’t stare.

She can’t help it. No one will tell her exactly what happens when you do find your sestrinskoye serdtse. How do you tell? How can you know for sure that it’s them? And do you continue to feel opposite emotions, once you’ve found them? From watching Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, she thinks not. They always smile all the way through mass, both of them soft and melty at the edges.

Katya has tried asking, her mama and Dmitri and some of her friends at school, but no one answers. Soulbound people are rare, and Katya thinks that makes them superior, but mostly it just means she doesn’t really know what they’re like.

It’s a Wednesday late in August and Katya is lying on her back in the grass. She’s getting stains all over her dress but she doesn’t care, she hates it and its frills and lace. The air is thick with summer and she moves her hand slowly through it, imagines she can feel it shifting like molasses. She is seven years old, and it feels important. Seven is a lucky number, a good year.

Anya wanted to play dolls with her earlier but she doesn’t like how the boy one and the girl one always have to get married and have babies. She wants her doll to be an astronaut or a rockstar, but Anya tells her she’s stupid and Katya’s face gets all hot and Mama has to tell her “bud dobrym.” Be kind.

It’s better, out here in the grass by herself. Mama made lemonade and she spilled a little because she tried to drink it lying down. Her face is sticky, and her hands. She can feel the bridge of her nose burning, prickly with the heat, and she knows she’ll get in trouble later for not wearing enough sunscreen.

Out of nowhere, she feels a wave of bliss roll over her. That’s not unusual for a summer afternoon, except that she can tell right away that this emotion is not hers. It feels milky and intangible, like looking at her reflection in a pond or a river. Something shifting and not quite herself. Katya sits upright in the grass and presses her hand to her chest. She’s trembling and she bites her bottom lip while she waits for it to pass.

For a moment, after it’s over, Katya doesn’t breathe or move. She is so still that an ant crawls up onto her leg and marches up and down her thigh. Another burst of emotion hits her right in the centre of her chest. This time, it’s fear. Katya closes her eyes and breathes slowly through her nose until it goes away.

It isn’t quite the same as her nightmares, or the very first time she tried out the rope swing and arced so wide before plummeting into the river below. It’s more like when she and Dmitri got to watch Pet Sematary at their cousin’s house after Anya went to bed. A fear with no stakes behind it, a synthetic sort of terror.

She does not tell Mama. She doesn’t tell anyone. Who would believe her? All this time she has pretended to feel her sestrinskoye serdtse right on the inside of her chest, carrying them around with her every day. And now it’s really happening.

For the first year or so, it’s not so bad. Sure, sometimes it wakes her in the middle of the night and she lies on her back with her sheets pulled up over her head and her arms folded over her chest like a mummy. Like she’s in a sarcophagus, and she thinks of beetles crawling all over and nibbling at her flesh and her brain being hooked out of her nose or her ear.

No one has told her, but she’s not an idiot. She knows what it means, that she felt her sestrinskoye serdtse so suddenly. She’s older. The person she is soulbound to is an infant. It explains the bright bursts of intensity she feels at all hours of the day and night, that never last more than ten minutes or so.

She’s a little jealous. Everything is going to be different, for them. They won’t have seven years of feeling hollowed out and unwhole. They will feel Katya from their first breath. Have been feeling her. She thinks about them all the time, and wonders how many years it will be before they start to think of her, too.

For Christmas, her babushka buys her a journal. It’s bound in red leather and comes with a lock. Katya slides the key onto the same thin gold chain as her cross and wears both every day. She likes how the key bounces against her chest when she runs around at recess, how in the wintertime it gets so cold against her skin that it burns livid hot. She likes the reminder. There is someone out there in the universe whose soul is bound to hers, a person designed perfectly just for her.

Every night before she goes to sleep, Katya writes notes in her journal. The date, and her feelings. It’s not all that different to how everybody else uses their journals, except that the feelings she writes in it aren’t hers.

As she grows older, and her sestrinskoye serdtse grows older right along with her, it becomes more difficult to separate her emotions from theirs. Whenever she feels joy or peace, she knows that they’re hurting and then she grieves for them and then she’s hurting, too. Now that she’s actually experiencing it, it’s not as fun as she’d always imagined.

At nine years old, Katya goes through a rolodex of counsellors and behavioural therapists and doctors and psychologists. They toss around various diagnoses. Some of them say she has ADD, or maybe she’s autistic. She lacks the vocabulary to explain that her mood swings and her difficulty focusing and her explosive temper are because half of her emotions are those of a toddler. One therapist suggests developmental delay, and Katya supposes that’s not inaccurate.

She learns to be calm through it. She will clench her fists tight enough that she feels the thump of her pulse in her palms like she’s captured a hummingbird. She will count her breaths until it passes. Most days are dreadful. Every time she thinks she’s got a handle on it, something else flares furious and crimson in her chest.

One Saturday afternoon, Katya comes home from the woods and her palms are chafed and red from breaking sticks. She rubs them against the thighs of her pants as she walks in the back door. Her parents are waiting for her at the kitchen table, a chair pulled out for her to sit in and her journal on the table between them. Cracked open, and the lines of her spidery handwriting are barely legible.

“Sit down, Yekaterina,” Papa says. His voice is firm but not unkind.

She does, flopping into the chair and toeing out of her boots. It’s March and not quite warm yet; the heat of the stove makes her cheeks ruddy and she pulls her sweater off over her head. It makes her hair all staticky and her bangs flop down into her eyes.

“What’s going on?” She knows it bothers her father when she uses English at home, knows also that she’s doing it to spite him. “Where did you get that?”

“Tvoya sestra,” Mama says. Your sister.

Katya is up out of the chair so fast that she stumbles over the leg of it and almost goes to her knees. She shoves her sleeves up past her elbows as she bounds up the stairs two at a time. The door to their room bounces off the wall when she slams it open. Anya is sitting cross-legged on her twin bed, brushing the hair of one of her dolls.

When she sees Katya she cowers back against the headboard, her hands up in defence already. She knows what she’s done, then, and she’s afraid. Good.

Katya rips the doll out of her sister’s hands and pops the head off of it in one clean motion. For a second, she flounders. She wants to make Anya hurt, feels the mercury of her anger boiling inside of her stomach. Katya sweeps the rest of Anya’s dolls onto the floor. If she’d kept her boots on she could stomp them. She does it anyway, not feeling the prick of their stupid little hands and pointy noses against the soles of her feet.

Her parents have caught up to her now. She lunges at Anya, her hands extended and her fingers curled up like a dreadful beast. Papa grabs her from behind and lifts her clean off the ground. She thrashes in his grip, screaming and spitting.

The violation of it has cleaved her in two. She feels pink-raw, like the old paintings of surgeries she likes to look at sometimes. Herself, strapped to a table with her guts tumbling out, and rows and rows of people watching from the gallery.

Anya is wailing and clutching at her disembodied doll’s head. Again and again, Katya roars and writhes in her father’s grip, until he manages to get her through the doorframe and out of their bedroom.

“Ya ub’yu tebya,” she screams at her sister. I’ll kill you.

Mama has closed the door on Anya now, but she hears. The whole street must hear. Katya is choking on her anger, trembling with it. It streams out of her, nose and eyes and mouth, and the indignity of it sends her outside of herself.

Papa is still holding tight to her. She fights it for a long while, and then she sags in his arms and brings him to the ground with her. They are all three crumpled in the hallway, Mama on her knees next to Katya and Papa and their pile of tangled limbs.

“Breathe, Katenka. Breathe. It’s okay.” She does, raggedly at first but evening out with Papa’s strong arms still banded tight around her chest. After a long while, Mama says, “you have a sestrinskoye serdtse?”

“Da,” she spits through the grit of her teeth, the rictus of her jaw.

The whole messy truth of it comes spilling out of her, then. She tells her parents how for three years she’s been carrying another soul around with her every day. Feeling the antithetical emotions of that soul. Mama cries, and doesn’t furiously swipe her tears away with her palms the way that Katya always does. She lets them come, lets them collect in the creases at the corners of her mouth as she listens to her daughter.

After a little while, Anya and Dmitri poke their heads out of their respective doorways. Now that the beast of their sister has come to rest, they sit in the hallway as well to listen. Katya talks, and talks and talks.

She understands, now. Why nobody seems to know the truth of what it is like to be soulbound. The sensation of it is like pins and needles or gooseflesh, a tingling hyper awareness and the feeling of not quite fitting correctly inside your skin. It is hard to put words to it.

Katya gets her journal back, and doesn’t even get in trouble for ruining Anya’s doll. Everybody is tiptoeing around her like she’s sick, like she’s dying. It’s not true. Nothing is going to happen to her because she’s soulbound. Well, other than that if her sestrinskoye serdtse falls in love with somebody else, the grief might drive her to madness.

She would not be the first.

It’s the middle of the night; Anya is sleeping on her stomach in the bed next to Katya’s. She sneaks out from beneath the sheets and pads in her sock feet across to the closet. There’s a box at the bottom of it, where she keeps her supplies. Katya rummages through it until she finds her superglue.

Anya’s got her doll laid out on the nightstand, separated from its head by a half inch. Like it’s lying in state, and all the other dolls might come to visit it. Carefully, and still getting glue on her fingertips, Katya fixes the doll’s head back in its right place. She sits it upright on the nightstand, so it will be the first thing Anya sees when she opens her eyes in the morning.

Back beneath her sheets, Katya tries to pick the glue off her fingers. She thinks about her sestrinskoye serdtse. They will turn four later this summer. She wonders what it must be like, for their parents. Raising a toddler grappling with the enormity of two people’s emotions. Today Katya was angry, angrier than she’s been in her whole life. She’s not quite sure what the opposite of that is. Calm, maybe. Or peace. At least her sestrinskoye serdtse had a good day, she thinks, and it makes hot tears form along her bottom lashes.

* * *

Katya starts her fifth journal the same week she starts high school. She has them all labelled carefully with the length of time that they span, lined up chronologically along the bottom shelf of her bookcase. Sometimes she flips through them at random, chooses a day and reads it over.

There are days when she feels all alone in the universe, and remembering that her sestrinskoye serdtse is out there helps her. It lets her feel close to them, to read over her meticulous notes and try to imagine what they might have been going through. She’s fourteen now, and her sestrinskoye serdtse is seven. For half of her life, every single day, Katya has felt them.

It’s been a tough summer. Her anxiety has been there her entire life, when she looks back on it, but it has gotten so much worse since she finished middle school. There are voices in her head all the time, whispering to her. Catastrophizing. Convincing her that every decision is the wrong one. She knows they aren’t really there, but…there is a voice in her head.

Well, not a voice. And not in her head.

A presence in her chest, at all times and in all ways. Whatever she does, she has to weigh the consequences. If she does something that makes her happy, she condemns her sestrinskoye serdtse to misery. Most of the time it is paralytic; she doesn’t dare feel anything at all.

When she thinks critically about it, when she reads back on the last week or month or year of entries in her journal, she knows. They are not having a good childhood, whoever they are. Katya feels happy most days, but she knows it’s because they’re hurting and that makes her hurt as well, and it isn’t ever true happiness. It is ersatz, doesn’t belong to her.

She’s been grappling with it all summer. Trying to figure out just how the fuck she’s supposed to make it through high school. It’s difficult enough trying to fit in without being the freak who is predestined to be with someone she hasn’t even met yet. Who is going to want to date her?

Mama let her dye her hair at least. It felt like watching herself appear, like she was meeting herself for the very first time as she watched the bleach circle the drain. Her hair is waist length and wavy and white blonde. It makes her feel like a Waterhouse painting.

Her therapist keeps trying to instil her with coping mechanisms. Together they agreed that Katya should try yoga, and she does love it, but it also doesn’t cure her mental illness. There has been suggestion of medication, multiple times, but she won’t do that. She has no idea what psychotropic drugs might do to her sestrinskoye serdtse, and they’re only a little kid.

Katya’s not about to fuck them over like that. She’d much rather fuck herself over every day.

For the first semester, she does okay. Having a routine helps her. She gets up at the same time every day, goes to the same classes, practices yoga when she gets home. It’s impossible to predict what she might feel on any given day, but she can control everything else.

She’s doing okay, she really is, and then finals roll around. Everything in high school feels so much more important. The rational part of her brain tells her that it’s okay if she messes up a couple exams, she still has three more years after this to prove herself, but the anxious part of her brain is the one in charge.

It’s exhausting every day just keeping her head above the water, so when Dmitri’s friend offers Katya a drag of his joint she finds herself saying yes. That first time, she doesn’t feel much of anything. The smoke makes her cough and he laughs at her and shame burns hot and insistent along the column of her neck and into her cheeks.

After that though, it becomes their thing. Three or four times a week he sneaks away from the PlayStation tournament the boys are having in the basement and he and Katya share a joint on the back porch, after her parents are in bed.

When he kisses her, it isn’t a surprise. They’ve been building up to it for weeks and weeks, she knows that. His fingers brush hers when he passes the joint over, and he likes to prop his elbow on the back of the bench seat behind her head so she can feel the heat of his bicep.

It’s nice. She’s a bit awkward, not quite sure what to do with her hands, but she likes the soft little puff of his breath against her cheek. When they separate, he tells her “don’t tell your brother.”

The image of Dmitri beating the shit out of him makes Katya snort a laugh. They joke, her family, that Dmitri spends so much time down in the basement and out of the sunlight that it’s stunting his growth. Katya’s stronger than he is, with her yoga and now gymnastics too, these last few weeks.

Still, she doesn’t tell Dmitri. They get high together almost every day. Not just weed anymore, either. Katya discovers that when she has a synthetic euphoria, it blocks off her sestrinskoye serdtse so that she can’t feel them. It’s as if her brain is too full, there’s no room for anyone else’s emotions. It’s the respite she’s been hoping for for nearly half her life. The first couple times, she wonders what it’s like for them when she’s high, but then she stops caring.

Katya fucks for the first time in her twin bed in the room she shares with her sister. Anya and their parents are out of state for the weekend. Dmitri stayed behind and Katya did too, because she has to work her shitty retail job at the mall. She’s sixteen years old, and so wasted that she can’t lift her head up off the pillow.

This boy is not the same boy as her first kiss. He is also not her sestrinskoye serdtse, but she hasn’t been thinking about them so much anymore. She’s not sober, a lot of the time. It actually makes it easier to focus on her classes, because it quiets a lot of her anxiety. Adderall is lovely, makes her so focused and calm. She’s making good grades, so no one seems overly concerned that she has to be drunk or high or both in order to do so.

When it’s over, the boy passes her a tissue from the box on the nightstand and leaves her to clean herself off. She didn’t come, but according to her friends who have started having sex she shouldn’t expect to for the first few times.

After that, she has a lot of sex with a lot of different people. With guys, and with girls too. When all of her friends started becoming interested in the opposite sex, Katya did too, but she also realised she had those same feelings about girls. It complicated a lot of things for her. She doesn’t really tell people. Certainly not her Catholic parents.

She likes sex, likes making people feel good and letting them make her feel good, but there’s always something missing. Sometimes she’ll be rocking over someone’s face and gasping and she can’t help but wonder, just for a second, what this feels like for her sestrinskoye serdtse. They’re still only eleven years old, so she figures she has a good few years until she finds out for herself, but she can’t imagine that it’s good.

Intense pleasure starbursts in Katya’s stomach and she moans softly and arches off the mattress. Violet grins up at her from between her thighs, her cheeks pink with exertion.

“You’re so fucking hot, Kat,” Violet says.

College has been a lot about experimentation, so far. She’s tried drugs she never had access to in her small suburban town, tried a lot of new things. She got her first tattoo recently and it still makes her smile so big every time she catches sight of it. Papa is going to kill her, but it’s worth it.

Violet is hot. Objectively. She’s tall and striking. Katya loves to wrap her hands around Violet’s waist and marvel at how they encompass it completely as she guides Violet down to grind against her face.

They’re not girlfriends. Katya doesn’t do well with commitment, and Violet is totally fine with that. They’re both also fucking other people, off and on, but Katya enjoys Violet’s body and how skilful she is with her hands and her mouth.

Violet doesn’t know that Katya is soulbound. It’s not something she shares with her sexual partners. Some of her friends know, but she doesn’t think it makes particularly good pillow talk.

Hey, I really enjoy fucking you but I’m actually predestined to love somebody else, so.

She can’t imagine it would go over that well. It does feel like something is missing. There’s no intimacy with most of the people she fucks. Violet is different; they’re friends, and they do spend time together outside of sex, but not one on one. Always with the rest of their group.

“Are you coming to Ginger’s party?”

Violet is propped up on one elbow, looking down at Katya. Her makeup is smudged from being between Katya’s thighs, but her hair is still perfectly smooth.

“Duh. You want me to…”

“I got it.”

Usually Violet is the one to supply the weed whenever they all hang out. Her friends know that Katya does a lot more besides that, and she offers to hook them up, but they always decline.

She doesn’t miss the looks they shoot her when she rolls up to a party out of her mind on something a lot stronger than college pot. It’s out of love, out of concern and she knows it, but she bristles at the mere suggestion that there might be a problem. She’s fine. She is fine.

Her sestrinskoye serdtse? Not so much.

They have hit their teenage years, and Katya is riding out those mood swings right along with them. It is really fucking hard. She’s at college now, and everyone is always in chaos but everyone is at least an adult. Katya is thirteen again.

She feels tenderly towards both her own thirteen year old self, and her sestrinskoye serdtse. It’s the hardest age you’ll ever be, Katya is very sure of that. Not fitting in anywhere, the oldest of the children and the youngest of the adults. Still, it’s really hard to be focusing on a class and then have a sudden rush of shame or joy or sadness so intense it makes her lightheaded.

The drugs help her to level things out, and they also provide a very convenient excuse. Oh, that’s just Katya, people say, and it lets her get away with a whole lot. She’s very hung up on the fact that however hard this is for her to deal with, she is at least twenty years old. For her own teenage maelstrom, her sestrinskoye serdtse was only six. There’s an immense guilt there, even though she knows that it isn’t her fault and there’s nothing to be done about it.

When they get their first crush, Katya is certain that she’s going to die. They are middle of the night mooning over it, and she sits and chain smokes out of the open bedroom window. Grief is lodged in her chest, an unexpectedly hard thing in the flesh of her, like a peach pit.

She puts her fingertips to the windowpane to feel the cold of it. Sleep seems like a faraway thing. Her sestrinskoye serdtse is up, thinking on someone, so Katya is up right along with them. She lets her head lean against the glass and closes her eyes, cigarette dangling precariously from between her two fingers.

It is not a pleasant feeling. And when they kiss for the first time (Katya remembers her own first kiss, almost goes under with the weight of her guilt) pain is alive in the pit of her stomach. She tries to be happy for them, glad that they’re able to enjoy being a teenager, but mostly she just hurts.

Sasha keeps trying to distract her. Let’s get out of the house she will say, in Russian or in English depending on how bad she thinks Katya is. They walk around Boston and Sasha talks and talks, and Katya listens because she’s good at that. And she loves her roommate, is grateful to have someone holding her accountable.

“I think they’ve discovered how to jerk off,” Katya says over breakfast one Saturday.

Sasha is at the stove making eggs. She didn’t appreciate Katya’s cannibalism joke and keeps self-consciously rubbing one hand over her smooth white head. Katya has taken to calling her yaytso, mostly because she’s jealous that Sasha pulls it off so well.

“Oh?”

“Yuh-huh. I get these like, insane moments of agony that last for ten seconds.”

She doesn’t know what else that could be. It makes her grin every time even though it fucking hurts. She’s happy for them, feels strangely proud. They’re fifteen now; she’s been wondering when it’s going to start.

“That sounds…unpleasant.”

“Da,” Katya snorts.

Sasha sets a plate down in front of her and Katya starts eating, very slowly. There’s nothing to be done. Unless she finds them, which she has no clue how to even begin to do, all she can do is tuck her chin close to her chest and endure it.

“Katya, are you okay?”

“Right now, or in general?”

Sasha considers her for a moment. She is so calm, so absolutely unflappable. Never loud or crass. Sometimes when she’s drunk or high Katya will try to get a rise out of her, will say things that are both unkind and untrue. It never works.

“Both.”

“Right now I’m good.” She gestures at her plate with her fork. “These are good. Thank you.”

“And in general.”

The way Sasha is looking at her, round and wise like the moon, makes her pause to actually consider it. Is she good? She doesn’t know. It’s been her whole life, like this. It’s something she grew up with, and she was forced to adapt around it. She feels gnarled and wizened.

“This is just…how it is. I have to be okay with it.”

By the time she’s thirty, it’s not cute anymore. When she comes home at four in the morning high, when she’s drunk out of her skull at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday, it isn’t charming. Not like it was when she was in high school or college. She can’t explain it away with youthful arrogance.

Rehab is the hardest thing she has ever done, and she does it twice. When she gets out the first time she tries to surround herself with people who are steadfast and calm. She sees Fame almost every single day, needing proof of life from her and glad to be held accountable herself. Sasha got married and moved out, but still loves her deeply and answers the phone at any hour.

For a little while, Anya comes to stay with her. Her sister tries to understand, but she has no experience with addiction or with being soulbound so it’s hard for them both. After Anya goes back home to Denver, Katya relapses hard.

She’s out of rehab now, a whole year clean and sober. She has two jobs and her own tiny shoebox apartment. Sometimes she still misses the place above the bar, but she knows that being able to walk down a flight of stairs from her front door and get wasted is not a healthy environment for an addict.

Her therapist worked with her to handle her anxiety, since she can’t fall back on any of the usual ways she silences it. It is always there, but she is much better at looking it in the face and telling it no.

Her sestrinskoye serdtse is doing well. They’re twenty five now, and Katya can only assume that they’ve built a life for themselves. She gets the odd day of blistering joy, but most of the time she feels sad and has to reconcile that with the fact that they’re happy.

It’s been rough for both of them. She still keeps her journals, has so many of them now that she’s thought about putting them into storage in her parents’ attic, but she likes to have them close. She’s happy for them, she is.

But she’s thirty two years old and she hasn’t met them yet, and it feels more and more like she’s never going to. It seems unfair of the universe. If it’s going to tie her to somebody, surely the least it can do is deposit that somebody neatly into her lap.

These days, there are groups online. Forums where people talk about their experiences being soulbound, and tentatively try to figure out if the person behind one of these usernames could be their sestrinskoye serdtse. It isn’t easy. The general consensus, among the people who have been fortunate, is that you can’t know for sure until you meet them face to face.

Katya doesn’t do a whole lot of meeting face to face. New people make her wary. She teaches, yoga in the mornings and Russian in the evenings. Every time she gets a new student, or a whole new class, she is careful to look each of them in the eye and introduce herself. She’s never felt anything more than pleasure that they trust her, that they have come to her for guidance.

She settles down nicely into her little life. There’s no more partying, no more stumbling vulnerable and high in the street. She goes to bed at the same time every night, wakes up at the same time every morning. The routine is the thing that keeps her anxiety at bay. And she supposes it’s a kindness on her part, towards her sestrinskoye serdtse. Katya never throws any curveballs at them, doesn’t fall in love or risk her heart.

Sometimes she wonders whether they can feel her at all, or whether they’ve completely forgotten that she’s there.

* * *

“Could you at least try to have a good time, tonight?” Fame grumbles at her. She’s leaning on the vanity with both elbows, as she puts the finishing touches on her lipstick.

The crisp edge of Fame’s mouth is such a contradiction to the smudge of Katya’s own lipstick that she laughs, can’t help it. She’s only going to this stupid show for Fame. Because it’s in a bar, and now that they’re both sober they can lean on each other.

“Tell me again who she is.”

Fame rolls her eyes so hard Katya is worried for a second she’s going to pop her lashes. They’ve been through this at least four times already, but Katya’s memory is not the best and well…she likes hearing Fame describe her.

“Her name’s Trixie. She and I worked at the beauty counter together in college. She is a-”

“Full Dolly fantasy!” Katya interrupts and then screams out a laugh and stamps her feet.

She’s seen a couple pictures from their college days, but Fame wouldn’t let Katya google Trixie. She wants her to get the full effect live and in person. It’s country music, Katya knows that much, covers and some originals.

“Right.” Fame hesitates for just a second and then turns to face Katya. Her hip props her up against the edge of the countertop, and she reaches for Katya’s hands to hold in both of hers. “Hey. Thank you. I know you hate music.”

“I don’t hate music. Just like…singing. Live singing.”

The so-familiar fluttering starts up in Katya’s chest and she kneads two fingers against her breastbone and waits for it to pass. She’s been feeling a lot of dread, lately, which she supposes means her sestrinskoye serdtse is excited about something. She’s happy for them, but she would love to make it through just one day without a cataclysmic sense of doom hanging over her head.

“All good?” Fame ducks her head just a touch to grab Katya’s eyeline.

Part of their journey to sobriety together has been total honesty. Fame knows that Katya is soulbound, and that it played a big part in her addiction issues in the first place. Addiction is a disease, she knows that, but it can be aggravated the same way her hip flexors get achy if she pushes too hard to try and get her straddle split.

Her sestrinskoye serdtse aggravates her. The last thirty years of her life, every single decision she has made she has had to consider them too. It made her very selfish for a long while there in her teens and early twenties. She’s back to selflessness now, tries to avoid things that will trigger any extreme of emotion in her at all.

“I’m good. Let’s go.”

The bar is crowded, because it’s a Friday night in Boston so they all are. Fame clings tight to Katya’s hand and leads them through the crowd. They have a little table reserved right up front near the stage, because Trixie is apparently a big enough deal that she gets to do that. Fame deposits Katya at the table like a toddler and goes back to the bar to get drinks for them both.

There’s no band, Katya notes with interest as she drums her fingers against the tabletop. There’s a microphone set up in a stand, and a pink guitar, but no other instruments.

When Fame comes back to the table, Katya gives her an exaggerated groan and drops her head into her hands. “Is this gonna be some acoustic bullshit?”

“Probably,” Fame says. “She plays guitar. And autoharp.”

“What the fuck is an autoharp?”

Fame pulls her phone out of her purse to start searching for a picture, but the lights dim and a few rowdy dudes whoop and holler and Fame hastily puts her phone away again. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to find out.”

Trixie comes out onto the stage, and Katya takes it like a punch to the gut. The lights make her blonde hair glow pink and it feels like intimacy, like pre-dawn. She’s wearing a very tiny, very tight dress that is all pink gingham and white fringe. Full Dolly fantasy, indeed.

Her hair is teased so high and it curls all the way down to her waist. It gets in her way so she can’t pull the strap of her guitar over her head, has to have a techie guide it around the back of her neck instead.

She strums her opening chord and the crowd roars wildly. According to Fame, Trixie has quite the fan base. She started posting music online and earned a following pretty quick. Now she tours around, playing small venues and selling her EP.

Katya is transfixed by Trixie, can’t draw her eyes away from her for more than a second at a time. She bops around the stage like she’s buoyed by the audience, stomping and jumping in her white cowboy boots. And every time the noise of the crowd swells, each time it crescendos, Katya feels anguish right in the centre of her chest. The same as always, she recognises it as something that doesn’t belong to her. It’s her sestrinskoye serdtse, having the time of their life.

She works two knuckles of her right hand against her breastbone and wrinkles her nose. This is fun, she’s having a good time watching Trixie, and she refuses to let her sestrinskoye serdtse be in charge tonight. It’s Katya’s turn.

“Now? Really?” Fame leans over to whisper to her.

“Guess so.”

She does her best to push it down. Everyone cheers and claps for Trixie so loudly, because they all came in here already loving her. They know all the words to everything she sings, even her original songs, and they sing along with her. Katya cheers too, whistles loudly with her fingers. It makes Trixie’s head snap towards them and she grins widely when she sees Fame.

At the very end of the show, everybody is applauding Trixie and hollering, and Katya feels misery rolling in thick waves that crest over the top of her head. It’s the strongest it’s been for a really long time. She ducks her head to put her chin against her chest and breathes raggedly against the feeling that she’s going to pass out.

Fame has one hand wrapped tight around Katya’s elbow and she focuses on those five points of contact. It’s so unfair that she can’t have just one night without having to share her whole self with somebody else. Hot tears of frustration collect along her lash line and she watches Trixie liquidate and shimmer pink and gold in front of her, blinks hard to bring her back into focus again.

“She texted me earlier. Said to come backstage after. Wanna come too?”

It’s maybe not the best idea. Her ribcage aches with the phantom hurt so that she can’t take a deep breath. One time, she watched a documentary about people who have had limbs amputated but can still feel them. Sasha found her crying into a bag of Skittles and took the remote away from her.

“Sure, okay. I need a cigarette first though.”

She heads outside, already fumbling with the carton of cigarettes and her lighter. There’s a lot of people crowding right outside the entrance of the bar and it feels like they’re all touching her at once but from the inside, beneath her skin. Katya loops around to the left and into the alley, leans back against the brick. The dumpster hides her from view mostly, so she closes her eyes and tilts her face up to the moonless night.

Everything is beginning to wear off now. She’s not sure whether it’s the cigarette, or if whatever her sestrinskoye serdtse was doing that made them so happy is finally over. It’s quite a bit colder out here than inside the bar. Katya crosses her left arm over her body and secures her hand at her right hip. It is not her first time hunkered in an alleyway on the precipice of tears.

Once she’s done with her cigarette she stubs it out against the wall and rummages in her purse for gum. Smoking is disgusting, she knows that, so she always does her best to cover up the smell of it after. Especially when meeting new people. And, well, her therapist does always say she has an oral fixation. Gum helps.

There’s no bouncer or anything - Trixie might be popular but she’s not that famous - so Katya knocks once and then opens the door to the tiny green room. Fame is seated on a little couch, her legs crossed at the ankles and tucked neatly in. She’s watching Trixie remove the layers of performance from herself.

“There you are,” Fame says when she sees Katya. “Trixie, this is-”

“Katya, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Trixie is wiping away something Katya assumes to be Pond’s cold cream with a facecloth. She’s brushed her hair out so that it isn’t teased quite so high anymore, but it’s still curly and thick and shiny. She’s changed into a different dress, a floaty lacy thing that looks like a Victorian nightgown. Katya wonders if Trixie ever wears pants of any kind. She can’t imagine it.

“Yeah! Katya.” Sasha told her once that she responds to her own name the same way a golden retriever does. She feels the warmth of embarrassment spreading up her throat and scrubs a hand at the back of her neck. “I’ve heard almost nothing about you. This one wanted me to experience you myself.”

“And how was your experience? Of me.”

Trixie gets done wiping her makeup away and starts rubbing some kind of lotion into her skin. The fancy bottles look familiar and Katya figures she’s probably seen them in Fame’s bathroom, before. The two of them did work the beauty counter together all those years ago, they probably trade all kinds of secrets. A weird flare of jealousy burns in Katya’s stomach for just a moment.

“Really good. You were…wow. You had them eating out of your hand.”

“I told you you’d like it,” Fame says. She’s so smug, but Katya is not about to point out that Fame specifically told her she probably wouldn’t like it. Not in front of Trixie, who looks so quietly pleased.

She’s finished with all of her serums and creams and wipes her hands clean on the facecloth. Freckles scatter her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, Katya notes. She’s really, really cute. Full lips, round cheeks, a graceful slope to her nose that Katya is very envious of.

A flutter starts in her chest, something with wings that Katya cages immediately. She doesn’t date anymore, doesn’t bother with it. Sometimes she will take a random girl home with her for the night, but it’s a lot more difficult to do now that she’s sober. She’s a solitary creature, and that’s okay with her.

Done with her beauty routine, Trixie finally turns away from the mirror to look Katya in the eye for the very first time.

Oh.

Years later, people will ask the two of them how they knew. To those who aren’t soulbound, it’s difficult to understand, but Katya explains it like this: imagine you’ve spent your whole life with a stone in your shoe, you’ve learned to live with it, you don’t even notice the discomfort some days. And then just like that, the stone is gone.

Neither of them says anything. For a horrifying second, Katya thinks she’s the only one who feels it and she has actually lost her mind here in this bar. Then Trixie takes a couple of stumbling steps backwards and catches herself against the edge of the vanity table. Her knuckles are white. Fame darts a puzzled glance between the two of them and then gets to her feet.

“I’m going to um…give you a minute,” she says, but Katya’s not even hearing her. Not really.

She’s staring at Trixie, she knows she is, but she thinks it’s okay because Trixie is staring at her right back. Neither of them moves or speaks. She knows that it’s true, feels it as surely as she’s ever known anything, but she wants to be certain.

“Trixie. Trixie, when’s your birthday?”

“August 23, 1989.”

“Fuck,” Katya says, and has to sit down.

It seems to jolt Trixie into action. She crosses the distance between them and goes to her knees at Katya’s feet on the disgusting green room carpet. Trixie fumbles for Katya’s hands, takes both of them in hers and squeezes.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Is it you?”

Katya bites her lip. She feels relief, and wonder, and she feels it twice. After thirty years she’s gotten very good at separating her own emotions from those of her sestrinskoye serdtse. From those of Trixie. Holy shit. She recognises Trixie’s own awe, feels it milky and ephemeral the same way she always does. But now she doesn’t feel the opposite of what Trixie feels. She feels the truth of it.

“I felt the day you were born,” Katya says.

Of all the things she ever imagined she would say to her sestrinskoye serdtse when - if - she ever got to meet them, this was not high up on the list. But Trixie is at her feet like supplication, like exaltation.

Trixie’s hands are still in hers. Katya absently notes her nails, trimmed short and painted baby pink, and wonders whether that’s for playing guitar or…

When at fifteen she figured out she was bisexual, Katya had been extremely annoyed. Her friends were sweet about it, told her it widened her dating pool and really she was so lucky, but all she kept thinking was that she wouldn’t even know whether her sestrinskoye serdtse is a man or a woman until she met them. And then she’d worried that they’d be a woman, and they’d be straight, and they wouldn’t want her.

“How old are you?” Trixie asks, wide-eyed.

Katya screams and clutches tighter at Trixie’s hands. “Shut up, you cunt! I’m only thirty seven, so.”

“I’m just about to turn thirty.”

“Yes, I know. Trixie. Oh my God. You’re…”

She trails off, not entirely sure where she’s going with that. Thirty years of anticipation, and no small amount of despair, is welling up in her chest. It comes spilling out of her eyes, one hot tear that rolls cinematically down her cheek. Trixie reaches up to swipe it away with the pad of her thumb.

“Katya.” She gets up from the floor and comes to sit next to Katya on the little couch. There’s not an awful lot of room, and Trixie’s hips are wide, so their knees press together tight. “You’ve been there my whole life. Like, whatever I’ve been doing I’ve always known there was someone out there who cares about me because I could feel them. You.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Me too. Trixie. God.” She can’t seem to stop saying Trixie’s name. She likes the feeling of it in her mouth and the way it sounds, likes too how Trixie’s smile grows wider each time.

One gentle hand comes to rest at Katya’s knee. Trixie is tall and broad, and her hands are a lot bigger than Katya’s are, she notes with interest. Trixie is the most beautiful woman she’s seen ever, ever, ever.

“What do we…do now?” Trixie asks.

Kiss me, Katya thinks, but doesn’t say it. She’s known Trixie for all of five minutes, even though her soul has known Trixie’s for thirty years. It’s an insistent and quivering thing in her chest that she tries to ignore.

“Do you have to like, get on a bus or something? I don’t know how tours work.”

It makes Trixie laugh, and Katya is quietly pleased. She’d like to make Trixie laugh more, would like to hear it every day from now on.

“I’ve got three days in Boston before I move on to New York. Wanted to catch up with a few friends in the city while I’m here.”

“Okay! Do you maybe want to come back to my apartment?” Trixie opens her mouth and Katya hurries through the rest of her sentence. “Not for- just to get to know each other a bit. Oh! And I have something to show you.”

Trixie’s eyes drag very slowly down Katya’s body, from the crown of her head, and come to rest right in her lap. She arches one eyebrow. Katya screams her most obnoxious, pneumatic laugh and shakes her fists in the air.

“I would love to see what you have to show me,” Trixie says once Katya’s done screaming. “I gotta tell Bob.”

She gets up from the couch and smoothes her skirt out against her legs with the flat of her palms. Katya is struck once more by how lovely she is. Want fills her up slowly, warm and liquid. She presses her thighs together, and then realises that not only can Trixie see her doing that, she can probably feel it too.

Trixie holds out a hand for her and tugs her up off the couch. When they move for the door, she doesn’t let go. Katya’s palms are clammy and definitely unpleasant, but when she moves to take her hand back Trixie squeezes tighter.

“Roberta!” she yells down the hall.

A woman appears with a cardboard box in both arms. She’s taller than Trixie, even, and her braided hair is piled up on top of her head in an intricate style that gives her an extra six inches at least.

“Beatrice,” Bob says with a smile that definitely reads I am going to murder you. “I’m very busy hawking your merch right now.”

“Sold any?”

“Not a one. Actually had to pay damages to a few people for the indignity of having to look at your face.”

Katya watches their interaction with interest. She knows almost nothing about Trixie, but seeing her with Bob is putting a couple of pieces into place. Trixie is acerbic and sarcastic. She might look like a princess, but there’s a bite beneath the pink and the lace that Katya is very interested in knowing more about.

“Tell your dad if he buys five shirts I’ll let him stick it in.”

“My dad’s dead,” Bob says, and then cackles. “My bomb pussy killed him.”

Trixie suddenly seems to remember that Katya is still there, tethered to the end of her arm. She glances at her, but when she sees that Katya is grinning right along with them her shoulders come down a little.

“I’m going home with Katya. I’ll text you.”

“Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova,” Katya says, and offers her hand for Bob to shake.

She doesn’t miss the tiny squeak Trixie lets out next to her. Katya enjoys her full name, enjoys how Russian she sounds when she says it even though she was born right here in Massachusetts and doesn’t have an accent. Or not a Russian one, anyway.

“Nice to meet you.” Bob turns to Trixie. “Since when do you go home with groupies?”

“She’s not a-” Trixie starts indignantly, and then catches herself. “Katya’s different. I’ll text you.”

“Be safe, please. I’m not paying for your gonorrhoea treatment. Again!” Bob calls after them as Trixie starts dragging Katya down the hallway.

“Ignore her.”

“You haven’t had gonorrhoea?” Katya says sweetly.

“I pay for my own treatments, bitch!”

Katya cackles again. The way Trixie makes her laugh is new, feels different. She doesn’t recall herself ever having made some of these sounds before. Her heart is so light she feels six inches off the ground, and Trixie is still holding her hand.

They come out into the main area of the bar. A couple of people are hovering and Trixie signs autographs for them, takes selfies, listens intently as they gush at her. She gave Katya her hand back, had to, so she stuffs them both into her pockets and hovers a few feet away. Waiting for Trixie to be done. Waiting to take Trixie home.

Fame is sitting at the bar, stirring the straw around and around in her glass. Panic guts Katya and her intestines fall out at her feet. The whole reason that she’s here in the first place is to be sober with Fame, and then she let her wander off to the bar by herself.

“You good?”

“Are you good?” Fame says. She notices Katya’s eyes on her glass and huffs. “It’s virgin. Give me a little credit.”

Katya climbs up onto the barstool next to Fame’s. “Right. I’m sorry. Yeah. I’m good. I’m really good.”

“Are you going to explain, or?”

Across the bar, Trixie is saying goodbye to the last of her fans. She exchanges a couple words with Bob, who is beginning to pack up the merch table, and then she turns around. When she sees Katya her face breaks wide open and she smiles, starts heading for them.

“It’s her, Fame.” Katya rests a hand at Fame’s knee and hopes that she can feel how Katya’s whole life has changed. “It’s Trixie.”

Fame doesn’t frown - she would never invite a permanent crease to form - but she does tilt her head in puzzlement. “What’s her? What’s going on?”

When Trixie reaches them she rests her hand at the back of Katya’s chair. Her knuckles are just barely touching Katya’s spine and she leans back into them, likes feeling Trixie so close to her.

Understanding drops Fame’s jaw and yanks a gasp from her throat. “Wait a minute. Oh my God. Trixie, are you soulbound?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“She doesn’t know?” Katya whips around in her seat to look at Trixie, who is blushing so furiously that it’s spreading down to her chest.

“I never told anyone. Ever. My whole life.”

Katya can only stare at her. It’s been hard enough all this time carrying Trixie’s heart along with hers. She can’t fathom doing it alone, not having Sasha to sit with her when it gets bad or Fame on the other end of the phone any time of the day or night.

“Wow. Uh. Congratulations?”

“Thanks,” Katya grins. She hops down from the barstool and adds another two inches difference between herself and Trixie. “We’re headed to my place. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

She shouldn’t leave Fame here, she knows that, but Trixie is growing rapidly more impatient and Katya wants to get her home before she changes her mind. Fame is still mostly just staring in wonder at Trixie, but she does manage a little nod.

“Yeah, sure. Or before that, Katya, if you need.”

Tenderness makes Katya’s heart soft and sticky. She kisses Fame’s cheek, even though she hates it when Katya leaves red lipstick on her. While she’s right there, she whispers her gratitude into Fame’s ear. Reminds her that it goes both ways, that she can call Katya too.

And then she leads Trixie out into the night. She has an overnight bag with her, a pink duffel, and Katya takes it and hikes it over her shoulder. It’s still humid from the day and the back of her neck feels damp already, but it’s less hot and she’s glad for that.

“Are you okay to walk? You must be exhausted.”

“Walking‘s good. I always have a ton of adrenaline after a show.”

That piques Katya’s interest. She would very much like to know how Trixie usually burns off that energy. It’s not a question for right now. She starts moving, feels the warmth of Trixie right beside her. Her apartment is only a few blocks from the bar.

“So. You told Fame you have a soulmate?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty much common knowledge in my circle of friends.” Katya is glad that they’re walking, glad she doesn’t have to look Trixie in the face for this. “I haven’t always…found it easy. I’ve needed them.”

Trixie hums a little noise at that, but doesn’t say anything else. They’re at Katya’s building now and she swats Trixie away when she tries to take her bag back, fumbling awkward and one-handed for her keys. She’s determined to be chivalrous.

Her place is a two-story walk up. She invites Trixie to go ahead of her, pretending that she has to lock the door behind them even though it locks itself and she absolutely just wants to look at Trixie’s ass as she goes up the stairs.

It’s electric and thrilling, feels adolescent to be here with Trixie like this. It’s been a long time since she’s brought a girl home with her. If she can, she likes to go back to their place instead so that she can leave when she wants in the morning and doesn’t have to awkwardly try to shepherd them out of the door.

Katya gets the door open after wrestling for a second with the sticky lock. The humidity is making it worse than normal. It’s not because Trixie is leaning with one shoulder propped against the wall, shamelessly watching her. It’s not.

“I am comfortable with a level of filth that other people find it difficult to accept,” she offers as a prelude before she opens the door.

It’s not actually that bad, not as bad as it was in her twenties, but still. She imagines every inch of Trixie’s home is color-coordinated and pristine. Katya double checks the front door is locked and puts the chain on it, turns back around to see Trixie already in her kitchen and studying the paraphernalia Katya has tacked to the refrigerator.

“Can I get you a drink? I don’t keep alcohol in the house, but I have tea, coffee, juice.”

“Hot water is fine. Do you have honey?” Trixie starts opening cabinets to check for herself and finds it almost immediately. “Lemon?”

Katya wrinkles her nose. She is notoriously terrible at feeding herself. Her refrigerator is usually barren. She only likes two foods at a time, would happily eat the same thing every meal for the rest of her life if her friends didn’t intervene.

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s fine. Honey’s good for my throat.”

Once the kettle is on the stovetop and heating up, Katya excuses herself to change. In the bathroom, she stares at herself in the mirror over the sink. Her sestrinskoye serdtse is here. Right out there, in Katya’s living room. And she’s tall and blonde and gorgeous and famous, sort of a little bit. It’s so ridiculous that Katya actually laughs, out loud, and then splashes cold water on her face.

When she comes back out, Trixie is over by the bookshelves running her fingers along and touching all of Katya’s tchotchkes. She turns around at the sound of the bathroom door opening.

“You have a lot of cool stuff.”

“Thanks! It’s vintage, mostly.”

Trixie tilts her head in consideration of that. “Does it count as vintage when you’ve been alive for a hundred and fifty years?”

Katya screams, again. Her neighbour is going to give her that stern look when they bump into each other in the mailroom tomorrow, but she doesn’t care.

When you’re an addict, people often tiptoe around you. Katya is used to people - especially new people - treating her like she’s gun shy or easily spooked.

“You’re a villain, Trixie Mattel.”

Her cheeks pink at her full name. Trixie spreads the skirt of her dress out in her hands and bends her knees in a little bow. “What was it like, witnessing the Industrial Revolution firsthand?”

“Stop!” Katya gasps.

Trixie is grinning open-mouthed. Even teasing, Katya thinks she is so lovely, so sweet and wonderful. She can hardly believe it. For just a second she wonders whether this is a soulbound thing, whether it puts rose-tinted glasses over her and that’s what makes Trixie a pink angel, but she doesn’t think so. She thought that the second she saw her, before they knew they were soulbound.

The kettle starts whistling and Katya fixes their drinks, hot water with honey for Trixie and green tea for herself. She joins Trixie on the couch and hands her the mug, wraps both hands around her own.

Her phone in her back pocket is jamming awkwardly into her hip. She tugs it free and goes to put it on the coffee table, then thinks better of it and hands it to Trixie instead.

“Here. Gimme your number.”

Trixie adds herself as a contact. She’s put an emoji after her name, the two pink hearts, and Katya grins to see it. She sends Trixie a text so that she’ll have her number too.

“Hold on, some weirdo’s texting me.” Trixie glances down at her own phone, but Katya doesn’t miss the way she watches her from the corner of her eye, looking for her reaction.

For a little while, they trade information back and forth like secrets. Katya asks Trixie about her childhood, her family, where she grew up, and she offers her own answers truth for truth. She learns all about Wisconsin, about growing up poor and how that has given Trixie the work ethic she has today.

It’s getting late, but they’re not on the other side of the night yet. It hasn’t rolled over into morning. Trixie is sitting with her elbow propped up on the back of the couch and she plays absent-mindedly with strands of her own hair. She’s warm and Katya smells adrenaline and sweat on her, and leftover perfume.

“Hey,” Trixie says when there’s a lull in their conversation, and reaches out to prod Katya’s bicep. “What did you want to show me?”

Katya gets up and leads Trixie to her bedroom. She keeps her old journals in here, because it’s easier than fielding questions whenever she has friends or family over. They take up the bottom three shelves of her bookcase. She gestures to them, and Trixie sinks down to kneel on the carpet.

“I uh, kept notes. Helped me make sense of things, I guess. And so that I could ask them - you - for the stories.”

Trixie looks up at Katya and she has one hand over her heart like she’s trying to keep it in her chest. “Can I?”

“Course. They’re about you.”

Katya settles cross-legged on the end of her bed to watch. She picks at her cuticles, feeling suddenly bare. Lots of the people in her life know that she’s soulbound, but since the day that Anya found her journal nobody else has ever seen them.

The first one Trixie picks out is the first one Katya started. It’s thirty years old and the binding is coming apart a bit, she keeps meaning to tape it together. The pages are yellow and her writing is a little faded; Trixie cranes her neck over it until her nose is almost touching.

“You didn’t start from my birthday?”

“I didn’t have the journal yet,” Katya explains.

Trixie doesn’t seem to even really be listening. She’s following the words on the page with her fingertips as she reads, like she’s trying to absorb them. It feels voyeuristic to watch, even though it’s Katya’s own words that she’s reading.

“Wow. I never even thought about that. How weird it must have been for you when I was a little kid.”

Katya snorts a laugh. “Weird is an understatement. Thought they were gonna ship me off to the looney bin a couple times there.”

“When did you get back?”

The way she teases with her sweet voice and her sweet smile is like taking a hit to the solar plexus every time. It’s like they’ve known each other years. Katya kicks her foot out in Trixie’s direction but isn’t quite close enough to make contact.

Trixie closes the journal and puts it back in its place on the shelf, skips ahead several years. The one she pulls next is from when she was nine and Katya was sixteen. It wasn’t a good year for either of them, Katya remembers that much. And she remembers how she had handled it.

Not gracefully.

“I had kind of a shitty childhood,” Trixie offers. They both know that Katya already knows that, but she’s grateful anyway that Trixie has chosen to share. “Yours seemed pretty good though. I was sad a lot, so I guess you were happy?”

Oh. Right. That.

“I was…” Katya pauses to swallow roughly. Her mouth is suddenly dry and she works her tongue around her teeth. “I was high, Trixie. Like a lot. For years and years.”

Trixie very slowly closes the journal and sets it down in front of herself. She doesn’t lift her head to look at Katya. A little crease has formed between her eyebrows that Katya wants to put her mouth to.

“You were high?”

“Yeah. Or drunk. Sometimes both.”

Katya is way past the point of shame. She’s worked through it a lot in therapy and in AA meetings and now she can view that part of her life with a sort of detachment. Like somebody else did those things.

“You knew that whatever you felt, I would feel the opposite, and you chose to get high anyway?”

“Trixie-”

“Do you know what the opposite of euphoria is, Katya?” Trixie suddenly seems to realise the imbalance between them and gets to her feet. “It’s fucking misery. All the time. And then imagine that you’re nine fucking years old.”

Katya hates confrontation, always has. And she doesn’t know enough about Trixie yet to know where the lines are, how carefully she needs to tread. She lays her hands flat against her thighs, palms up.

“I didn’t think it would count. If it was synthetic happiness.“

“Well it fucking did. I was a kid.”

God. She knows that. She thought about it a lot when she went to rehab. That it wasn’t only her own life she was destroying. And every addict says that, of course, because everybody has an intimate circle of collateral around themselves, but for her it was different.

“I know you were. I know. I’ve had a lot of guilt about that.”

“Well why the fuck did you do it then?” Trixie has her hands in two tight fists and she’s pressing them against her legs as if she doesn’t trust what she might do with them otherwise.

“I’m happy for you that you don’t have enough of a concept of addiction to understand why it’s not that easy,” Katya says very gently.

“Don’t patronise me!”

Katya closes her mouth. She always thought that feeling the opposite of what the other person feels is cruel, is an unkindness on the part of the universe, but this is even worse. Trixie’s heart is aching inside of Katya’s chest. She can feel how much she has hurt her, can even feel how Trixie is on the hot edge of tears.

“I’m sorry. I was selfish. I wish I could take it back.”

“I have to go,” Trixie says. She looks around herself in confusion, like she can’t understand how she got here. “I can’t be here with you. I have to go.”

She’s at the door before Katya can even begin to figure out how to ask her to stay. It’s an unusual sensation. She’s not in love with Trixie, not yet, but she is the love of her life. Trixie is her sestrinskoye serdtse, but Katya feels certain that if she lets her go now that’s it for them.

“Trixie, please-” Katya starts, and gets her own front door closed in her face.

She slumps against it and sinks to the ground, lets her head smack back heavily against the wood. And then again, and again, and one more time. Katya draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, opens her mouth to let her teeth scrape against her own skin.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Katya heaves herself up off the floor. Her phone is face down on the kitchen countertop and she reaches for it, dials without looking.

“Katya?”

“Da,” she says.

She starts explaining the whole situation in rapidfire Russian, and as she talks she moves through her apartment and lets her muscle memory kick in. She rinses their two mugs and closes her blinds and checks that her lunch is ready to go for the morning.

On the other end of the phone, Sasha listens intently. Sometimes she just needs to rant in her mother tongue, and her old roommate is always so receptive and kind. Katya tells her that she found her sestrinskoye serdtse and that they are beautiful and funny and kind and that Katya is never going to see them again because the mistakes she made at thirteen are still, still, wreaking havoc in her adult life.

“Katya, you said you can feel how upset she is?”

“Da.” She bows her head over the sink and lets a tear drip off the end of her nose into it. “It hurts.”

“Okay. Well don’t you think that might mean that she feels how sorry you are, then?”

That did not occur to her, and she feels like a colossal idiot. Katya turns out all the lights through the kitchen and living room and gets into bed, phone tight in her grip still.

“Do you think it will make a difference?”

“I’d say so.”

Sasha has switched back to English now. Katya assumes Shea is there, knows how much Sasha hates to speak Russian in front of her wife and exclude her in any way, even accidentally.

“I like her so much. I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.”

“I think you should give her some space for tonight. She was fresh off a show, right? Her emotions have to have been running high.”

Katya huffs a little noise of agreement. She knows that Trixie is tired because she feels it, layered over top of her own exhaustion like she is the photograph and Trixie the negative.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. Trixie is vibrant and technicolor and Katya feels not all the way here.

There’s whispering on the other end of the phone, the sound of a door closing. “Do you need me to come over? Or I can stay on with you till you fall asleep.”

“I’m okay. Really. I’m just gonna pass out. Thank you, yaytso.” The nickname makes Sasha grunt and Katya grins, hurries to follow it up with something a little more tender. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

They hang up. Katya doesn’t fall asleep, of course not. She lies on her back with her arms crossed over her chest so she can feel it rising and falling, to remind her that she will go on breathing even though it feels like her lungs are collapsing.

All of her life, she’s imagined this moment. What it will be like to meet her sestrinskoye serdtse. She always figured that whoever they were, no matter what, the two of them would just fall into it. That it would be easy.

She’s still awake when the sun comes up and she rolls out of bed and runs through her salutation. It does help, grounds her a little bit. Now that she’s listening to her body, it has finally gone quiet. Trixie is sleeping, then. Katya is teaching some classes today, but not until a little later in the morning. She takes a long shower and tips her head back beneath the stream, lets the hot water pound down over her face.

Her bangs are getting long. She huffs a breath and they flutter against her forehead. Katya runs through her usual makeup routine, dark smudgy liner and a crimson lip. She feels a little more like herself now.

Having Trixie in her space brought a few truths home for her. Firstly, she needs to get some actual food. Her refrigerator is almost totally empty and it’s embarrassing; she’s nearing forty.

Part of the reason she doesn’t eat is that she hates the grocery store. The lights stress her out and she gets so self-conscious, worries that she’s in everybody’s way while they try to browse the shelves.

It’s not yet eight, so it’s fairly quiet still. She gets a cart in the hope that she will be encouraged to fill it. Katya paces up and down the aisles choosing things at random. Back when she lived with Sasha they had a good arrangement going: Sasha made meal plans and went to the store and cooked everything, and Katya did the dishes and took out the garbage.

She misses her, fires off a quick text to tell her so. There’s no response, but Sasha is probably busy getting ready for work and is also probably exhausted after staying up with Katya all night like she’s a colicky infant.

Katya finds herself picking up a whole bag of lemons without really thinking about it. She hates them, and she pauses for a second and then goes ahead and puts them in the cart. She pays for everything and heads down the block towards her apartment with a brown paper bag cradled in each arm.

She’s not looking where she’s going, because she’s trying to figure out how to get her keys out of her pocket without dropping all of her groceries. A voice startles her and it takes twenty years of yoga, of centring herself, for her not to dump everything out on the sidewalk.

“Let me help.”

“Trixie?”

“Hi.” Trixie chews on her lip. She’s not wearing any makeup and her hair is back in a ponytail. There are blue tinted shadows beneath her eyes and a line across her forehead that was not there last night. “Here. Give them to me.”

“You’re here.”

“I’ve been buzzing.”

“I’m not home,” Katya says, and immediately wishes she had a hand free to slap over her face.

It makes Trixie smile though. She’s still holding her hands out and Katya passes the bags over. She gets the door unlocked, ushers Trixie up the stairs ahead of her and opens her apartment door as well. She has about three seconds to collect herself while she locks it behind them and she takes a very deep, very slow breath.

Trixie is at the kitchen island unloading the bags, putting the perishables in the refrigerator. It’s so achingly domestic that Katya feels like she’s going to die. Instead, she heads to join Trixie and help her.

“These are for you.” She holds the bag of lemons out towards Trixie.

Her face goes soft around the edges. Now that Katya’s getting a good look at her, she sees that the whites of her eyes and the tip of her nose are a little pink.

“I talked to Fame,” Trixie offers. She takes the lemons and puts them away into the refrigerator, very carefully not looking at Katya. “You were right. I don’t know what it’s like, to be an addict. She helped me to understand a little better.”

For just a second, she bristles. She doesn’t like the idea of Trixie and Fame talking about her. But Trixie is here, so whatever Fame said clearly worked.

“And, Katya.” Trixie turns to look at her then. Her shoulders go down and she sets her jaw. “I felt you. Felt how guilty you’ve been, all this time. How sorry you are.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” she agrees.

Those words have been offered many, many times. To her friends and family and coworkers and doctors. This is the first time she’s really sure that the other person understands how deeply she means them.

“I forgive you,” Trixie says. She takes Katya’s hand in hers and laces their fingers together. “I can’t say I understand, but I…appreciate how difficult it’s been. For you.”

“Has it been difficult for you?”

Trixie huffs an adorable little noise. They’re just standing here, holding hands in the middle of Katya’s kitchen. It should feel ridiculous. It doesn’t.

“Yes. I’ve ached for you, every day. Tried to move past it-” She cuts herself off and frowns. “Well. I guess you know about that. But yes. I’ve wanted you so badly, my whole life.”

“That’s pretty gay,” Katya says. She’s grinning, can’t help herself. Trixie learned the truth, learned about the part of her that pads restlessly, concentrically in her heart. And she came back.

Trixie snorts. “Uh yeah, well I’m a giant lesbian, so.”

“I wouldn’t say giant.” Katya lets her eyes roam over Trixie. She’s in flats today, cute little pumps, but she still has several inches on Katya.

She screams that banshee laugh again and throws her head back, closes her eyes. It’s so cute. Trixie is so cute. When she gets done cackling she goes quiet and then she wells up, her brown eyes almost green in the early morning light.

“I don’t want this to be ruined before it even starts,” she whispers.

Katya reaches for her, not sure what her intentions are until she gets her hands on Trixie. She brings her in for a hug, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other rubbing the space between her shoulder blades.

“Hey, no. Trixie, baby, shh, it’s okay. Nothing’s ruined. We’re okay.”

She holds her for a long time, feels the material of her shirt getting damp. Trixie has her arms low around Katya’s waist. They’ve known each other for barely twelve hours. But they have also known each other for thirty years. Pressed together like this, Katya’s heart greets Trixie’s warmly.

Oh, there you are.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #soulmate au #angst #fluff #tenderness #ficon #beanierose #tw drug abuse

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ikhnyshy · 5 years

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In her Element

This is a translation of a fic that I wrote in Spanish and I wanted to share it with more GRUVIA fans. I hope you like it!

Fandom: Fairy Tail

Pairing: GRUVIA One Shot.

Link Fanfiction

Link AO3

In Her Element

By Water Lock

The female mages of the Fairy Tail guild have a certain obsession with hot springs, so naturally, they jumped at the opportunity to go whenever they could. Now Gray understood why, after so many battles and tensions. Besides, it was good for everyone to relax in the warm ponds that washed away the stress that weighted their bodies.

What Gray did not understand, however, was the desire to get drunk. It's not like the women were unaware of the consequences that alcohol brought, so why did they insist on falling under the temptation every time?! Not only did they say some questionable things, but having them in such a vulnerable state deprived the male members, themselves, falling into the arms of alcohol. After all, if the men didn't watch over the women, who would? Someone had to take care of those rowdy women.

So much to the Ice wielder's reluctance, he had spent most of the night "taking care" of a certain emotional water mage whose drunkenness had left her in a state of constant depression. She'd start crying for anything and everything, but despite Gray's annoyance with his companion's current state, he struggled to remain that way long, this much was shown when he stayed by her side, allowing her to soak his clothes with her tears. It was then that Gray decided that if there was anyone that would take care of drunken Juvia, it was him and him alone.

Many hours past with the girls in their current states: Juvia's constant cries, Erza's overbearing yells, Levy's uncontrollable laughter, and Lucy's seductive attitude. To say the least, the boys were stressed even more than before taking the relaxing baths.

Gray thanked infinitely when the blue-haired woman hugged his waist and finally rested her head on his chest, falling asleep. It wasn't until his ears were greeted with a silence that he realized the others had fallen asleep as well. The ice mage had let out a sigh of relief when the room was filled only with the sound of the crickets outside and the girls' light snoring.

When Gray looked down at the woman who had her arms tightly around his waist, he couldn't help a smile that crept onto his face. He couldn't help but notice the extensive smile on her lips that, until a few moments ago, were letting out uncontrollable sobs.

Gently, Gray rested his hand on her head and allowed his fingers to slide through the soft, bluish strands of the rain woman, the long waves disarming in his delicate caress. Taking advantage of the fact that the others were all occupied in their own worlds at the moment, with Juvia asleep and the silent reigning, Gray took the opportunity to appreciate the beauty of the water mage without fear that she would tackle him with emotion.

Trying not to wake her up, the young man with black hair slowly laid back on the futon they were currently sitting on and settled into a laying position. Still asleep, the woman moved closer to him, pressing her face against his chest while Fullbuster wrapped his arms around her waist. Gray decided that, in the morning, he would deal with the hurricane that is Juvia Lockser when she found herself in such a close position with her beloved.

For the moment, though, he would take care of her in her drunkenness state.

With that last thought, the air was soon filled with both mage's soft breathing.

...

When Gray woke up it was still night. The light of the moon came through the large windows, bathing the room they were currently in, allowing Gray to see the silhouettes of his companions who were still asleep. However, what really caught his attention was the emptiness he felt in his chest when he looked down to no longer find the figure of the water user pressed against his body. He turned his head to both sides and sat down in his place, searching among the bodies scattered around the room for the girl with the azure blue hair.

She's not here He though with resignation, although concern for the water mage was creeping up on him too. He got up from his spot on the futon, and began looking for her to take her back to sleep.

He walked through the corridors of the inn, lifting his hand to scratch behind his head. His mind was still blanketed by sleep, and he cursed having to look for his partner at this time of night.

Why can't she stay still like the rest? He thought as he searched the lobby only to find it empy. He then tried the cafeteria but once again was met with nobody.

Don't tell me... His eyes fixed on the entrance to the bathrooms. I can't enter the women's bathroom!

If someone saw him there, he would have a serious problem. Not to mention, that there's the possibility that Juvia wouldn't even be in there. However, there's still the possibility that she could be in there. Before taking that first step into the bathroom, though, Gray remembered one more place where she could be, and it's one that wouldn't get him into any trouble.

He quickly changed course and started walking to the back of the inn where the property had an outdoor pool. It was surrounded by a cloak of neatly cut grass as well as a short wooden fence that separated it from the rest of the facilities. Small luminaries were directed to the center of the water, giving an image similar to that of a stage.

Immediately, Gray's eyes widened in surprise, his drowsiness from before almost completely gone. In the middle of the water reflecting the starry night sky, was the person he'd been looking for. He felt his mouth dry and forced himself to close his lips that had parted in surprise.

Juvia was lying on the water, floating on her back, surrounded by the element that identified her. Her bluish locks that framed her delicate face moved elegantly on the liquid surface resembling the sea waves while her pale skin sprinkled with drops that slid around her, reflecting the moonlight as well as a glow on her body. She moved slowly, delicately moving through the water, drawing her figure from the water. Gray was hypnotized by her, and although he could not express it openly, in his head only one word resounded: beautiful.

Without warning, she turned her body downwards and plunged into the depths of the pool, disappearing from his vision causing the boy to wake up from his trance and walk closer to the elegant woman. He could see her swimming below the surface with agility and grace, her curves accentuating when surrounded by the aquatic environment. Gray could see how she enjoyed being submerged, cloaked in the water, even the joy was beginning to affect himself who could not even stop watching her. Then, once again her body began its rise to the surface. Upon submerging from underneath, her hair, crushed by the liquid marking, made the perfect outline of her face, shoulders, and back. Moonlight bounced of her porcelain skin, glowing around her like a sacred halo. Her dark, blue eyes finally opened and aims their sights towards the sky, a delicate smile gracing her face.

"Gray-sama," Juvia's gentle voice came, "Do you want to accompany Juvia in the pool?" She asked although not in her normal voice. Despite the invitation being much like her normal self, her voice sounded sweeter, more serene, as if she was embracing him with words instead of actions. Gray couldn't stop himself from moving towards where she was, not really thinking whatsoever.

At some point along the way, though, he had removed his robe, leaving him only in his boxers. He lowered himself onto the edge of the pool, letting his feet sink into the liquid. Not a moment later, Juvia came towards him in gentle strides.

"The water is exquisite Gray-sama. Juvia would love for you to swim with her," Juvia said, her eyes asking the silent question.

Gray nodded in response and slid from his spot on the edge into the pool. His body was guided by her soft hands, which took him to the center of the liquid surface, floating delicately, being suspended in water.

His mind felt light, carefree. In other situations, Gray would have doubted her. He would not dare be carried away by the water mage, especially considering that she would most likely throw herself shamelessly towards him. But, for some reason, the intoxicating image of her sky-blue eyes along with her sweet voice left him defenseless against her.

Juvia smiled at him, her lips forming an almost picturesque gesture as she wrapped her thin arms around his neck. Gray hesitantly put his hands on her shoulders, a tiny part of him wanted to push her away, but instead, he left himself be carried away by this other side of him. The side that wanted to hold her tightly, so he did. He pulled her close to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He could feel the contact of their skin, softened by the liquid that covered them. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to be flooded by the sensations that flowed through him.

Their bodies surrounded by water, the light of the moon bathing them from the sky, and the sound of the liquid rocking around them were the condiments that accompanied the proximity of both mages.

Gray wondered what he would do next to get away from her. He wondered how he could become distant and cold again when his own body asked him to return that intimate contact that they had. However, Gray quickly shoved those thoughts away, he would worry about it later. At the moment, though, he would just enjoy it, preventing his cowardly personality from moving away from her as he always did...

"Gray-sama," He heard her soft voice call out to him. He looked down to find her bright, blue eyes looking directing at him, not to mention her body that was leaning towards him, "A kiss...?" She asked, lifting her body slightly to bring her face to his.

Her tempting lips attempting to brush against his was the click that woke Gray up from his trance. He pushed her away quickly, his mask of rejection quickly returning to his face.

"Don't kid yourself, of course not!" he exclaimed while swimming to the edge of the pool.

"Gray-sama!" Came Juvia's sorrowful shout, "Don't leave!" She said as she began to sob, but Gray ignored her.

"Hurry up and get out," Gray said coldly, "We have to sleep,"

"But Juvia-," Juvia began but was cut off by Gray.

"But nothing. We have a long day of training tomorrow, you should be resting," He scolded her as he picked up his robe he'd discarded earlier and slung it over his shoulder. While all this was happening, though, Gray had his back turned to his partner, determined not to look at her.

He heard her come out of the pool and immediately resisted the thought of imagining her with the water sliding down her body covered only by the swimsuit, her loose hair wrapping around her figure and her eyes reflecting the night sky. He did not want that image in his head, or he would be tempted to touch her again.

The delicate footsteps he heard told him that she was already behind him, and without looking at her again, Gray started to head back to the room they shared with the rest of their companions.

"Water helps Juvia overcome the hangover," She informed him randomly, "That's why Juvia was swimming at this hour," Gray didn't respond, just nodded, "But...she's glad Gray-sama cared enough to go and search for her,"

"I wasn't," Gray responded, alarmed.

"Juvia was very happy in Gray-sama's arms," Juvia said brightly.

"Ugh," Gray responded, in a bored tone.

Without permission, Juvia takes him by the arm and clings to him tightly. Gray wanted to impose his face of displeasure that he had whenever she invaded his space, but for once he couldn't do it, allowing her to cling to him until they reached their room.

Thanks for Reading!

I want to thank Ressa4043 who helped me with the corrections by making Beta Reader in this story, her advice greatly improved the development of the text.

#fanfic #fanfiction #Gruvia #Juvia Lockser #Gray Fullbuster #Fairy Tail #OTP

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latenightcinephile · 5 years

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#891: ‘India Song’, dir. Marguerite Duras, 1975.

If you find yourself sitting down to watch India Song at any point, the following advice will probably be helpful: the Vice-Consul of Lahore (Michael Lonsdale) is the one with the beard and the facial structure of Peter Dinklage. The first time you see him, he will be by a pond. When you see him in close-up, he will be crying. The husband, the French Ambassador, is the one perpetually smoking. I make this clarification now because the film doesn’t feel the need to make this point explicit. While the narration often refers to the Vice-Consul while he is on the screen, it just as often refers to other, or unnamed, characters while the Vice-Consul is on the screen.

India Song is considered by the authors of the List to be the finest Duras film. Duras is perhaps more widely esteemed as an author of avant-garde and ambiguous novels; she adapted one into a screenplay which then became this film. Even in the List itself, the authors are uncertain of the merit of Duras’ work: her films are simultaneously described as “hypnotically seductive” and “maddeningly pretentious”. Vincent Canby described it as “all style and no content”. By the strictest definition of the word, India Song is pretentious, in that it has a lot of pretence: Duras seems to be making the ultimate summation of the principles behind Hiroshima, Mon Amour or Last Year at Marienbad. But in everyday usage, ‘pretentious’ implies a certain level of ‘extra’, or being ‘too much’. ‘Pretentious’ and ‘camp’ don’t go hand-in-hand, but they do know each other’s names. By this metric, for most people India Song won’t be pretentious; it’ll just be dull.

It’s beautiful in its dullness, to be sure, this tale of an ambassador’s wife in 1930s India and the Vice-Consul who desperately wants to have an affair with the woman he perceives as being eminently available for one. Duras’ cinematographer frames the shots making maximum use of reflections and windows, and the movement of the camera carries that leaden quality of walking in a dream. The entire film feels soporific, and characters spend a lot of time failing to sleep in the Indian heat, lying partially clothed on the wood floors of the embassy.

What makes India Song particularly unusual is that it has no synchronous dialogue, and it is this that makes the film both compelling and alienating in equal measure. None of the character speak directly, to the point where you could imagine that the entire film was shot before the story was crafted; just a lot of people in suits (and Delphine Seyrig in a variety of monochrome gowns; the only woman in the film) walking and dancing and standing and looking. The only articulation of the relationships between any of these characters comes in the voice-over dialogue, where people talk about the characters, what they did and what they will do and what they are doing.

Most of the dream-like feeling of the film comes from this disconnect between the sound and the images, and all the other disconnections that are implied by this. Some of the voice-over narration seems to be conversations that take place between the characters shown on screen, but no mouths move. There is a disconnect between the past and the present, between place and time (a film set in India that was filmed in France, making zero attempt to disguise itself as India), and between what is on screen and what is purported to have really happened.

Most of the action of the film takes place at diplomatic parties, and the viewer hears whispered conversation between partygoers about the action taking place, but aside from the the central characters we never see anybody. The actions and events of the characters take on the feeling of contextless memories; of being the only thing in the room that anyone recalls in complete detail, The Vice-Consul is often seen crying, and it’s remarked upon that he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. The last quarter of the film gives him several scenes of emotional anguish, and it’s as though in his first appearances he has been dragged back wearing the same face as he will have later on: a single memory of a person standing in for multiple appearances.

It could be said that this film is constructed entirely out of memories, and as such they can’t speak for themselves - they can only be spoken of in the past tense by the details that others remember. What might strike some as infuriatingly poetic dialogue bears some resemblance to the language we use when filling in broad details for a scene whose specifics are the only thing remembered.

Overall, this disconnect is too strong for casual viewing, and it’s this that makes India Song dull. Piecing things together provides many pleasures in cinema and literature alike, but the text needs to provide some clear impetus for us to want to do the legwork, otherwise the whole thing becomes a chore. For some viewers, the promise of a poetic mystery alone will be enough to make an audience play along. Most viewers, though, want a film to meet them partway, and it’s not their fault that India Song wants to play all its cards face-down.

#1001 movies #marguerite duras #india song

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softscottlang · 6 years

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Finding Our Forever Part 1 (Tom Holland)

[Foster Dad!Tom x Foster Mom!Reader (established)]

Warning: Foster Homes?? idk if that’s a warning.

Summary: Sophia and Mason show up at the Holland household and are starting to adjust to the new home,

Word Count: 2.5k

Teaser

The air was cold when the small car pulled up to a small house, Mason and Sophia looked at each other. They were both used to being thrown around from home to home, but that didn’t mean they were used to the feeling. The bubbling anxiety the Mason never talked about. The heat that Sophia felt rising to her head from frustration, never being spoken of.

“Ready?” Mason’s voice carried over the several inches to where his sister was sitting. She was staring down at her feet. A look of anger displayed clearly through her features.

“Do we have a choice?” Her voice came out rough. Sophia was tired of moving. She was tired of feeling unwanted. Mason felt the same way, he just didn’t know how to admit it.

“Maybe this is it.”

Sophia stared at her feet still. She remembered looking at them five years ago, they were smaller. They held up her body that was more hopeful. Now they were big kid feet, one’s that she would use every time she walked from yet another failed home.

“You say that every time Mason.” Her voice came out softer this time.

“I know.” Mason said before a knock on the window was signaling that it was time for them to get out of the car.

The house was modest, but bigger than other places that the twins had lived at. There was a soft brown door that was encased by the clean porch. There were two cars in the drive way, both ones that an average married couple would have.

Sophia was holding onto her suitcase with both hands, while Mason was carrying his in one hand and his spare hand was shoved in his pocket. The feeling that they were experiencing was numbness. They weren’t sad nor happy, they just felt nothing.

The feet of the ten-year-olds ponded on the pavement before they were standing at the door. Sophia looked to Mason with a solemn expression, not sure if she should ring the door bell or wait for Sarah to do it.

Meanwhile, you watched as your husband paced the room. His hands were pulling at his hair in nervousness. You had decided to become foster parents after seeing the number of children that were in the system. It was jaw dropping to see the high count, so you both talked for months about how to help before deciding on becoming foster parents.

“What if we aren’t good parents to them?” Tom’s hands were shaking as he pulled them away from his curled hair. Your stomach was flipping while you were watching him become unhinged. You did your best to keep the feeling to yourself, trying not to worry the man before you. “What if they don’t like us? Or we aren’t good role mod-?”

“Tom!” Your voice demanded his to stop. His eyes were big with worry and fear, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. You walk over to him and grasp his arms lovingly, making eye contact with him. “We’re going to be great parents, no matter who is about to walk through that door. We will love them and take care of them.”

Tom nodded to you and quickly pulled you into his arms, hugging you close to his body. You were the thing that soothed him whenever he was becoming unhinged. You were his anchor in a way, and he was yours when you needed it.

“You’re right my love, but you know this isn’t going to be easy.” Tom said with his face in your hair, muffling the sound that came out of his mouth.

“Of course, it’s not.” You say into the hug he gave you. Embracing all the feelings that were over coming you. The anxiety that was bubbling in your stomach made you grasp the fabric wrapped around his torso. “They need us, they need someone.”

You both stood there, embracing each other before there was a sudden bell sound. You both jumped a little before realizing that it was the doorbell that had interrupted your moment. The nerves began to build in your body and manifest itself into shaking hands.

You hurried over to the door, careful not to touch the door knob. It was realizing that once you opened that door, your life was going to change. Whether or not it would change for the better, you wouldn’t be able to take this decision back.

You hesitated, and you felt awful for it.

Tom took your hand in his and reached for the handle, he felt the same thing that you did. He felt the scared knots that were in his chest, but he gave you a nod and opened the door.

When he opened the door, you saw a woman standing behind two children, both holding a bag that seemed too small to be carrying all the possessions of a ten-year-old. It made your stomach drop but you made sure that the smile on your face stayed in place.

“Mr. and Mrs. Holland, this is Sophia and Mason Smith.” The lady you knew to be Sarah said to you and your husband.

The little boy was looking down at his feet and played with something in his pocket. His curly hair was obviously brushed but looked as if it hadn’t had a cut in several months. He had freckles that decorated his button nose. He was wearing a gray shirt with colorful stains and a pair of khaki shorts that looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks.

The girl on the other hand was wearing a pair of ripped up jeans that obviously hadn’t been bought that way and a plain yellow shirt that was wrinkled. Her curly black hair was matted and frizzy, an obvious result from sleeping on wet hair without brushing it. She was looking past you with her deep brown eyes, into the house, obviously not interested in this part of the household movements.

“Well, we’re Tom and Y/N. We’re excited for you guys to be here.” Tom says while putting a hand on your back, intended to be for support. “Why don’t you guys come on in?”

You lead the twins and Sarah in before seeing that she and Tom were engaging in conversation about the twins so you took it upon yourself to show them their new house.

“So, this is the living room.” You say while giving them a tour of the house, until you were about to reach the hallway with the bedrooms in it. Tom joined you just before, standing behind them and leaning against the hallway wall.

You pointed to a room on your right and gestured to the one exactly next to it. The rooms had a conjoined bathroom for the twins to share.

“Sophia gets this room and Mason gets the one down the hall.” Sophia and Mason stood still after you had told them about where their rooms are. They shared a confused and conflicted look that made you look to Tom questioningly. “Is everything alright loves?”

“We’ve never had our own rooms.” Sophia’s voice came out reflecting no emotion, but her face was turned down, obviously sad.

“Well you guys don’t have to sleep separately for the first few nights. I understand how hard it is to be in a new place with strangers.” Tom said while bending down to eye level with the twins. “But the rules say you guys have to have different bedrooms.”

“A lot of people broke that rule then. We usually get the small room away from everyone. Sometimes there’s only one bed and a window.” Sophia quipped back to the brunette man. Her arms crossed against her chest in a sassy way. She obviously didn’t understand the severity of that statement.

“Well the Hollands are different.” Tom made a point to say this with no humor in his voice.

The air was uncomfortable for a moment before Sophia scoffed a ‘sure’ and trudged into the room you had assigned her to.

You watched as Tom put a careful hand on Mason’s shoulder and lead him down to his room. You watched after them, it was something that seemed unreal, there were two other human beings that you were now responsible for living in your house.

You walked into Sophia’s room to see her sitting on the perfectly made bed with a book in her hand and her suitcase laying open on the duvet. There wasn’t much in there

“What book are you reading hun?” You ask quietly from just inside the doorway, not trying to push the dark-haired girl too far.

“It’s none of your business.” Her voice was monotoned, showing that she left no room for humor.

“Oh, I’m sorry for asking.” You made sure to not let any emotion of anger or sadness seep into your words.

“No you’re not.” Sophia still had yet to look up from the book that she held in her hands. “They’re never sorry…” Her voice trailed off and her head hung low. She didn’t want to carry on the conversation and you could tell from the tone in her voice.

“Sophia, I’m going to check on your brother.” You say when you see Tom appear in the doorway and lean his head towards were Mason’s was. Obviously seeing the saddened look on your face and trying to relieve you of that feeling. “Call for me if you need anything.”

You walked from Sophia’s room to where her twin brother was unpacking his things. He was carefully placing each torn and dirty clothing item into the dresser that you and Tom had put in there for him. It was almost as if it was ceremonial for the green-eyed boy.

You watched him with great interest until you say that underneath all of the clothes, there was broken crayons, un sharpened and dull pencils along with the several pieces of paper that were colored on. It looked pretty from where you were, but the alluring nature of the pastel colors drew you closer.

“Those are really pretty Mason; do you draw a lot?” You say before picking up a few pieces of paper. He nodded but kept his head down. His focus was on his hands, which had tiny marks littering his palms. “You like it then, yeah?”

“Yeah…” It was the first time you had heard him speak for himself. His sister normally did the talking for the two of them. You gave him a small smile before you examined the art work in your hands.

It was two well drawn people, one was a girl with curly hair and the other with- a boy with green eyes. They were holding hands while there was a blurry abundance of color surrounding them, looking like constant motion. It was beautiful and meaningful.

“That one’s me and Sophia. We’re never in the same place to get a good picture of it, but we have each other,” His voice was like a little pillow, soft but supported. “and that’s enough for me.”

You heart was pulled for the dark-haired boy in front of you. He was content with the life he had, but he wasn’t happy where he was and that was something you

“You’ll have more in this life Mason, I promise you.” Your words came out softly, trying not to take away from the serious moment.

“…Are we having dinner soon?” Mason said to you. He was looking at his hands again, the hands that were littered in little scratches and scars.

“Of course love, I’ll go start it now.” You say before exciting the room and started towards the kitchen, trying to get a meal out to these more than likely, hungry children.

Once you had finished and called everyone in for dinner, Sophia was the first to speak before the food was served.

“You guys it dinner together?” Sophia’s voice was still in the same tone as before. “And you want us to eat with you?” She was referring to the four place setting you had put on the table.

The fact that the younger girl felt that she needed to ask that was something that was very sad and heart wrenching,

“You’re part of the family now Sophia, of course you guys are eating with us.” Tom says, laughing at the girl’s question.

While dinner was quiet, it soon became a comfortable silence. One that you didn’t feel needed to be filled with small talk. Once you were done, you and Tom picked up the dishes and cleaned them together. You help small talk of what you were going to do for the next few weeks with the twins before school started now that you knew some of what they were interested in.

Once you had finished, you both walked back out to the dinning room where Mason was drawling on paper with his almost gone pencil that made indents from being chewed on. His focus was purely on the piece of art that he was creating.

You walked towards the living room and saw Sophia staring at something.

“That’s Spider-man!” Sophia said as she points to the poster that was framed on the wall. Tom smiled and nodded his head while you watched the small girl exclaim in wonder.

“Yeah! Do you like him?” You watched as your husband stood away from the curly haired girl but still close enough that they were within reaching distance of each other.

“Yeah! He’s my favorite super hero, after Spider-Gwen of course!” The hardened attitude that the young girl carried was slowly slipping away from her. Her eyes were slowly being to be filled with something you hadn’t seen on her yet.

Happiness.

“Well, did you know that I play Spider-man?” Tom said with a boyish smirk on his face, obviously showing off for the new comer.

“No way, Andrew Garfield is Spider-man.” Sophia said with her arms crossed and

“Oh yeah?” Tom responded before pulling his phone out of his pocket and opened a video from his camera roll. It was easy to guess that it was a video of him as Spider-man, but the interesting part came when the video finish and Sophia started screaming.

“I’m staying at Peter Parker’s house! This crazy!” She started jumping around and flailing her arms around. “Mace, did you hear me? THE Peter Parker!”

“How does it feel to meet your favorite superhero Sophia?” Tom said with a sassy grin on his face. Sophia’s head whipped over to him very quickly, her rare smile still ever so present.

“I thought you said you played Spider-MAN not Spider-GWEN.” Sophia bursted out into laughter almost immediately after causing Tom to give her a shocked look and feigned being hurt. She playfully pushed him and started to dart towards her room.

Tom looked at you after she had gone out of sight. He had a smile on his face and you both had the same thought running through your minds.

That maybe, just maybe, this was going to work.

~~~~

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divine-peach · 5 years

Text

past life reading for @solar-neon-rays

Memory:

My eyes shoot open, adrenaline coursing through my body like liquid lightning, making me jump up from the floor of the boat I was sleeping on. My heart beats erratically, weighing so much more at this moment of time than ever before, like heavy iron in my chest. Flecks of water jump from the hidden bottom of the waterfall, the line where falling water meets the ground hidden behind a churning of white foam and mist. I feel high strung, my body tight, so many emotions and feelings coursing through me - I want to cry in happiness and joy, my body tingles with excitement and anticipation and I want to jump, fly, soar. It’s exhilarating!

I turn to look at my fellow crew members who followed me on my journey, the boat staff and friends I have made along the way. “We did it, men!” You shout triumphantly, raising a fist into the air. Your cheery attitude was infectious, spreading through the people until they too started clapping each other on the back and throwing congratulations. You laugh, unable to keep all the turbulent, happy emotions inside of you. Emotions threatening to bubble over and spill. “Well done, mate” Your friend Christoff comes over and pats you on the back, hard. You smile at him - Christoff with his Norwegian immigrant parents and vaguely Australian accent. “Couldn’t have done it without you,” He whispers softly, catching his eye, before saying more loudly, “all of you”. Christoff grins, his eyes crinkling and reflecting the same warmth you feel within you. You grin back at him, gripping his shoulder. “Thanks, mate.” You turn away from him to address the rest of the group, back silhouetted against the vivid sunset, bright hues of orange and pink and blue and purple colouring the sky.

“Alright you hobgoblins [I’m presuming this was a term of affection]," You shout, voice nearly swallowed up by the roar of the steadily approaching waterfall, gaining their attention. You then proceed to give them orders, before finishing your speech with a: “We’re gonna feast tonight!”, causing cheers to once again, be let loose aboard the ship. You watch Christoff leave to join the others, causing you to turn around and gaze at the sunset that was illuminating the scene before you in a passionate flame. It was absolutely breathtaking. The first waterfall crashed into the water on your right, and further to your left, another smaller waterfall was presumably placed, given with the clear cut of water reflecting the pink hues of the sky and the slowly descending sun. The heat stuck to your skin while insects buzzed incessantly around you, yet you’ve never felt more at home or at peace.

Appearance:

You had sandy blond hair bleached constantly by the sun, combined with fine lines of platinum blond. It sat, shaggy and mop-like on top of your head, with either a hat to cover it or your fingers running through it excessively. Your skin was very tanned, a tan produced by hours upon hours of working in the sun. One time you went back home to England, you swore you could see the tips of your father’s moustache curl up in surprise. You had a cheeky grin, seemingly permanent on your face, with a nose slightly bent and crooked from years of playing rough and sports and adventure. Eyebrows were sometimes slightly singed due to your strange love of getting close or approaching an open flame and your eyes were a lovely dark green. You were quite tall, with Christoff being the tallest on the ship, and your physique wasn’t lean at all - rather hard muscle.

Traits & Characteristics:

You were a quiet curious kid when you weren’t asking questions all the time. You gazed upon the world with such wonder, often found running around in nature with a book at hand to help you identify the strange frog in the pond. You grew up to be relatively good at academics - not the best, but neither the worse, which only caused you to see more wonder in the world, feeding your curiosity. You could never keep still, always fidgeting or on the move, leading you to travel and gallivant around the world. You were easy to get along with, making many loyal friends along the way, but felt emotions really easily. You were often seen as a child in a man's body when faced with adventure or objects.

Major Themes:

Adventure

Curiosity & Discovery

Rivalry

Freedom & Liberation

Soul Searching

Peace

Wonder

Notes:

You loved to travel, spending a lot of time on the water or near the water. You especially loved your stay in Cairo, Egypt - your view of the river Nile, whether during sunrise or sunset, from where you were staying a favourite memory of yours.

This memory may have happened so where in Brazil, South America.

You were born in July, placing your sun in a Cancer-Leo cusp.

You were born and raised in England, Cheshire keeps coming up.

You were born in a well off family, your mother was seen as this soft but emotionally distant or physically distant figure in your life, while your father, though more honest and to the point, was a more fixed, stable structure in your life. You may have had a lot of fights or arguments with your father, but you both understood each other enough to quickly and easily forgive and apologise.

You wanted to continue exploring forever, yet your mother and eventually your father (persuaded by his wife) hounded you to settle down and marry a ’respectable’ woman. You eventually did, but your wife often brought upon memories of another woman, who had dark hair and skin and an easy smile.

#mine #paid readings #past life #readings #solar-neon-rays

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boogiewrites · 6 years

Text

Choking On Sapphires 50

Title & Song: Make Up Your Mind

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Word Count: 3600+

Summary: Gen reaches her breaking point. She and Alfie both face reality, and neither of them like where it leads.

Warnings/Tags: Language. Angst.

**Chapter song is Make Up Your Mind by Florence + The Machine.*

A/N: Just have to say FIFTY CHAPTERS?! HOLY HELL I DID FIFTY CHAPTERS!

Positive feedback is MUCH appreciated! Reblogs, likes, asks and comments feed me to write more! Let me know if you’d like tagged in my work.

My Masterlist. (Includes Parts 1-49)

The holidays had passed. The New Year was upon you, the gloom now settling in after the festivities. The cold bitter winter, the dead trees, and the iced-over pond all reflected how you felt inside at this point. Such a depressing start to the new year you thought, you hoped it wasn't a sign of the rest of the year to come.

You'd wandered the grounds for hours, bundled up with only your eyes showing. You found the quiet comforting as it was the opposite of what was happening inside your head. Eventually, Aggie finds you, taking your arm and making you come inside, and you let her. It was almost time for dinner anyway.

The fire in the dining room is roaring. You're in fresh clothes, thick stockings, and wool socks over them, a long nightgown and a jumper that was far too large for you covers the rest of you. Your hair is down and loose and wild, your fingers buried in it as you rest your head in your hands and stare at the table.

"You trying to catch your death out there today?" asks Claire as she comes and places her hand on your back, then to your forehead. "You feel fine for now." she says gruffly, sitting next to you.

When you raise your face to look at her, fingers pushing your long hair out of your face, she finds your face surprisingly sad.

"I thought something was wrong, you out wandering alone..." she says with a frown. "But I'm afraid I don't know what it is."

And as always, he either had perfect or the worst timing and never anything between as Alfie walks into the room, taking his seat at the far end of the table. He sees you looking a bit wilder than usual, and he figures it's best to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

-In French- "My problem lies at the head of the table." you say with slumped shoulders.

"What's he done?" she asks with a furrowed brow. You hadn't confided in her about the chaos of emotion you'd been sleeping with instead of him.

"More like what he hasn't done." you shake your head, your voice slow and soft, you rest the weight of your head in your hand on your temple as it's turned to face her.

Claire shakes her head to show she doesn't understand.

"We've not slept together since Elizabeth passed." you admit with a heavy sigh.

Her eyes go wide, the news clearly a surprise to her. She thinks back and realizes she hadn't heard you two having sex for quite some time but she slept in a different wing of the house than you so you could've been going at it and she would've never heard a thing.

"He'd been giving me excuses as to why he wasn't. I found them to be lies." you sigh and shut your eyes. "He finally admitted something was wrong after I pretty much made him after he was shot." you shrug. "I told him then that if he couldn't tell me I understood and I trusted him he'd tell me when the time was right."

"And he hasn't I take it?" her voice is full of sympathy.

"No. Not a word of it again." you rub your face in your hands. "I thought by now he would've told me something. Anything really." you let out a groan. "I just...I don't understand." your voice sounds weak and you push back tears. "I thought surely, as he's kissed me a few times since the celibacy began that he'd perhaps kiss me on New Years, but... nothing." you rest your elbows on the table and rub your temples.

"And you have no guesses?" she tries to be supportive but she knows even less than you do.

"Nothing. I'm completely befuddled by his behavior." you swallow noisily, tears still fighting you with every breath. "I feel so lost, Claire. I thought we had something. I really did."

"Something?" her lips form a thin tight line.

"You know I was starting to care for him." you turn your stinging eyes to face hers. "In a very serious way." you rasp out. "I'm so confused. I thought telling him I was Jewish might bring us together but it seems to have done exactly the opposite and I've never felt so fucking foolish in my life." you squeeze your eyes shut. "I went so long without finding anyone to make me feel this way... and I finally do and this happens?" the tears win and you focus on keeping your breathing steady. "I'm so fucking stupid." you let out a sad huff of laughter and wipe the tears from your face and sit back. "I should've left romance dead and fucking buried. But instead, I tried to resurrect it and look what it's gotten me." you shake your head and the tears keep falling silently. "A broken fucking heart like a god damned child." your face frowns hard and you rise and sniffle, you walk past them both and head to your room, mumbling, "So fucking stupid." over and over to yourself. ------- You've gotten all dolled up to cheer yourself up. Or attempt to anyway. You move to the study, holding your hand on the wall before you cross into his line of sight and taking a deep breath.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm headed out for the evening." you say, looking mostly at the ground, both hands around your purse in front of you.

He moves his head up and looks at you, his mouth stuttering slightly at the unexpected sight of you being dressed up like this. "You- your...You're going out?" he manages to get out, taking his glasses off his nose with one hand, the other at his chin. "You working tonight?" he asks, his brow lowering slightly, trying to recall if you'd mentioned anything.

"No, I just needed to get out of the house," you say with a shake of your head, your voice quiet. "Just letting you know." you say with a slight bow, backing out of the room with low shoulders.

"Uh-Right. Yeah." he nods in thanks. "You look-" he stutters for a moment, "stunning tonight, as always, sweetheart." he adds politely before he moves his head back down to his work.

You missed the way those words used to make you feel. You wanted them to roll over your skin like warm honey and not stab at your gut like daggers. You tighten your jaw at the pet name. You were wanting to scream at him, wanting to cry, and all you manage is a nod and a smile before you turn quickly to leave. ---- You're out for hours. You dance until your legs turn to jelly. You flirt with strangers you have no intention of even thinking about again after tonight. You take the drugs they offer and the drinks they buy. At least you weren't seeking them out for yourself this time. But a woman like you, and dressed up and willing didn't have to try very hard to get either for free. You move your way across London, clubs and pubs and cars all fading in and out of your memory as the only thing you could focus on for any length of time was him.

The thought of him haunted you no matter what you put up your nose or into your mouth. No snogs, no cheap thrills or purchases could make him stop. The grief you felt for something lost that must've never even existed in the first place rivaled that of your grief over your sister. It wasn't just loss this time. There was embarrassed, shame and regret to go along with it. And questions. So many questions. He was absolutely relentless. ---- You come through your door, the house is dark and quiet. It's very late, or really early. You can register that it's still dark outside, so you slump and stagger towards your study for a nightcap with yourself. You're leveling out from the number of uppers and downers you'd stuffed yourself with over the evening. You just want some respite, another drink couldn't hurt.

You take your heels off, one at a time, holding them in each hand as you walk towards the bar in your study, not bothering to switch on a light. You're grumbling in French, as you tend to do when not sober to this degree. You're cursing about how hard it is to open the bottle top, as you're holding your shoes against you with your forearms. You set the bottle down and toss the shoes behind you, letting them land where they may. You hear one hit the floor and then you hear a grunt. You spin around, glass in hand you'd instinctually grabbed off the bar top in self-defense and face the sound. Your mouth open and your bloodshot eyes wide as you search the darkness.

He's brushing his robe off, making a disapproving face at you. "Don't gotta be so violent, Gen." he says in a playful way that makes your eyes want to tear up, shaking your head with your lips tight. He can see your face go from scared to falling. Hard and frowning at the realization the source of the sound is him.

"What are you doing in here?" you rasp out.

"Waiting on you." he says hesitantly, eyes taking in the shape that you were in, second-guessing his plan now.

(Gen’s words in French.)

"Of course you're here. Never around when I need you but when I can't stand you, you won't leave me alone. Now you want something from me." you mumble in French, swallowing and turning back to the glass bottle, your fingers fumble as you take in a shaky breath. "Can't fucking get away from you in my own head. I let you in my hose and I can't escape you here. My own fault, really." you grumble, making a frustrated noise as you pop the top of the bottle off.

"You need help with-" he begins.

"No." you state coldly, your face half turning in his direction, your brow low. " Everywhere I fucking go. Can't just leave me alone after lying to me." you gulp loudly. "Then ignoring me...I don't want you to. " you whisper out, knocking back a shot and letting the momentum of slinging your head back push back your tears. "Can't stand it when you don't and act like nothing's wrong." tears fall silently, trying to control your face that wanted to contort into a painful, ugly expression.

"Je suis desole. (I am sorry)" he answers in the language you've been speaking. You almost miss it, as your brain just accepts the words in your altered state.

"What?" you choke out, still in your adopted homes tongue. The burn from the alcohol causing you to cough. "What did you just say?" you rasp out, the glass in your hand hitting the mirror top of the bar harder than you meant it to.

"J'ai dit que je suis desole. (I said I'm sorry)." he says defensively, quietly, but not aggressively as he stands from the couch.

"You speak French?" you choke out your heart and bile rising to your throat.

"Oui. Je fais.(Yes, I do.) " he states plainly.

"Of course you fucking speak French." you say, hiding a rouge sob as a laugh, shaking your head and forget the glass and grabbing the whole bottle in your clammy, shaking hand. You'd never even asked. You'd just assumed. You hadn't thought there could be more ways he could make you feel so foolish but apparently, there were still lessons left to be learned. "I can't fucking believe you." you whimper out, not looking at him as you walk past him.

As you pass him, he reaches out to touch your arm. "Gen, s'il vous plait. (Please)." he whispers.

"No. Don't." you manage to say, closing your eyes as you stop. "I can't." you say through clenched teeth, making the mistake of looking into his eyes. "How much am I supposed to take?" you choke out, your face falling into that twisted expression as you let him drown in the hurt he's caused. You see his eyes in pain just like yours at your behavior as your lips trembled. Your eyes were blurred by tears, you knew you wore your heartache all over your face.

Drunk you wanted him to know what he was doing to you. She also wanted to hit him with limp wrists, shouted incoherent words before collapsing against his chest. But you knew you would find solace there no longer. But the part that wouldn't admit defeat wouldn't let you tell him how you were torn apart with opposing yearnings. Your mother had always said you were stubborn. You move past him, you hear him call out for you as he follows you, you stall for just a moment as your hand is on your door before you start to audibly cry and hurry into your room and shut and lock the door behind you. Not tonight. It hurt too much tonight.

He stands outside your door and hears you sobbing and it makes him nauseous. He'd let it go on too long. He'd pushed you too far. He knew it was inevitable but the way his heart churned in his chest, he clearly hadn't know just how much it could hurt until you'd done this. He knows what he has to do. He can't live with himself hurting you like this. --------------------- The morning light is fanning over the dining room table, you sit on opposite ends, the clinking of your utensils the only sound.

"My house is finished." he states suddenly.

"Oh?" you manage to squeak out, failing to keep the sound steady. Your eyes were still red and puffy from the night before. Your body ached from your escapades and your chest was sore from the crying and the very literal feeling of your heart hurting.

"Yeah." he sucks his teeth, his hands on the edge of the table. "I figured I could have your girls pack up my 'fings while I'm at work so I can just have them sent on over to the house, that alright?" he asks, giving a harsh nod in your direction.

"Yeah. That's-that's fine." you nod and look back down at the table, your voice quiet and your eyes wide in surprise over your mouth that was parted in your breathing that had picked up in your unexpected panic.

"I should be outta your hair by tonight." his voice was harsh and deep. You'd heard it this way before in meetings and the veil of tears comes over your eyes again.

"Tonight?" you ask, your voice higher pitched by the tense nature of your entire body at this news. Your lashes flutter and your intake of breath is audible.

"Yeah, I was told it was finished yesterday so I figured I'd just move it along." he says, his face now lowered the table as well. "You needin' me here tonight for somefin'." he asks, his voice not as loud as it had been. He was faltering under his own hesitancy and your visible reaction.

"That's just so soon." your voice is weak to match how the news makes you feel.

"Yeah. Well, it's gotta be done so might as well just get it over with, yeah?" he says, his shoulders tense.

"Will you be back for dinner or...?" you voice trails your head shaking slightly trying to act indifferent towards his answer and failing.

"I don't know, Genevieve." he says, looking up and into your eyes, your heart stutters at the hardness you find in them. "If my stuff is already at the house 'n that's in the city." he trails off, shrugging. "It's a long drive back out here innit?" he holds your eyes and for the first time, you hate that power that he has. His words felt like a slap to the face, you hoped he couldn't tell how tense your jaw was.

"I suppose it is." you say, you take a stuttering breath and gulp as you lower your gaze at the table, admitting defeat. He had to leave. There was no reason for him to stay. You want him to stay but you knew it it was only going to hurt you more if he did. He clearly wasn't apologizing or explaining himself.

"Right." he says, that same gravel filled groan, dragging out the word and making it feel like a physical hit to your chest.

Ollie appears in the door and you feel bile burn your throat as he stands to leave. You take an unintentionally loud and shakey inhale as you stand and head over to him, fists clenched and head down. This would be the last time you'd be seeing him like this. You didn't want it to be but you had to tell yourself this to say goodbye as it would hurt too much otherwise. If you kept hope alive it might just kill off any softness you had left.

You timidly approach him, he turns after putting on his coat, the look on his face surprised at your closeness, his eyes failing to be hard and cold with how yours were so raw and honest. "I suppose this is goodbye then." you whisper, brow furrowing, turning your big doe eyes up to him.

He wants to grab you and kiss you and go to bed with you and never leave. He could sell the house, it could sit empty for all he fucking cared. But he didn't deserve a perfect woman like you. He wasn't worthy of you. He'd thought once when you were filling him with love and affection that he might be. But even how you'd taken his unexplained distance made him realize he wasn't good enough. He pulls away and doesn't explain himself and you just let him exist? Don't shout at him as he deserves. If he'd woken up with a knife to his throat in your hands he wouldn't have fought you, he was in a pit of despair at how things were turning out between the two of you. But neither of you could change what you were. And seeing now how you'd been secretly and silently hurting at his actions...he couldn't do it any longer. He couldn't tell you your confession was why he wouldn't touch you, it would hurt you even more and he felt he would be no better than your father for making you feel bad about something you couldn't change.

"Not goodbye forever." he says, looking down at you with a fallen expression, the hard-ass from across the table now gone.

You hug him like you have so many times before. Your fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt to remember what it felt like. You breathe him in, your head on his chest, his arms slowly snaking around you. You don't know when you'll get to smell him before the rum smell takes over everything during the day again. The smell of the oils you had him use while he was here, the ones seeped into his skin from their addition to his baths, would fade and you'd only have the memory of how this version of Alfie, heavily influenced by you would smell.

"Good. I don't want it to be goodbye forever." you say, sighing against him, rolling your forehead against him as your hands move under his coat at his back to his chest for a moment before you start to push yourself away. You look up at him and hesitate as your eyes meet. "Since I don't know when I'll see you again... could I bother you with a farewell kiss?" you ask, your big brown eyes deep pools he wanted to drown in. He saw in your eyes that you truly didn't know if he'd say yes or no and it makes him close his eyes for a few seconds. He masks it with a smile and a shake of his head.

"A bother." he huffs out. "You could never be, Genevieve." he says, his arms heavy around your waist, a timid kiss placed on your lips as your eyes flutter shut. Trying to remember every tactile sensation. The chaste nature of the kiss is offset by the electrical storm it produces inside each of you. ---- After he leaves the tears come. The dam was broken and raging. You see the maids moving in and out of his room already. In your grief and desperation, you run from the table and to his room.

"Don't touch the bed!" you shout out as one of the girls was starting to take the sheets off to wash.

"Miss?" she asks with a confused face.

"Don't wash the sheets. Leave everything that isn't his be. Don't touch it." you say, approach the end of the bed and placing your hands on it.

"Yes, ma'am." she says with a quick nod and leaves.

You move slowly to his side of the bed, the indention from his head still on the pillow. You pick it up and hug it close, burying your face in it and breathing in the smell of him. You sit on the bed, hands tightly squeezing the soft square in your embrace. You slowly lay down in his spot, your body and mind becoming overwhelmed as you let yourself go horizontal, and letting every tear and strangled cry that wanted to escape, free.

Pt. 51 She’s Gone

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#Alfie Solomons #Tom Hardy #chokingonsapphires #Peaky Blinders #Alfie Solomons x reader #Alfie Solomons x OFC #alfie solomons fan fiction #alfie solomons fic #Alfie Solomons Fanfic #alfie solomons fan fic #alfie solomons au #alfie solomons imagine #peaky blinders au #peaky blinders fan fiction #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fan fic

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cageddovepoetry · 6 years

Text

The Best of Autumn

This is a one off taking place from Lucien’s perspective after Jesminda’s death.

Author’s note: In honesty I wanted to write a piece exploring and discussing losing a loved one. It’s a piece I have always wanted to write, and I felt these characters gave me a chance to discuss my feelings. This piece is a bit (or very) dark and I apologize in advance. (I feel like I should add a Lemony Snicket style warning that if you were looking for cute fluff this probably isn’t the fic to read, in fact don’t read it.) ((Is this where I say friendly reminder…or…)) Jokes aside I hope you find it helpful.

-With love and respect Caged Dove Poetry

Lucien’s body felt heavy, battered and broken. An understatement in every sense of the word. In honesty he felt as if the past few days had occurred as a dream. More accurately a nightmare. Jesminda’s head, his father’s rage, the death of his brothers, his beloved. Lucien felt himself spiraling again lost in the images he could not shut out. A scream, a head, a…

“Lucien?” Tamlin called his name softly as he stepped out on the balcony that Lucien was standing upon in the manor of Spring.

Lucien had not realized he was holding onto the balcony’s rail in a death grip. Lucien could not turn from the view of eternal spring. He felt that he would be undone in the motion. The railing his only grounding. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet.

Tamlin approached Lucien. His steps slow and measured. He knew little of the heir of Autumn. Tamlin had seen death, felt the life drain from another at the end of his blade, but what he had seen… Tamlin could not express, could not find the words to describe the pain that had occurred within the male before him.

Lucien flinched at Tamlin’s approach. The images forced into his mind rippled like a pebble breaking through the surface of an ocean.

“Dinner is waiting for you on the dinning table.” Tamlin spoke. His words soft. He knew not what to say to console the male. Perhaps consolation could not come. Not tonight.

Lucien did not speak. He merely nodded. Unable to move, incapable of speech, he would not come to the dining room tonight.

“I will have Alis bring you something later if you…if you don’t wish to dine at the table.” Tamlin said before taking his leave from the balcony.

Lucien continued to stare off into the trees. His mind, his sight unfocused. He would not leave the balcony until the sun kissed the earth making its leave from the sky.

Lucien could not sleep that night. He had to go to her, be with her. She was not there. Not in the house they had shared their first kiss beneath. Nor in the woods where he had stolen glances, had snuck innocent kisses and some not as much. He could not cry only scream and his body did not have the energy to expel that rage. It felt empty in the darkness.

When the sun awoke from its’ slumber Lucien had not noticed it. No, sunrise could awaken him. No, a numbing rage burned within him.

The ground crunched beneath his feet. Forever stuck in eternal life the supple soil gave way to his footprints. Tamlin had told him that he had run of his court. That no place was forbidden to him. Heal. He had said softly yet it felt an impossible command.

The trees so different from Autumn and still…

“Lucien watch me” a voice called from the depths of his mind. Full of laughter and life. Jesminda twirled beneath ruby colored leaves.

Jes touched the waters that were not there. Fish lighting in the pool’s surface. Colors of sapphire, and ruby shimmered. She giggled as she snatched a trout from its’ depths. The fish wriggled within her hands. Breathing for the air of water that did not exist above the surface.

Lucien heard his surprise from somewhere beside him. A ghost of a moment. “How…”

“It’s simple Luce” Jes responded returning the fish to the river. “You see the prey beneath the surface and…” She looked at the water’s surface her face the image of concentration. Her hand went beneath the surface and snatched another fish. Her face glowed with triumph. “Easy.”

Lucien observed the fish looking between Jes and the river. He stepped forward hand hovering above the water’s surface. He saw his prize below. He reached forward hand outreaching toward the prey beneath the water. His fingers grasping at nothing but empty water.

Jes laughed again. The sound as sweet as an apple pie cooling in the fall breeze. “Patience” she teased as she repeated the motion successful in her endeavor. The fish in her hand violently flopping for air that could not come above the water’s surface.

“You make it look so easy.” Lucien heard his voice respond. Lazy in the cool breeze that kissed his checks.

Jes’s eyebrow raised. “Easy?” she responded releasing the fish beneath the surface. “Impressive is what I think you meant Luce.”

His chuckle resounded throughout the ruby woods bustling with hushed life. “Impressive indeed” he said slyly moving an arm around the small of her back where her spine met her buttocks.

Jesminda tilted her head back as his lips met hers. Bliss erupting between them in an unhurried kiss. His body meeting hers in a slow embrace. A lazy kiss with the promise of time to come. Time that did not exist.

The memory faded into emerald leaves. No river beyond the closeness of the newly budding forest. Lucien’s hand reaching forward finding nothing but air. He paused for a moment as if the memory would come roaring back to life. His first catch. He could capture fish beneath the water’s surface with ease and yet, nothing but birdsong and bright bronze and emerald lay before him.

Lucien took in a deep breath as he continued onward. The trees a mockery of greens and budding pinks.

The forest path led onward into a clearing of flowers giving way to a pond reflecting moonlight. The surface starlight and constellations.

“Lucy that one looks like you.” Jes said pointing into the darkened sky. Silver stars reflected in her eyes. He lay beside her as she looked upward.

“Jes that looks like nothing but a patch of starlight.” Lucien responded squinting into the night sky. The air crisp between them. He felt the warmth her body emanated so close to his own. She rolled onto her side the space between them collapsing. “You don’t see it?” She said her nose wrinkling as she smiled.

He tried to capture the moment. She was so beautiful reflected beneath the silver light. A monument to Autumn. Her dark hair fading into the dying grass. Her body within reach of his own.

“See what?” He said not taking his eyes from hers. His breath hitched at the closeness of her body. The deep brown of Jesminda’s eyes reflecting the light and warmth within her.

“How you are the stars above, the trees, how you are Autumn and the life that lies within it.” She said her voice a whisper as her body moved to lie atop his.

The weight of her body nestled within the spaces of his own. Their bodies becoming one as he placed his arms around her. “How am I Autumn?” He said his voice a whisper in her ear. His insecurities bleeding through his body into hers.

“You are my favorite part of fall” she said as she buried her head within his shoulder.

He held her close as he breathed in her sent. Apple crisps and maple sap. The daughter of a baker. The crowning diamond of the season. “How strange I would have said you were my favorite part of fall.” He said into her long deep chestnut hair tickling his chin.

He felt her chest expand and contract with the sound of her giggling. She kissed his cheeks raising her head from its’ resting place upon his shoulder. Her head hung less than an inch from his own. “I love you Lucien of Autumn.” She declared. “I will love you until this court turns to winter, I will love you beyond the autumn leaves and beyond the boundaries of time. I will love you past the moment my heart does not beat, and beyond the time that exists beyond these lands. I love you Lucien forever and always.”

Lucien gazed into her eyes. The seriousness of her declaration settling within his bones. No one existed beyond this moment. He placed one hand on the back of her head the other finding home within the curve of her back. “I love you Jesminda and I will forever and always.” He said as he saw her, his life and his purpose, before him in his gaze. Their lips met finding each other in a deep passionate kiss. Her lips soft and supple against his own. A promise of what was to come. He would make love to her beneath the starlight. Beneath the consultations that she had proclaimed as him. He had found her in the dark a blessing and a promise.

The moment collapsed. The taste of her kiss fading upon his lips.

Lucien screamed then. The emotion ripping through him as it could no longer contain itself within his chest. He screamed until his voice was hoarse. Until no sound erupted from his lips. She was everything, had been everything, and now time was meaningless before him.

The birds within the trees scattered flying into the sunlit sky. The absence of their song left him hollow. He felt as if his throat was bleeding in its’ rawness. He collapsed to his knees his body crumbling in on itself. He wanted to burn the beds of flowers before him. Burn down the court he had called his home, but the fire within him felt extinguished. A light snuffed out.

The sun once again was drifting from the sky. How did time continue to pass? The sounds of crickets taking up their chirping sounded in the distance as if to announce the oncoming night. Tamlin had told him of the dangers that existed within the woods at night. An increase in the danger in the surrounding woods. Whispers of an uprising in Hybern had brought shadows out of the dark.

Lucien made his way back to the manor. Stumbling through the trees Lucien made his way towards the light. A small female greeted him at the door. A fae who reminded him of the bark of a summer trees smelling of honey and lavender. Alis, he believed was the female’s name.

“Come” she said not looking to see if Lucien followed as she walked onward.

Lucien followed unsure of why. He had spoken to no one, save Tamlin for a few moments, since escaping to the Spring Court.

Alis led him to one of the dens no fire burned in the fireplace, but the room still felt warm. Juniper and lavender emanated from somewhere within the room. Alis motioned to one of the overly plush couches that was within the emerald colored room the epitome of spring. As Lucien sat upon the couch Alis handed him a large mug of tea smelling heavily of honey. Alis did not move to sit next to him. In his seating position Alis’s eyes were in line with his own. Lucien noted the rich browns and hazel that seemed so close to Jes’s own. He looked away.

“Hold her memories close. This time is difficult, and it will be difficult for a long time. Days will pass, and she will be all you think of. You will awake in the night and reach for her. It would not help for me to tell you that one day you find yourself thinking of her less, because the next day her name may never leave your lips. Tell me of her. Share her with the world Lucien. Scream, cry, laugh, love. Feel the guilt, the pain, the memories that make you smile and make you scream. You do not have to bear this pain alone. Our memories keep the dead alive.” Alis finished her speech taking a seat on the plush couch.

Lucien stared into the cup of tea. He was not sure he was capable of speech. Moments passed the clock ticking the time. Finally, Lucien stared into the empty fireplace glad that he did not have to confront the flame.

“She is” he began too many words and yet none at all to describe her. “She is, was, the greatest parts of fall. We met at her father’s bakery. I had snuck out of the Autumn Manor. Furious with something my father had said, did, I fled into the trees. The village was small growing out of the forest around it. The smell of fresh baked pies, and pastries had filled the air. My mother baked once and then one day…she never baked again. It smelled of my childhood and it led me to her. First, she would not speak to me. I think she hated me.” Lucien said his lip curling into a solemn crooked smile at the fire in their first exchange.

“Her father told her that to be better they had to treat those around them with kindness or they would become the very fae that looked down upon them. He sold me treats nearly not taking my money when he noticed my blackened eye. As I wondered about the village I heard her singing. I watched though I must have looked a fool trying to hide myself behind a tree too thin to conceal me. Whatever she had seen in my face made her laugh though it appeared she wanted to tell me off. She asked me if I often creeped on pretty fae in the woods. I told her only if they were as pretty as she.”

Alis chuckled at the silliness of youngling pinning but remained quiet encouraging him to continue.

“We fell in love exploring the woods. I did not think she wanted to show me her world, but she could not resist sharing the name of each tree, each creature with anyone. Even a stupid heir of nothing like me.” Lucien’s eyes stung as he felt the memory overtake him. “She knew everything. Breathed life into everything. She taught me how to identify poison berries from the ones in her father’s pies and introduced me to each fae within the village. They loved her. She cared for them and them for her. We baked pies our clothes covered in flour from flinging it about.” He remembered the flour she had blown into his face and the berries smeared on his shirt. She had moved to kiss him then bold in her endeavor. The kiss had been sweet, shy. Not his first, but it could have been the way it had made him feel.

“Whenever the Manor of Autumn felt like a prison, whenever my father erupted in flames, Jesminda would listen. She would take me into the woods and we would hike, camp, until I was too exhausted to feel anything but tired. Her presence never grew tiresome. I could have seen her every moment and still it would not have been enough. That is not to say we never fought. She was as stubborn as me with a temper that flared like a flame, but she was passionate. She could be as angry as a drenched cat, but she always made sure to make me feel loved.” Lucien sighed as tears streamed down his face. When had he began to cry?

“She is, was, everything.” He concluded feeling a tiredness overtake his bones.

Alis gave him a soft solemn smile. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She is” Lucien said draining his cup of tea.

“I hope your burden lessens soon.” Alis replied giving Lucien a tight squeeze on his arm. He hugged her. Unsure of why he had, but he could not express his thanks in words.

“Thank you.” He said they continued to talk into the early hours of morning. Sharing memories of Jesminda and of Alis’s sister who had passed in the war with Hyrbern. Of his own mother and all of those who they had lost in between. They had cried, laughed, and now Lucien felt a yawn expel from his body. Perhaps he would sleep for the first time in a long time.

They left the den Lucien feeling a little lighter. The next days would not be easier. Some days he forgot she would not be there beside him. Some days he screamed her name unbelieving in his grief, but some days he spoke of her and he shared her. The best of Autumn forever and always.

(In memory of an old friend. Forever and always. May your days be lighter and your heart full. Thanks for reading.)

#lucien #lucien vanserra #alis #tamlin #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acofas #jesminda #lucien x jesminda #fanfic #lucien fanfic #sjmaas #sarah j maas #fanfiction #lucien fic

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collectorofstarstuff-blog · 6 years

Text

Maria and the Kelpie [Star-Swallower]

The only indication that anything sinister had moved into the lake was a thickness in the sky. The astronomer had just noticed it. She assumed it was just a gas-concealed nebula, but her high-power telescope proved it was only dark. She could see no stars behind it, but strangely, the stars around it began to stretch. Some of the surrounding stars vanished. The others appeared to distort, orbit. She had a bit of a debate with herself on whether or not to report it. If it proved to be nothing, she’d have to deal with the Queen’s legendary temper. If it turned out to be something, she’d have to deal with the Queen’s legendary violence. She would probably insist on a hunting team to bring back the head of whatever creature caused the phenomenon.

Estelle promised herself she would only report it if the King were there. He was the only one in control of Leanna after all. But when she walked into the throne room, both King Leopold and the pregnant Queen Leanna were dead on their thrones.

Were it murder of the King alone, she’d have assumed it to be the Queen’s doing. Seemed to be a common thread of events in the Gliphen since they arrived. But they were both perfectly still, sitting there, unbloodied but bowed. There was even still a book in Leopold’s lap.

She sighed, and then screamed to fake a fear she did not feel for them. If she didn’t act horrified, she would become a suspect. Honestly, her foremost trepidation was that whatever disease they must have had come into contact with her instead. Four of the personal guard that stayed awake during the day and of course, their captain, clamored past her with swords drawn, expecting a fight. When they saw no one, the captain looked around at the astronomer, livid.

“What in heaven’s name did you scream for, miss?”

Estelle pointed, the quivering of her chin set them on alert again. Estelle had learned to make long, emotive faces in place of her late sister Etienne, who was never surprised or made emotional by anything. One of the guards, Levi, was at the King’s side already, intensely focused on his slack face. He clutched the King’s upper arm as though he might steer him to the living world. Finally, he looked away, jaw tight. “Captain?”

The captain replaced his weapon. No sword was going to banish this problem. “Is he breathing?”

“A little, sir.” Levi looked back at the King’s face, removing an iron gauntlet. He touched Leopold’s face all too softly for a royal guard. Under different circumstances, the captain would have let fly a sharp rebuke of Levi’s affections. But for now, he turned back towards Estelle.

“Fetch the healer, miss. We will stand watch over them.”

Usually Estelle was giving the captain orders, but she nodded and fled the scene, knowing very well how bad this reflected upon her. She was the previous Queen’s sister, and it was well known how much she hated her niece. If anything happened to Leanna and her husband, with their heir unborn, Estelle would be the next in line for the throne. No one would care that Estelle had no desire to take their place.

She loved Leanna just as much as Leo did, so her death was not discomforting. But she would need to figure out how to prove her innocence. When she passed a window she stopped running though.

She reached up and with her finger, traced the black arms that sucked at the twin suns of the King and Queen. Fingerless arms, groping and catching at the star of wisdom and the star of power. They were being drawn in, devoured by, from what Estelle could see, nothing. It was as if the black sky itself wanted to rid the world of their brightness. But she was of a kind who didn’t trust that the sky was a breathing entity, like the dog-people of the Nightplains. So she knew that couldn’t be right.

She sent a guard to wake the healer and raced back to her telescope, more important work than seeing to two dead royals. She affixed a special eyepiece to her most valuable instrument with hands that badly shook of excitement. She looked straight into the suns. She should have blinded herself even with this, but she knew the suns were being devoured. The blackness was gorging itself on the King and Queen--it had been no assassination. They were currently under attack in the sky.

With a hand as quick with fury as the bite of the dog-people, she scrawled down coordinates and ripped a fine map from the wall to compare them with. No one without her long memory would draw the comparison, it had been more than fifteen years since that day. But Estelle, astronomer, scholar, priestess, had a memory longer than fifteen years. And the fact that this strange… hole was hovering above the outer lake where they had found King Leopold with a pocket full of reed-whistles seemed like no coincidence at all. Besides, she didn’t believe in coincidence.

Her universe had order.

The healer and his junior healers were desperately seeking something wrong that they could fix, but they were interrupted from this futile effort by Estelle again.

“Captain.” The captain turned away from the failing King and Queen. Estelle was striding importantly towards him, bursting with new evidence. Sensing this, he came to her instantly.

“My lady?”

“Let the healers take care of them. I need you and your guard, all of them, to follow me.”

It was one or two words from the most treasonous thing that could be said, for the hypothetical next-in-line to command the head of military. “The assassin is being looked for,” he shook his head. “I cannot leave--”

Estelle refreshed her look of urgency and silenced him with it. “There is no assassin.”

She could hardly blame him for not noticing; it was the guards’ duty to search the land and her duty to search the skies. Even then, without the aid of her powerful telescope, the most expensive object in the whole of the Gliphen aside from the palace itself, nothing seemed amiss. The star of wisdom and the star of power remained there, seeming as potent as ever to the untrained eye. But she could see the hole.

Soon, the royal response team was crashing the closed gates of the lower city, waking some from their drugged sleep, many of the guards with swords drawn despite Estelle’s reassurance that they would find no murderer. She began running, her fury unchecked. The thought of being able to witness an Ancient beast propelled her small feet faster than the heavily armed guard. So many years of hatred towards the so-called King for that happy luck that brought him to an Ancient. The jealousy had festered, and spewed out now as purpose.

Despite orders, Levi had raced ahead of the captain and nearly apace with the astronomer, eyes misted with a red battlelust. His sword was drawn, anticipating a fight for something he believed in. Estelle didn’t care enough to correct him; she knew they would not be able to capture an Ancient beast, let alone kill one.

But if she could just glimpse one…

They passed what used to be the King’s house; Helen and Maro had long since been buried in the mound. They were close to the lake now. Just blast these ferns away, Estelle wished, but there wasn’t time. She half-admired Levi for chopping at offending limbs, but she was not born to swing a sword.

Animals scurried in a panic out from beneath their boots. This was foolish, disturbing the animals. The Ancient would surely be enraged. Not since King Venatici’s legendary hunts had they ventured out in such force. But they couldn’t be stopped now.

With the entire body of water in sight, but no Ancients, no beasts, Estelle was puzzled and began to slow. Levi did not. Blinded, he charged ahead until he hit the water, creating such a splash. He flailed his arms about like a whirlwind, looking for the culprit, but Estelle, more composed, lifted the binoculars around her neck and looked up into the dark spot above.

It was like a hole. Nothing was coming out of it, but the light from the King and Queen’s stars was still being devoured, being sucked in. “So much for balance,” she muttered to her binoculars. This could revolutionize all that the leading astronomers claimed to know. But even that, a famous finding, her name in lights, was secondary to finding an Ancient for Estelle.

She closely examined the lake. It was really more of a pond, measuring maybe two hundred meters across in any dimension, surface now disturbed that Levi had run into it. Estelle had been to this unnamed place twice after the blood of the dead beast was found that year, but finding nothing new, had ceased to return in frustration. But though it had been nearly fifteen years, she didn’t remember it being so small. As though drained. It appeared to have been diminishing rapidly; not the hole of course, but as though some giant from the stars had reached down with a hand and scooped from the water.

The water was remarkably clear, so she could see through to the bottom, and there was not an ancient Beast in sight. She looked up into the darkness again. Puzzled, she began her march around the lake. The captain and the rest of the guard, having finally caught up, followed her, but not until the captain had seized a very wet Levi and dragged him onto dry land again. Levi quickly took a spot behind the astronomer, giving chase. As she left the lakesite and passed it back into the ferns and bright mushrooms of the Forest of the Ancients.

But as she raced into the glowing forest, Estelle felt them leaving the black hole behind. Perhaps it really was in the lake somehow. Perplexed, she spun around and continued off to the right, creating a wide arc into the forest around the drying lake. But only when she returned to the water was she right underneath the anomaly, which meant the creature could only be in the lake.

“I don’t understand,” she gasped, having never had that much exercise in her bookish life. “It should be here.”

Levi caught up to her again and eventually so did the captain and the guard. Their collective heaving made it sound as though a great animal was breathing throughout the whole clearing. But there was no animal. And that concerned Estelle more than ever.

She did not look at the captain. “Tell the men to drain the lake.” She was peering straight up through her binoculars, not at the lake at all. The captain considered her ridiculous request, and considered protesting too, but then considered it could be a good character-building exercise. He turned to his worn platoon.

“Take helmets, shields, anything you can and empty the lake. The King and Queen’s lives may very well depend on it.”

They did not complain when they saw Levi jumped in the lake again and start heaving water out with his shield. They knew it must be important. So they followed suit.

In the end, no one had moved more water than Levi had. But despite the muscle, despite the hours of quiet work, despite the now empty pit in the clearing, the source of the black hole could not be seen. They had killed every fish, uprooted every stem of algae, but only the dirty once-lake remained. The soldiers were defeated. They were accustomed to thankless work, but not useless work. After all, if they couldn’t use healers to save the King and Queen, why shouldn’t muscle work?

The astronomer admitted (to herself) her own frustration. Nothing living in the lake had caused the black hole to appear, but there it waited, directly overhead. Even an inch to the right or left made the astronomer off center. The lake was the key, she was sure of that.

Estelle thought quickly for all of them and addressed the only guard who didn’t seem to want to give up. “Levi, go with the captain and a few others to guard the King and Queen. Get them to safety. Take them to the State House. Quickly.”

The captain and four other men retreated without complaint, but Levi remained. “I will kill the beast when you find it,” he said, voice uncharacteristically low and cheerless. “I’m not good for anything else. Point me in the right direction, and I will slay it.” He looked up into the darkening sky.

“If I could find it, I would point you,” Estelle mused. After an interim of wordless muttering from the guards behind her, she turned to renew the chase. She was about to give orders to begin digging but Levi grabbed her arm and spun her back around to the lake. She might have punished him for treating her that way, but now she inhaled through her stiff nose, eyes darting from both sides of the lake in horror.

The lake was refilling itself. From the surrounding earth, water seeped back into the many facets of the hole they made. It was patient, revitalizing itself drop by drop, never faster than a stream’s trickle, and quiet like a creature removed from its home was merely returning there. Like a peaceful snake of water. And why should it hurt them? Their stars were small and dull. The star-swallower preyed on healthy, pulsing giants. It cared nothing for the guards.

These were all Estelle’s speculations, of course. But it told the astronomer everything.

Her star’s enchantment made it small but it was only a concealment. She was the sister of a long dead Queen, and her bright and beautiful star was only hidden. If the creature had been a true Ancient like she guessed, it would have struck her down before she arrived, like it had her niece and the King. But it gave her as much notice as a lion gives a rat. Whatever water creature they had been bailing from its hole was just a creature. It was a dumb beast.

A dumb, elusive beast.

The Queen was recovering more easily than her husband but everyone, King included, was more concerned about the little girl she carried. As soon as her star had mended, Leanna surrendered to numerous physical check-ups. The warmth and color crashed onto her face and nearly made her sick again. But the baby’s heartbeat was as normal as could be.

When the priestess returned it was bright day still, the King and Queen’s suns conscious with their human partners, but she needed to examine their stars more closely. The telescope yielded no different or daunting information. Leanna’s star was almost the same size and brightness as it had been before, perhaps a little off its aggressive beat, but Estelle was sure it would proceed. And beyond her star, with her composition book, Estelle could still see the little nebula that was building a star for her child. It seemed the black hole had not affected the Queen much at all and, after inspection, did hurt the King only a little more. It had been a slow feed.

But Leanna was more impatient on her aunt’s report than her husband’s good health.

“Did you destroy it?” the Queen said as soon as her husband said “You didn’t find anything.” He was always better able to read the priestess.

“No.” She looked from face to face. She was answering both of their questions. “The lake was drained and every living thing killed.” And yet, the hole remained.

“Did you scour the forests?” (the Queen) “So it vanished!” (the King in wonderment)

The woman smiled, her spiderweb lips nearly touching her eyes. It was not a kind smile. Her stupid niece was always interrupting the King. She smiled and smiled at the Queen until she understood that unless she shut up, nothing more was going to be said.

“No.” To both again. But she turned to the Queen. “There was no need to scour the forests. The creature was in the lake.” Or perhaps was the lake.

“What in Sin’s name are you blathering-” “Please continue, Estelle,” the King gestured wildly at his wife until she was quiet again, waving his hand in front of her face as though trying to prove he had energy. He hated being ill. Such a beautiful, childish man.

Estelle spoke only to Leopold, completely dismissing her kin. He did not know what to make of the creature, except to come to the same intelligent conclusion that Estelle had.

“It does seem strange that it would attack us and leave you. If it were an Ancient, your spells would have been powerless to deceive it. It would have seen through the enchantment and taken your star as well.”

“Leopold, do you remember the kirin? Maybe you were too young...”

“I do remember. It looked like a this strange dark hole as well. But it didn’t steal the light of other stars, as I recall.”

They both lapsed into quiet, reflecting. They were wise people, sometimes forgetting how to uphold a conversation while lost in memory. The Queen was too irritated. Having understood that they had found nothing and hadn’t destroyed it, she could only take it to mean the attempt on her life had not been justified. She marched from the room, much to King and aunt’s relief, clutching her stomach fiercely. They waited until they were sure she had gone.

“I remember you telling me it wasn’t a real black hole.” Leopold stood. When there was a mystery, he couldn’t be still. He had never matured from this trait. “The telescope showed it was really a concealed bright light, a nebula.”

“A kirin is a life-giving force. But this black star brings only death. It was still black through my telescope--but I didn’t need my instruments to tell me that.” She watched his clumsy feet as he paced. “It almost destroyed both of you.”

“Yes, I feared for my poor child. My poor wife as well, I suppose.” They laughed quietly. Before his royal filter, common-born Leopold had expressed right before the wedding he wished Leanna would die. He had since apologized for saying it, but he never took it back. If Leanna heard, she didn’t care; she already knew. They’d never really guarded it as some close secret. “You don’t think it could have affected the baby, do you?”

“Leanna is fine and so is your child.” Chances were good she wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t a baby expert.

There was never a healthier child born to a King and Queen of this or any country. Doubtless centuries of inbreeding at court made for all kinds of interesting deformities. Most were mental. Insanity even plagued Leanna, even though her mother was a foreigner to the Gliphen. Blood diseases and early infant deaths were all expected, but the Queen had, for a change, married someone so removed from her bloodline they could possibly have been from different planets.

The girl was appropriately boisterous, loud and strong. Despite this, they almost pronounced her dead.

With a shudder, the princess’s young star slid into the world behind her, either bashful or dying. She was transferred to her mother’s breast and her star came along behind her, tied to the girl by the invisible string that unites everyone with their identity. This is the way a commoner comes into the world. Worse still, the star did not brighten. It faded to nearly nothing and didn’t pulse the way it should. The healers insisted the body of the girl was ordinary. Even better than ordinary. So the astronomer checked her telescope, but the star (if you could call it that) belonged to the baby, no doubt. It was not the star of an ill child, but the star of an insignificant one. This was not the star of a princess, it was the star of a farmer’s witless, unmarriageable daughter.

The priestess had promised them a hero. She had predicted it, and had never yet been wrong. After the tragedy the kingdom almost suffered, the princess born from the womb of a woman who escaped death so narrowly should be a force to be revered. But a hero forces their will on the world; it’s how they become heroes. Leanna’s labor had been slow, even painless. Not the birth of a hero. The birth of a beggar.

And to Leanna, it made perfect sense. Leanna was a royal, but Leopold was a commoner. This thing was not worthy of her time, her affection, her love, even if she had any to give.

In her mind, it wasn’t even deserving of a proper name. Leanna picked the rather ordinary name of Maria, a shortened shape of the name they had decided on when they knew it would be a girl. The King called her Mariana and loved her still, but Leanna was plotting her demise as Maria was passed to her father to hum over, to hold.

Her mother Etienne had been fond of decrees. Like most dictators, she was cunning, but unlike most dictators, she passed as many decrees for herself and her descendants to follow as she did for her subjects. And they were still in effect, whether she was alive or not. And that meant Leanna was stuck with this hideous child because in the past, royal brothers and sisters simply couldn’t help finding horrible ways to kill each other. All to sit in an uncomfortable, wooden chair, the younger Leopold had pointed out.

But cries from Leanna and their tutor that it was a throne didn’t sway him.

A throne is still a chair, he said. If you’re clever, you can rule the world from the comfort of home and constellation.

He was certainly not the kind of person who would kill anyone over a throne. But it didn’t matter, for the decree would apply even to his descendants.

The decree was, in much verbiage, that the King and Queen of their fair, starlit country could have just one living heir. Leanna and Leopold could have as many bastard affairs as they liked, so long as the new baby girl was the only offspring of both the King and the Queen. This also meant that the King and Queen could no longer share a room, to the dismay of neither party.

But Leanna had already broken this decree.

Her first son, the son conceived one month after their wedding, had looked too much like Leopold and not enough like her, so she quickly had him sent away, far into the country, one of the villages without their gates. She bribed the midwives into saying he had died, pretended to dismiss them for letting it happen, and sent them away from the country, banished into exile all the richer; away from her and her lies.

She couldn’t just devise the same plan this time. Only the royal midwives were present for the birth traditionally, as had been the case with her son, but there had been so much worry in the palace that the black hole had affected her daughter, the King insisted on being present.

Everyone knew the baby was in good health. No one but Leanna seemed to care too much about the limpness of her star. Everyone but the Queen was perfectly content.

That night, as Leanna’s star shrank and dimmed by the astronomer’s enchantment, she looked expectantly into the sky. She searched for a huge, glittering gem and found only a prick of light, like a needle had accidentally poked through the cloth sky by a lousy seamstress. Her daughter had robbed her of a competent heir.

No. If Leanna wanted another child, this one would have to actually die.

Etienne hadn’t been crazy before the pregnancy. No, princess Leanna was well looked forward to. The pregnant Queen would rave to anyone who could hear how strong her Leanna would be, how courageous, how smart. Her husband couldn’t care less; he wanted a beautiful daughter, one that could be easily married off at the youngest possible age. He didn’t like children and he certainly didn’t want to catch another word about how wonderful Leanna would be, and so the Queen would always turn to her sister.

“Stella,” she would laugh, “Stella, my husband only wants a beautiful girl. He never did like a woman smarter than himself.” He would be moody the rest of the day and the sisters knew Etienne was right.

Estelle would have given a limb to hear her sister call her Stella after Leanna’s birth. But the sickness had already taken hold. Physically, she seemed just fine, as did the baby, but Etienne didn’t call her Stella anymore. She didn’t call the baby Anna, like she joked she would. The madness crept into her parenting, word by word, so Leanna never stood a chance. What seemed a normal, healthy child was soon made to be angry and hateful because her mother told her so. And her mother was the only one around to tell her so.

Leanna’s star was even bigger than her mother’s and she was a fierce sort of comely. But her father could not marry her away. The Queen took each suitor and turned him inside out with tests. She only cared if they could match her daughter in wits. But no one was as insanely clever as Leanna. How could they be, when Etienne had coached her in cruelty and quickness, poisons and archery, philosophy and science, day and night? Their very stars became intertwined. Mother and daughter stars began to circle one another. Estelle, having never seen the like, called them Binarius.

Leanna was nothing but a quick-witted murderer. Her mother proved the same when she defeated her husband in a battle by taking half his force, then killed him in a duel by taking half his castle. He fought her for the throne she had taken over from him. Surprising none, he lost.

But when Etienne died, and her star burst into a bright nothing, Leanna’s star dimmed. She had hated her mother so, the constant lessons, the lack of affection, the sharp criticism. So she lost her edge and became stupid. Estelle felt a pity for her niece. Leanna’s youth had been stolen. But Leanna seemed glad her mother was gone. As had been signed into contract when they found him, she married Leopold, who was compassionate and smart enough for the both of them. And even though Estelle could sense that the King had more of an interest in the palace guards than his wife, they were content enough. Calmer, anyway.

But since the black hole, Estelle felt the rise in Leanna. The stirring that had wasted her mother. So she knew when Leanna came to her asking for a spell what she intended to do. After all, it was one of the first times the Queen could be seen with her daughter in her arms. Everyone knew Leanna loathed her daughter. Why was she walking into her study now, smiling so kindly at the baby?

“Your Brilliance, how may I assist you?”

“Is she not adorable?” Leanna asked, “Is she not sweet? Look at my child, so happy.” Indeed, since she never got this affection from her mother, Maria was gurgling, smiling. For a child of two months, she was very alert. Her brown eyes were brighter than her star.

Estelle nodded, all the more suspicious. And she felt no qualm in saying so. Unlike Leanna, the Gliphen’s astronomer could not be replaced, as she had no apprentices. “You’ve made quite a switch..”

“Oh, I was wrong to shame her just because her star is so small. How can she help it? It was the blackness, of course, not my Maria.” She raised her dark finger and Maria wrapped her hand around it. “So small,” Leanna repeated lovingly, but her aunt saw the twitch of something like disgust in her cheek when the baby touched her. “My precious thing.”

“How may I assist the two of you today?” Estelle half expected Leanna would just ask for a knife so she could sacrifice the child then and there on her study floor.

“Why else would we come to you? We need one of your invocations.” She made it sound like Estelle was going to bless them, but it was more fitting to expect a curse. Estelle knew what Leanna meant.

The invocation of concealing a large star was long and complicated and Leanna was no priestess, so Estelle was the only one who could perform it. It only hurt for a day or so, but Leanna had had it performed many times before, so she was prepared for the strain.

She told her Estelle that she was going to visit her son Alcor and didn’t want to attract attention (and large, vibrant stars like the Queen’s were sure to attract attention). Estelle had been away during most of her niece’s pregnancy and the boy’s birth, but she, like the midwives, knew of his existence. She had been told by Leanna herself that Alcor had been the son of a man other than Leopold, which was her reason she pretended he had died. To spare her husband’s feelings of course.

And so, “I want him to at least know his dear sister’s face,” Leanna sighed. It wasn’t convincing.

“Perhaps you should take a few guards with you.” Estelle looked over at her from the side, not turning her face. She wanted Leanna to know that she understood the lies. But Leanna was playing with the baby. “In case of danger.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to attract any attention.” The Queen muttered the phrase over and over, mostly to Maria. And why would she want to attract attention? She was about to kill a princess.

“Of course.” There was no arguing with Leanna, especially not in this dangerous mood.

But when the Queen stole out with the child wrapped in her arms, Estelle had her followed by one loyal soldier. Levi. She didn’t care much for Leanna’s safety, but Leopold was the only one who enjoyed Estelle’s teachings and she didn’t want him moping for losing his daughter. And all the same, Estelle had lied about the duration of the spell. After an hour or two, Leanna’s star would light up the sky as usual. Let her try to lose the guard then.

Leanna was just giving back what the black hole took from her. She didn’t think that the creature had anything to do with the sad star tethered to her daughter, she knew it. But, being insane, Leanna knew a lot of things that weren’t true. She knew that the curse Estelle had cast would outlive her need for it. She knew nobody had seen her go and that no one was following. She passed through the night-woken village, looking up at the thickness in the sky to find this lake she’d heard so little about.

Well, not alone. Maria slept against her body in a sort of sling the Queen had fashioned from a sheet. The very sheet the King’s servant was looking for in Leopold’s new room separate from his wife. Perhaps in her tiny baby mind, Maria was happy that she finally found the love and attention of the woman who bore her. How could she ever imagine death? How could she imagine murder? She was dreaming, rocked by the slow steps Leanna took.

“Where is that damned lagoon?”

The path had veered into a miserable forest and that stopped her. She didn’t notice, but her star was beginning to strain on its curse. It should have made her sick, but she was preoccupied. Should she go into the forest alone? She wasn’t used to being anywhere alone. She was the Queen. She was hardly ever completely isolated. But she felt alone for once. Maria did not take up any space in her mind. Maria was no one at all. And if she had been less than no one, taking up no space on a future throne, Leanna wouldn’t even have bothered with her murder. But the Queen would have a proper daughter succeed her.

But even though Leanna was alone, no one felt sorry for her. Oh no. It was all about the baby now. The baby she wanted nothing to do with. But it was strange; the more she was around Maria, the more she was liked. Normally servants and guards feared to do anything but go about their business, cowering when near her. But if ever Leanna was forced to feed the baby she hated, they’d grow bold. “Isn’t that darling?” one maid had said, then was silenced by Leanna’s disgusted look. “How is the princess, Your Brilliance?” a guard asked her once in passing.

She pushed through the palace-tall mushrooms and rain-damp ferns, startling the baby into waking. Little Maria had never seen the Forests of the Ancients, with mosses that glowed brightly, with fungi that hummed with silent song.

Leanna curled her lip from her teeth, hating the infant’s innocent awe. Even when Leanna had been this small, no one ever treated her so kindly. No one ever looked at Leanna as a little princess and called her sweet. And that had been her mother’s fault. She transformed her into Leanna the monster and had taken her father away from her. And in that way, she masked what she was about to do as a kindness. She reasoned she could never be a good mother to Maria because she never had a good role model. Leanna already hated Maria, and that was when she had been too young to do anything yet that merited hate.

When she reached the lake clearing, she saw what the astronomer and the guards were unable to see. The flick of a wet tail, the flash of green scales, the illusion submerged and spread apart, not noticing her. It had vanished, scales dissolving, its image departing beneath the ripple of the placid water. Leanna was hardly able to believe she’d seen anything at all. But she was insane, after all. If there was something in the lake, Leanna hoped that it was hungry.

She lifted her arms and her sleeves fell, hands and child illuminated by a very weak moon. Maria cried and squirmed as best as a body two months grown could. Maybe she knew what her mother was about to do. Maybe she knew her mother didn’t love her after all, and was no shield, no protector. Levi fell out from his hiding place and yelled to stop it happening, but it had already happened. Leanna flung the baby away from her in an impressive throw. Maria was airborne fast, and her pathetic star was jerked along behind her, into the blackness of the sky.

The splash was almost nonexistent. The lake seemed merely to absorb her, as though it were half-solid. Levi untangled himself from the bewildered Queen and ran from her into the arms of the reeds, intending to swim out and rescue the helpless Maria. But he hit his head on the way into the empty hole, because the lake suddenly heaved and was empty. In its place, at the bottom of a dirty pit was a baby and a beast.

Levi and Leanna were amazed that the baby had not been harmed. They hadn’t seen it happen, but the water had carried her easily, almost gently when it receded into the beast. Before the existence of this particular animal, there had been a lake. But after devouring almost every drop of water and storing it inside its body, the beast had become the lake, hence the astronomer’s unusual discovery. Anyone or anything who entered the lake could’ve been its prey. But Maria made it hurt, like eating something raw and rotten. The beast spit her right back out and heaved. The water swirled into it, forcing it to become real again. And now, snorting and rearing, the beast went mad.

Maria’s pinprick of a star was absorbed by the black hole, and both star and blackness vanished.

Levi drew his sword faster than he ever had. The sight of a huge beast bucking and roaring near the little princess made him go into defense. But the animal seemed to have no interest in harming the screaming bundle of sheets. In fact, the louder Maria screamed, the more crazed it seemed to become. It was as if the sound of a baby crying was its one and only bane and it was being driven to insanity. Levi didn’t know what to do about it. He feared approaching it with a weapon would give it a reason to become violent and would strike out and hurt Maria. He feared not approaching it with a weapon could leave him defenseless and thereby useless to Maria. For half a moment he stood there, swaying on his indecision that held both his and a child’s life in his responsibility.

The decision was made for him. The star-dampening curse that Leanna had asked Estelle for utterly died. With such a large star, it wouldn’t break down in stages, but just fail. The black sky erupted light, causing the baby to let its head fall in the damp earth, for a moment too surprised to cry. That temporary break in the noise gave the beast its composure back. Shaking its great head, it backed away from Maria, trembling. Then with incredible speed, it leapt easily twice Levi’s height to the lake shore and whirled upon Leanna. With this action, the baby’s star seemed to reappear, along with the black hole. He had ripped away from Maria’s hold.

The Queen didn’t have time to know what happened. She was dead with a quick strike of the beast’s fearsome teeth. Levi stepped back, his mouth a tight, horrified line. He didn’t try to save the Queen. He only watched as Leanna fell, bleeding where the animal struck her in the middle, a look of dead surprise making her seem human and not monstrous for her last minute.

Leanna’s star did not fade nor explode like stars normally do when their counterpart dies. It simply vanished into the darkness above the beast. In one quick bite, the black hole had swallowed Leanna’s sun. It was dark again. The monster did not touch the body afterward. Clearly, the Queen’s star was all that it desired. But Levi could see overhead that another sun approached. The King was coming.

Stepping beside Maria, Levi’s eyes did not leave the creature, neither did his sword leave his hand. He scooped the baby up in his free arm and that sudden motion stirred her again. She cried, as a baby can only do, and the beast rebelled. It fell over in shock, creating a small tremor in the earth and its forest. It would have knocked over a less careful man. But Levi held onto his firm stance and watched, sword ready, for a fresh attack. The animal only roared and pawed at its ears, rolling in the reeds beside Leanna’s still body and Levi subconsciously rocked his arm a little. The calming effect soothed the princess and her cries lessened.

The beast stood now that she was still again, eyeing Levi curiously, almost appearing to wonder what importance he had to be a part of this night. When Maria let out the occasional whimper, it would flinch and its eyes would escape to Maria instead.

It didn’t even look when two cautious figures made their way around Levi and towards it. Others came before the King, it seemed. Levi saw them as they faced the animal on either side and approached it, making silent signals to each other. He assumed, by their tired clothing that they were hunters. Since he had Maria in one arm, he could only hold his two-handed sword with one, so he hardly felt like he’d be able to defend them if the creature struck. He just waited, sizing up the odd pair to gauge what their chances were of winning.

One he could well expect to be a hunter. His arms were thick and his body experienced. Levi could tell by his awe that he had never seen such an animal before, but it didn’t matter. He still knew what had to be done. The other was short and quick. His eyes were never still. He was drinking in the scene; the empty lake, the dead woman, the royal guard, his weapon, the baby, the beast, his companion, their surroundings, the coming sun, and the sounds of armored men drawing near. He knew he didn’t have time.

He lifted his hand to call off the ambush, retreating a little as he did so. Luckily, his stalwart companion noticed.

Levi was too strained to make anything of this. He should have arrested them; they obviously knew something about the Queen’s murderer, but he knew nothing but the monster. He couldn’t possibly know why its eyes were trained on a sleepy child. He looked up. The King’s star was coming closer. Levi didn’t want him here. The beast would swallow the sun and the King would die. But he knew there was no way to keep Leopold from his daughter.

The animal came towards them and Levi saw it true for the first time. It was almost as tall as he was and on all fours. Its paws were half the size of the shield he’d cast away trying to stop the Queen drowning Maria. It looked like a wild dog, only huge and hairless. Then, not entirely hairless. The tail that whipped curiously behind it had a tuft of shining fur at the tip and in a line across its back. It was entirely green and shining. Patches of scales interrupted the smooth skin of its front, and despite its fearsome teeth, it really looked more like a deer than a dog, thin and docile, with a long nose. And huge black holes for eyes, a prick of light in them lent to it by the sun of the King.

It did not want to kill the princess. Its mouth was open slightly in wonder as it approached, either unafraid or unaware of the sword Levi pointed its way.

As it closed in, only the hunters noticed Maria’s tiny light eclipse the huge black hole entirely, vanishing them both. Then the King and several guards burst through the trees. Levi sucked in all the air he could at their noise, sure it would awaken the hypnotized monster and it would make quick work of them all. But nothing happened.

Leopold took the scene in at a moment, intelligent like the smaller hunter, and threw his hands out to halt his guards. Two of them circled around the hunters and dragged them forward to arrest. It was all done rather silent, and they did not resist. But other than that, there was only the princess and the beast.

The beast was within touching distance of Leopold’s daughter when it stopped and swayed. It was close enough it could stretch out its neck and touch its wet nose to the baby’s forehead. A firm glaze held over his eyes, he took one more step, about to do just that. Levi heard a whispered argument, then the smaller hunter, with permission from the King, stepped towards them.

He slipped a shining band over the monster’s head and pulled it away.

#mariaandthekelpie kelpie fiction fantasy story chapter3

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