#the first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies

[petaltexturedskies]

Louise Glück, from “Vespers” in Poems 1962-2012

#louise glück #louise gluck #autumn #typography #vespers #poems #poetry #the first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies

[heartwasglass]

The first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies.

#autumn #cozy aesthetic #cozy autumn #autumn aesthetic #autumnedit #falledit #fall aesthetic #fall #aesthetic #moodboard edit #paletmblr #paleresource #giffingpale #*gifs #moodboard

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 20, Story #2 is by @floreatcastellumposts

Title: Dittany Author/Artist: FloreatCastellum Pairing: Neville/Hannah Prompt: Bravery Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): Discussion of maternal death, mentions of violence. 

Hannah's mother had been a muggleborn, and that had been her death sentence. 

Or rather, she had been a muggleborn with the audacity and bravery to be proud about it. 

Most muggleborns ended up slipping entirely into wizarding society, and as much as they might say that they would keep in touch with their roots, the magic took over. Jeans became robes, electronics didn’t work in their homes so their pop culture references grew stale, the effort involved in keeping the statute of secrecy for extended family and old friends was too exhausting to sustain, so they saw them less and less and eventually… 

This had not happened for Mum, even though the Abbotts were a very old family, well rooted in the magical community. She had agreed with Dad to live in Godric’s Hollow, because the Abbotts had lived there for many generations, but she had insisted on Hannah attending the local primary school, where she could make muggle friends. She was adamant that they make regular trips to Liverpool, to visit her side of the family, who believed that she worked in HR (which she did, but for a potion manufacturer, not for a haulage company as they believed) and that Hannah had received a scholarship to an exclusive boarding school, and that Dad owned a pub (which he did, but they neglected to mention that it was frequented by witches, wizards, goblins, the occasional hag and a half giant). And when the Stephens side of the family came to visit, they would have a flurry of activity where they would hide away anything magical-looking, and from the loft they would bring down the big television, and they would speed read some muggle newspapers so they could give their opinions on Tony Blair or Men Behaving Badly or Charles and Diana’s divorce or whatever else they thought might come up.  

That was life as Hannah knew it, and it never felt complicated or brave or shocking or daring or any of the things she later found out it was. 

She remembered certain details from the day very clearly. She’d been easing sneezewort plants out of their pots, the last repotting before winter, her fingers shaking at the long, pale roots, creating a rain of soil. The last of the cream coloured petals, curled and brown at the edges, fell onto the potting bench. There was a sudden shock of cold air, a breeze from the door opening that hit their faces and whipped through their hair.  

‘Professor Dumbledore’s here,’ said Susan with surprise, and Hannah had glanced up to see him closing the door to the humid greenhouse, his long white beard tucked into his belt, Professor Sprout hurrying over to him. 

Hannah looked back down at her plant. The roots were all tangled together. Professor Dumbledore was probably here for Harry Potter, there were all sorts of rumours flying around about secret meetings between the two of them. 

The plant needed a much bigger pot, but the roots were strong, there was no rot there. 

‘Hannah.’ 

There was no hiding the bewilderment on her face. She had never had a direct conversation with the Headmaster before, and here he was, speaking kindly, gently, softly, one hand touching her shoulder and the other, black looking, gesturing to the door. 

‘I need to-’ she started saying, as he led her out. Everyone was staring. 

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Professor Sprout, and her voice sounded so strange, ‘I’ll finish up here for you.’ 

Perhaps part of her had known then. She knew it was something terrible. She was too afraid to ask. No one was ever pulled out of class for a good reason. She walked up to the castle alongside him as though in a dream, her heart beating up through her throat and into her mouth.

She was not sure how it happened, but suddenly she was in the warmth of his office, staring at Professor Dumbledore’s grave face, his lips moving, without really hearing, except for that first, terrible, world destroying little phrase. 

‘I’m so very sorry to tell you that your mother has been found dead.’ 

There would be no worse event, no greater loss, no stronger pain in her entire life. 

There was still dirt under her nails and in the creases of her palms, she noticed, as she reached into the silver box of floo powder. 

It had been so long since she had seen Godric’s Hollow like this, golden and red in its autumn. Fallen leaves tumbled and floated down the river that rushed through the village, or collected in the gutters along the cobbled roads, damp and heavy. The sun stayed a little lower each day, casting long shadows across the beer garden of The Lost Owl, and the wind ruffled the sign on the door which read ‘Closed due to family bereavement.’ 

During the days, she wondered what to do with herself, stuck between boredom and terrible, overwhelming grief. When she could cry no more, she wondered if there was something wrong with her for wanting to find something interesting or fun to do, but when she tried to read, she could not focus. When she tried to listen to the radio, she would fall asleep. She could not bring herself to ask her weeping father to play cards or chess or anything with her. She thought of going back into school, but how could she see other people? Now that the world had ended? She wanted to tell people about it, wanted to say the words enough until they made sense to her, or until someone found the right words to say back that would make it OK, but she did not want to do this to her friends. 

At nights, she would cry herself to sleep, and her whispers, please come back please Mummy please come back, would grow and grow and grow into sobs, begging into her pillow as the agony of it tore at her, the desperation, the feverish thought that there had to be something, that this couldn’t be it, there had to be a way, a special way, just for them, just for her, because it was her mother and there was no way she could live without her. Mum wouldn’t leave her like this, there was no way Mum would allow it, she would go to the ends of the earth to make sure that Hannah was happy, she had always said so, she had always promised… 

But Death was something parents could not protect their children from, it seemed. The more Hannah thought on it, the more she became crushingly devastated, horrified to realise that each and every human on Earth had to endure this at some point. In different ways, at different times, with different feelings, but the mere act of bringing a child into the world was to condemn that child, one day, to the unbearable pain of loss. Every person she passed, she wondered, have you suffered as I have? Or is it yet to come for you? She wished she could spare them from it.

The aurors said she was probably targeted because she loudly and openly discussed her muggle heritage in the pub, and it must have been heard by the wrong people. That was what passed for bravery these days. 

In the church of St Jerome, the stained glass window pattered with rain, and Hannah looked up at the colours of red and yellow and green rather than looking at the coffin with the splay of lilies, and she wondered when this nightmare would end, when Mum would come back, and tell her that everything would be all right. 

***

Months passed in unbearable agony, worse than she could have imagined. But there were glimmers of light there too. 

Here, at the school she thought she would never return to, in the place that was filled with unimaginable horror and oppression, she had purpose again. More purpose, in fact, than she had ever had in her life. And with it, new friendships that ran deeper than she had ever expected. 

‘This way,’ Neville whispered, and they ran low across the lawn of the grounds. Some of the windows in the castle behind them blazed with light, so that she thought for a terrible moment that they must be visible from the Great Hall, but, of course, the windows would be black with night to anyone who looked out from them. 

It was the summer term now, but the air was still cold as they panted, as though Dementors were close, which, she reasoned, they might be. She could feel the dew of the grass, left to grow long since Hagrid had left, soaking the bottoms of her jeans, seeping through her ratty trainers. 

Following the dark shadow of Neville’s figure, she ran through the grounds until she heard the crunch of gravel underfoot, and, ahead, the slight shine of starlight reflecting off the greenhouses. 

‘They’re in greenhouse three,’ Neville muttered, and her stomach dropped. 

He did not notice, and continued to hurry along the garden path, past the raised beds for the hardier plants and herbs, and she followed, but at a walk now, dread gnawing at her. 

He stopped at the door, holding his hands up to the glass to peer in. ‘OK…’ he said, still breathless from the run. ‘OK, looks clear… Now, while I talk to the venomous tentacula, you grab a tray, and fill it with perlite and only a few handfuls of compost, it’s a mountain plant so it likes it nice and rocky.’ 

‘OK,’ she said, and though she thought she sounded normal, he turned to her. She could barely make out his expression in the darkness. 

‘Are you all right?’ 

‘I… I’m sorry, I just… I haven’t been in the greenhouses for a long time… especially not this one. I should have thought before I volunteered, I'm sorry.’ 

She felt immediately embarrassed for blurting it out, and she had no idea if Neville would even grasp what she was getting at. He had been in the class, yes, but did he even remember that day? What had been the worst day of her life had been a perfectly ordinary school day for the rest of her classmates, and so many terrible things had happened since then. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t leave you out here.’ 

She thought he was telling her off, or saying that they had to go back, but before she had the time to feel hurt or ashamed, he was holding out his hand towards her. 

She swallowed, and then placed her trembling hand in his. She was not unaccustomed to physical touch with him, or many others. Over the past year, she had tended wounds and comforted people as they cried, she had grasped hands and arms and knees under desks to soothe people or tell them to control themselves, she had passed secret notes and morsels of food and whatever else needed smuggling, slipping it nimbly from her fingers into their palms as they passed in the corridors.  

But now his fingers pressed firm and reassuring against hers, and there was something very different about them holding hands. 

She let him lead her into the greenhouse; the humid, warm air surrounded them at once, like an odd sort of hug that sat heavy on their lungs. Tall, leafy plants towered above them, brushing the domed glass high above their heads, which magically reflected the brilliant stars above them and lit the place in glorious silver. 

Now that she was in here, she felt a little better. The dread that had stopped her ever returning here, that had caused her to drop herbology and pretend that this part of the castle no longer existed, had not come to pass. It was, after all, simply a greenhouse, and Mum could not die again. 

‘Are you all right?’ he said gently. 

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Thank you.’ 

He nodded, and reached for some gloves on a nearby bench. She missed his hand around hers. ‘Let’s move quickly, and get you out of here,’ he said, donning some goggles and a thick leather apron.  

She went to the potting tables where Professor Sprout always stood, and seized a large seedling tray. As she took handfuls of compost and perlite, she could see Neville wrestling with the venomous tentacular, saying, ‘I’ll bring you doxy granules tomorrow - I’ll move you to a sunnier spot - I already checked with Professor Sprout - come on, you knew this was part of the deal, we agreed-’

Eventually, when he had tied enough of the writhing vines together with garden twine and stroked the shoots into calmness, he gave a nod to Hannah, and started to remove his protective gear as she hurried over and they squeezed behind the plant

There, on a table surrounded by blue lanterns to make up for the blocked light caused by the tentacula, were long, deep pots, stuffed with dittany. Their slender, arching stems were clustered with pleasant green leaves, with a dusty sort of whiteness, and they were dotted with pink flowers. She had never seen the plant as it was before; she had only ever remembered the little vials of dittany kept in their first aid kit, good for scraped knees and cuts from any broken glass in the pub. Mum had always said it was good to be prepared in an emergency, it had been one of her funny little things like that, along with being a bit of a hypochondriac, and so Hannah had had a vial in the bottom of her trunk when she returned to school. That, combined with her good potions knowledge, had helped her stumble into a kind of mothering role that she found had rather suited her. 

‘I just need the flowers, the book says,’ she said, as Neville started gently pulling some up by the roots. 

‘Yes, but I think it’d be good if I can grow another set somewhere, as a back up so we don’t have to keep sneaking out here. It’s just me and Seamus in the dorm, I don’t think he’d mind if I put them in the window between Harry and Ron’s beds. Here, take these, cut the flowers where the stem splits off - yeah, there - so it’ll grow back.’ 

‘It’s really pretty,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so pretty. It’s usually that the most useful plants are the ugliest.’ 

‘It is,’ said Neville absent-mindedly. ‘It’s from Crete. The healing properties were only discovered in the 17th century - people used to think it was an aphrodisiac, and it’s still used in some love potions.’ 

She looked at him, and though the light in the greenhouse was white starlight only, she could still see his cheeks burn red. 

‘It’s… it’s not, though,’ he mumbled. ‘Well… a little bit, but I… I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Because it’s interesting,’ she said quickly, as he busied himself repotting the seedlings. He nodded rapidly, and cleared his throat a little, and she cast around for something to say. ‘You… you should be careful, growing these in the dorm. If you’re caught-’

‘There’s no rule against growing plants,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plants up there loads of times. Especially my mimbulus mimbletonia, that’s had pride of place for a while.’

‘You know they don’t need an explicit rule,’ she said quietly. ‘They do what they want. If they think you’re… doing anything good, anything kind. That’s enough.’ 

He nodded, looking down at the delicate, thin roots of the dittany. There was a reason that he and Professor Sprout were growing such an innocent plant in such secrecy. ‘I know… but… it’s worth the risk.’ 

‘That’s very brave.’ 

‘Is it? Just growing a plant? Is that what passes for bravery these days?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said honestly. ‘Anything good does now. And it’s not just that.’ She paused, still cradling one of the delicate, rose pink flowers in her hand. ‘I mean… what were you thinking in muggle studies the other day? I hated seeing you screaming like that.’ 

‘Well I had to say something. It was repulsive, what she was saying about muggle children.’ 

‘No one believes her, no one really thinks-’

‘We don’t know that. Maybe some people might start believing her, because it’s easier. And anyway, it’s not just about that. Remember Umbridge?’ 

‘I try not to,’ she said dryly, and in the pale, washed out starlight she saw him grin. 

‘I know it’s stupid, but as Ginny and Luna haven’t come back, and Harry and Ron aren’t here, or Dean, or loads of other people… I’ve been-’ he sighed, as though frustrated he couldn’t find the words, ‘I’ve been trying to think about what they would do. I can’t afford to be Neville Longbottom, I’ve got to be someone braver. And Harry used to just completely go off on her, used to tell her straight in lessons that You-Know-Who was back, and, yeah, it got him more trouble than it felt like it was worth at the time, but you know what? I always found it really inspiring.’ 

‘I did too,’ she said quietly. ‘I remember thinking… well… why would he stick to a lie through all that?’ 

‘Exactly. He had principles, and if he was here he wouldn’t stand for any of that rot. There’s a lot of times over the past few months where I’ve just tried to…’ he shrugged helplessly, ‘pretend that I’m Harry. That I’m brave.’ 

‘I don’t think you’re pretending at all,’ she said. ‘You are brave. You always have been. You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?’ 

‘Somehow.’ 

‘No somehow about it. You’re the bravest man I know, and that includes Harry.’ 

‘How on earth does it include Harry?’ he asked, and he sounded like he was on the verge of laughter. 

‘Because he’s had to be,’ she said. ‘I’ve grown up in Godric’s Hollow, you know, I’ve seen the ruined house that he lived in. He’s had to be brave all the way from when he was a baby. But I didn’t. You didn’t. You’ve chosen to be brave, you’ve chosen to channel him. You're a pureblood, you could choose, every day, to keep your head down and get on with things, but you don't. You stand up and call her a bigoted liar in class and get tortured and you never back down. I find that more inspiring than anything.’ 

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said quietly.  

‘And you were brave lots of times even before. Don’t you remember winning those points all the way back in first year?’ 

He beamed, and looked at her directly, for the first time since he had blurted out that dittany was an aphrodisiac. ‘You remember that?’ 

‘Of course I do. Dumbledore pointing out about standing up to your friends - he was so right, that does take a lot of bravery. I tried to do it next year, when Ernie was telling me that Harry was the heir of Slytherin. I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t as brave as you, but at least I tried, I suppose.’ 

‘I think you’re very brave too,’ he said. ‘Looking after everyone like this, handing out essence of dittany, running out here with me to get more… I’m sorry that you’ve had to come back in here. I didn’t think.’ 

‘I didn’t either,’ she said, and she started cutting more flowers. ‘I was just so focused on the idea of more, I didn’t really think about where I’d be getting it from… But, you know, I’m OK, actually. The thought of it was worse than the reality. It’s just a greenhouse.’ She looked around. The white starlight bleached the dark greenery into shades of silver, bounced off the watering cans, sparkled in the droplets of water from the sprinklers. ‘A very beautiful one.’ 

‘I like to think so,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘I always found this whole place beautiful, but now it… sometimes feels like only the greenhouses still are. They’re the only place I haven’t seen people being tortured.’ 

She paused. ‘I’m secretly thankful my mum isn’t alive to see this. Is that awful? I’m just glad she never had to worry about me being here. I feel bad enough for Dad.’ 

‘It’s not awful,’ said Neville. ‘I know what you mean.’ 

‘Do you?’ 

‘My parents don’t know anything about what’s going on, and for the first time in my life, I’m glad,’ he said, and for some reason his words seemed to surprise him. 

‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and without thinking she put down the little secateurs and touched his arm. He breathed deeply, not quite meeting her eyes, pressing down one of the seedlings quite firmly into the tray, before finally turning to her.

‘I live with my gran, because… my…’ He took another deep breath, and suddenly there was a clanging from outside. 

They froze, and heard a low voice swearing. 'Bloody wheelbarrow…' 

Hearts thudding, they ducked down and stayed silent, Neville silently mouthing for Hannah to get onto the large empty shelf under the potting table, where bags of compost were usually kept. He reached up, fumbling for the secateurs, and then started crawling along on his belly. 

'What are you doing?' she whispered, horrified. Alecto Carrow was opening the door to the greenhouse, still muttering and swearing about the wheelbarrow he had tripped over. 

He put a finger to his lips, and then pointed at the venomous tentacula, which had begun to writhe against the twine. The snip snip snip of the secateurs seemed unreasonably loud, but from the other side of the greenhouse Carrow did not appear to hear them, rifling noisily through the plants and shrubs, sending terracotta pots crashing to the floor. 

'Anyone in here?' he demanded. 'I saw your footprints in the gravel. Hello?' 

The vines of the tentacula waved threateningly, and Hannah watched with trembling fear as one of them reached out to Neville, still prone on the ground, and started to wrap itself around his throat. 

'Don't be cheeky,' she heard him mutter to it, and he calmly prodded it with the secateurs until it released him. 

It kept one tendril around his ankle, but Neville seemed to allow it as a compromise, and instead watched through the vines as Carrow upturned a table, still shouting and swearing. 

After several, agonisingly long minutes, Carrow came close to them. The venomous tentacula silently released Neville’s ankle, and raised it's spiked tendrils. 

'OW! Son of a bludger-' 

A long line of expletives followed, and the venomous tentacular shook noisily, whip-like noises echoing through the greenhouse as it reached after Carrow, now bolting from the room. 

'Grab the tray,' Neville told Hannah. 'He'll be heading straight to the hospital wing, we should have a clear path back. Quickly, before the tentacula gets over-excited and turns on us-' 

She did so at once and he held back the spiked vines as she squeezed past the plant, and hurried safely out of range. 

She stood there, holding her tray of little dittany plants and the heads of the flowers. She watched as Neville easily unentangled himself from the tentacula, patted it, said, 'thanks mate,' and grabbed a clear cover for the tray. He came close to her as he fitted it over the dittany, protecting them from the cold night air they would have to hurry back through.  

His face was inches from her own, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat a little as she looked up at him. There was a slight clunk as the lid of the tray found its place. For a moment, they were perfectly still, just their breathing in that humid place, and his eyes, shining light blue in the pale light, lifted from the tray of dittany to meet her own. 

'Do you really think I'm brave?' he whispered. 

She nodded, and he seemed to be steeling himself for something. Please, she thought, please make this place good for me again. Her hands gripped the edges of the tray.

Very gently, very slowly, he leaned closer over the tray. His hand moved as though to softly move her face to meet his, but he didn't need to, for she was already naturally tilting her head, and her heels were lifting a little off the ground without her bidding them to. 

Their lips met, soft like the petals of the dittany between them, sweet like the fragrance. His fingertips were trembling slightly as they caressed against her cheek, but then they calmed as the kiss deepened. 

The tray pressed into them as he tried to move closer, and it reminded them where they were. They broke apart, panting and gasping as though they had just finished the run down from the castle. 

She had never kissed anyone before. She was glad, unbelievably, overwhelmingly, joyfully glad, that her first kiss had been with Neville, in this place where the warm air was scented with damp soil and sweet flowers. 

'We… we should take these back,' he said, his voice slightly hoarse. ‘Let - let me take them.’ 

He took the tray from her, and in her happy daze she allowed it, and let him lead the way out of the greenhouse. Joy had returned to her again, beneath the fogged glass, amongst the green plants, bursting with life. 

#chudleycanonficfest2021 #HP fest #hp canon pairings #canon fest romantic #submission #neville x hannah #tw: maternal death #tw: mentions of violence

[louisegluck]

hey! can you please suggest some short quote/lines around flowers or cottagecore vibes? thank you

okay so i don’t have much time to answer this (and if i don’t answer this now, i know i’ll forget all about it) so these are the ones that came to mind! i could go on forever but i’m not sure if you were looking for something specific? if you were, let me know and i’ll try my best to post some more for you 🤍

“Roses rooted in your heart...”

George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard from, “Epitaph.”

“So today I awakened feeling like a flower, suave, smooth, gentle.”

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin 1944-1947

“No. Not really red, but the color of a rose when it bleeds.”

Anne Sexton, from “Song for a Red Nightgown.”

“Stars open among the lilies.”

Sylvia Plath, from “Crossing the Water.”

“We sped out towards the sea, reveling in the opaline colors, the changing light, the smells of heather, flowers.”

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin 1931-1934

“The bees are flying. They taste the spring.”

Sylvia Plath, from “Wintering.”

“The roses are in bloom again.”

Louise Glück, from “Brennende Liebe.”

“The first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies—”

Louise Glück, from “Vespers.”

“Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning...”

Sara Teasdale, from “The Garden.”

“..tall-stemmed flowers are blooming, steam rises from warm gardens..”

Czesław Miłosz, from “The Song.”

“This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart...”

Mary Oliver, from “Peonies.”

“Look, hasn’t my body already felt like the body of a flower?”

Mary Oliver, from “October.”

“A butterfly lighting on your flowers stains its wings with blood...” and “Blood gathers in the mouths of tulips..”

Czesław Miłosz, from “Earth.”

“The dead know the language of flowers only; so they keep silent...”

George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard from, “Stratis Thalassinos among the Agapanthi.”

“The hands that touched us don’t belong to us, only deeper, when the roses darken...”

George Seferis, tr. by Edmund Keeley & Philip Sherrard from, “Sirocco 7 Levante.”

#anon #ask

[noir0neko]

Crime and Creation | m

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 15.5k

Summary: The Crow Club. One of the University of Ketterdam’s secret societies aimed at recruiting the finest students who want a taste of more than just lectures. Meet Kaz, the founder and president, whose self-made millions come from his dealings on Wall Street. Nina, a girl who is aching for more than the fortune and husband her family has laid out for her. Inej, whose observant nature and ability to be invisible makes her the perfect spy. Jesper, a childhood friend of Kaz’s who can’t resist getting into a little trouble joined by his boyfriend, Wylan, son of the University dean. And Cataleya, an Upper West side journalism major who has a special way with words. When Kaz finds out the Crow Club’s dealings have been infiltrated by an unknown rival, his crew enlists the help of outsiders to ruin reputations, throw lavish parties, and do what the New York City Crows do best: heist. Until something goes very wrong. 

Characters: Cataleya (OC), Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Alina Starkov, Zoya Nazyalensky, Nikolai Lantsov, Aleksander Morosova and honorable Leoni mention.

Warnings: Death. Highly detailed emotion and inner thoughts that have memories of parental abuse and self harm, nothing very detailed. Mentions of murder, drugs, and illegal activity. General debauchery and scheming. Some romance, mostly implied, light kissing, fondling, and the use of expletives.

A/N: You do not need to have read any of the books in this world to understand this fic! I spent so much time and poured my heart and soul into this story and the development of my original character and building these characters into a new, modern world. Please read it and give me your thoughts! This piece was written for the @grishaversebigbang. Also, check out the art work made for my fic by these amazing artists: @corpsecro, @nantosuelta-art, @discountscoobygang, @lady-ekatherina-de-mika and @mikanviola! It is such an honor to be a part of something like this and I had so much fun! I encourage anyone and everyone to read the Six of Crows/Shadow and Bone series by Leigh Bardugo! It’ll be on Netflix soon!

I used to love cats. 

Until one showed up dead on my window sill. 

I’m still not sure how it got there. Perhaps it climbed the fire escape and lept from the metal railing onto the ledge. But once the animal had the orange pollen and poisonous petals of the lilies sticking out of my window in its mouth, it was only a matter of time before it died. I had the good sense to keep my crying quiet, at eleven years old, so that my father would not stumble in to yell or push the cat hundreds of feet to the street below. I did not know he was already gone. That I was alone.

I hid the orange tabby in my backpack and went to bury her in the backyard garden the next chance I got. 

But when I used my small children’s shovel to dig into the earth, soft from the recent rain, it wasn’t what I went to bury that changed my life. But what was already buried there. And right then, with my cheeks stained with tears and hands shaking with anger, I swore to never stop hunting. To never stop chasing the people who ruined me. 

That was one promise I kept. 

I haven’t kept many others. 

Sitting in the foyer with the rest of the Crows, wind coming in from the autumn afternoon and the scent of freshly made waffles mixing with dusty books, I don’t know if I can keep this one either. Kaz looks at me pointedly, waiting for me to answer. I glance at all of them, Nina, Inej, Jesper, and Wylan. It is rare that anyone outright refuses Kaz on anything, especially not with his position or to risk the weight of his disapproval. Nina once told Kaz to go to Hell and she paid for it with two weeks of silence and banishment from the Crow Library until she relented to do her assignment. 

Jesper clears his throat, trying to relieve the awkward vibe getting thicker with each passing moment of silence. I can’t help but allow a small smile to reach my lips, grateful for him trying to save me from the tension that I could slice with a knife. Swallowing and meeting Kaz’s dark eyes, I sigh. 

“Fine,” I relent. “I’m in.” 

The strain dissolves from the space and the other Crows break into smiles and start to chatter. Relaxing back in my chair, I watch Inej spring up and take her place next to Kaz, her lithe frame complimenting his perfectly. Kaz moves around his large oak desk, gaze fixated on something in the distance. Definitely scheming face. Best to wait it out until he speaks first.

The Crow Library is lit with the afternoon sunlight, warming the leather of our chairs and illuminating the dust gathering along the rows of books. Shelves line the walls beneath the window, behind Kaz’s study area, and underneath the stairwell, which leads to an upstairs reading room and parlor area. Nobody has bothered to read any of the books, weathered and dusted with age, but they lend the room an air of sophistication and a homey comforting smell. Kaz’s desk is littered with papers, the dark wood barely visible beneath the jumble of stock investment deals, new heists, and class assignments waiting to be done. On the front face of the desk, a large crow is carved into the surface, black and red paint covering the indentations in the wood. 

Inej puts a tender hand on Kaz’s forearm, her lips moving quickly and silently, as if whispering to him. Inej has her hair down today, an unusual occurrence from her braided coil, and the dark strands spill like silky oil over her shoulders and her waist. She must have come from the studio, sweat still gleaming on her brow and black leotard disappearing beneath dark navy leggings. Her lithe frame seems to be floating, always so modest and reserved, yet her brown eyes are intuitive and unrelenting as she studies Kaz. She has been with him since the founding of the Crow Club, never missing a beat between helping him, chastising him, watching out for him, and caring for herself all the same. It’s no wonder she’s been able to double major in both Global History and Ballet, two completely different worlds, but complimenting each other perfectly for Inej. 

And Kaz. What an interesting man he’s proven to be. 

Business major. Self made millionaire. First student to be admitted into the University of Ketterdam - UOK for short, without a full high school education. A man full of mysteries. 

Jesper moves to perch himself on the arm of Wylan’s chair and adjusts his Queen shirt, the old black leather groaning under his weight. Jesper says something quietly to his boyfriend before running a hand through Wylan’s curly red hair and kissing his pale pert nose. Jesper has his hair buzzed short to his scalp, dark arms lean with muscle and legs long, his jeans riding up at the ankles to reveal bright yellow socks and black high tops. Wylan releases a wide smile, looking up at Jesper with untamed admiration. Wylan has on a pair of pressed dark wash jeans, his collared shirt maroon red with small white dots, accentuating his bright hair and pale skin. 

It just reminds me of blood. 

They are quite a pair. Wylan, being the son of the University dean and Jesper, one of the most intelligent and talented students in the Economics department. He is studying Game Theory, an extremely intense and complicated subject full of strategy, confidence, and risk: coincidentally Jesper’s three favorite words. 

Wylan, much to his father’s chagrin, is an Art History student with a hidden passion for chemistry and physics. I often find him gazing at the long since forgotten portraits on the walls of the Crow Library upstairs, reminiscing of a different time, of discovery and excitement. Of different people with different secrets. Wylan usually seems lost in thought, often internally reflecting rather than being outwardly vocal like the rest of the Crows. He is another mystery, especially because of the tenuous relationship he has with his father. 

Jesper’s brown skin glimmers in the sun, inclining his eyebrows in mischief before taking a toffee from the bowl next to him and flinging it across Wylan’s chair to Nina. 

Her tongue flicks out as it hits her arm, thick lips smirking before unwrapping the plastic wrapper and popping the candy in her mouth. Nina is one of the only Crows who was forced into attending the University of Ketterdam. Her parents, with her father being an extremely rich and powerful Russian politician and her mother, an aristocratic woman supposedly descending from ancient Russian royalty, had been raising Nina to marry a high ranking Scandinavian commander since she was eleven. The marriage was supposed to secure better relations between the two nations, as well as provide Nina with a life of security, wealth, and status for her and her children. All her parents want for her. 

In true Nina fashion, this is unacceptable. 

Her family said the marriage could wait if she wanted to go to school and get a degree, which may better serve her husband and their families prestige in the future. Seeing no other viable option, especially because she did not want to marry a “white haired barbarian” as she called her husband-to-be, she enrolled in a prestigious university as far away from Russia as she could get. Despite her parents beliefs that she is a culinary student - “because a good wife knows how to cook”, according to her parents, Nina has been studying Performing Arts and Theatre. A perfect major to fit her personality and her beauty, with her tall, curvy frame and piercing green eyes. Today, she is wearing an olive bodysuit, the neck low cutting and her legs hugged by a pair of black flare jeans. Casual and entrancing. Her style seems to change depending on her mood, from modest foreigner to vivacious party girl to preppy student. New each day. 

“We will need others,” Kaz mumbles to Inej, furrowing his dark eyebrows in thought. 

I have only been with the Crows for a few months, but I already know how unusual that is. Kaz rarely asks for help, especially from those outside of the Crow Club. But whatever he has planned seems to be a lot more serious than the other jobs, more personal than merely ousting insider trading, or infiltrating various museums and mansions, or spying on the Upper East and West Side elite to gain intel and use it to our advantage. 

Each of us has a unique purpose to Kaz. His investments. And while it has been easier to see where the others’ talents fit in, I am still baffled by my own. I adjust the sleeves of my lavender shirt, the ruffled material smooth on my shoulders. 

I had known the Crow Club existed before I set foot on campus. As a journalism major, secrets have always intrigued me. Not just the secrets. The challenge of uncovering them, of working from the inside to reveal some of the deepest and darkest parts of humanity. I had always heard whispers of the club amongst the Upper West side elite, whispers about Kaz Brekker and his Crows. Always watching. Always ready to catch you red-handed. But I didn’t even need to go out of my way to find the Crow Club.

Kaz found me first. Called me an asset. He and Inej invited me to join starting the summer before my second term. I have surprised myself by warming up to the rest of the Crows so quickly, even the ones who aren’t active members and are just extra recruits for Kaz to call if he needs them. We all mean something here, we all have a purpose, more than what the world is trying to force upon us.  

A family. Especially since most of ours are broken or nonexistent. 

After a few minutes of waiting, Kaz snaps to attention and we follow suit, like trained soldiers, eager for him to share whatever small slice of his plan that he decides to. His crisp suit is pure black, a small crow brooch pinned to his lapel. The shaved hair on the side of his head is beginning to grow out, the top slicked back with a deep, oaky smelling gel. He always looks like he is dressed for a business meeting, even when it’s just us. Inej always muses that there is an irony to it, but how, I don’t know. I suppose everything is business to Kaz. 

“Okay,” he begins, voice gruff and deep. “This is what we’ll do.” 

----

Nina and I weave our way through the busy streets, blessing the cool wind as it kisses our faces in the dying summer heat. Her hair is down, the sun illuminating the many shades of brown running through the waves and her dress is high on her thighs, the red cotton fabric hugging the curves of her waist. Being in America has done wonders for Nina, brightened her complexion, improved her spirit, and turned her from a wafer-thin girl to a full-bodied, thick thighed woman. Everywhere she goes, people stare. She is otherworldly, like a saint on Earth. 

“Where did Kaz send us this time?” Nina complains, sucking the dripping strawberry ice cream from her fingers before chucking the cone into a nearby trash. 

“He didn’t,” I grin, dodging a guy with suspicious looking flyers on the sidewalk. “He gave us his card and very vague instructions to find a wardrobe for the event.” 

Nina’s eyes sparkle, cleaning off the rest of her fingers before she entwines her elbow in mine. New York City seems to breathe with our every step, the wind moving, the heat unfurling, and the trees swaying. Taxis and cars whiz by on the avenue, the honking of horns and the laughter of tourists crossing into Central Park filling the air. Everything about New York is alive, even the concrete holds stories it’s waiting to tell. 

“Then let’s go down Fifth,” Nina begins, mischief in her tone. “I know a few places.” 

“I bet you do,” I flash her a smile, crossing the street so we walk parallel to the park. 

We trek down the street, stopping into a macaron shop in the Plaza Hotel to get a bright blue bag full of sweets for us to eat on our journey. Nina and I are bouncing on our heels, excited to have a day to ourselves, away from the Crow Club and the University and being responsible for buying dresses for not only ourselves, but for Inej, Alina, and Zoya, as well. 

Kaz had three extra students brought in for this assignment, all a part of the secret network of Crows that don’t sit in regular meetings. First is Alina, who has an international reputation for rebuilding schools and orphanages across the world since she was thirteen, and who has been a Crow since her first step onto campus. She transferred here as a graduate student from some extremely prestigious school in California to complete her PhD and teaching credentials. Every time I have seen Alina, she has been so kind and so helpful, always eager to teach, serve, and build in any way she can. It’s beyond me why she wants to be a part of these operations. Maybe every good girl has a naughty streak. 

Zoya, on the other hand, seems like the opposite of Alina. A close friend, confidant, and suspected girlfriend, of another one of Kaz’s network of Crows, Zoya is an overly intelligent, intimidating, and obscenely beautiful law student. Her hair is always smooth, a jet black slate against her back and her eyes are always piercing, judging and observing in their ice blue. Her skin always looks perfectly tanned, a deep brown that makes the pink of her lips more enticing. Her grades are pristine, her ability to argue is unparalleled, and if there were ever a force to be reckoned with, it is her. It’s a lot more obvious to understand why she agreed to join the Crows, for the prestige, the knowledge, the power. But truly puzzling, is her relationship with Nikolai. 

Nikolai, or Nik, as I like to call him, is one of the best - and funniest, Crows. Clever, self-deprecating, friendly, handsome, the list goes on. His blonde hair is a shaggy mop of artsy goodness, his skin is creamy, his style completely unmatched and his wealth bottomless. Nik and Kaz are always butting heads; most of the time it’s the only comedic relief the Crow Club has when they’re together. Nik met Zoya during undergrad, in a political science course, where apparently their discussions were lively enough to earn them A’s and lengthy enough to last entire class sessions. Nik has one of those family names that are revered in every elite social circle, making him an obvious addition for Kaz’s team and from what I have gleaned from Nik, he decided to join the Crows to give him something interesting to do besides follow in his father’s footsteps. I wish I wanted to be a Crow out of boredom. 

“God,” Nina groans, shoving her phone back into her five thousand dollar purse. “If I get one more message from my parents asking if I’ve heard from that white-haired, rule-following, stick-up-his-ass, Scandinavian inbred, I am going to drown my phone in the Hudson River.” 

“Wow,” I clap for her, avoiding the incredulous gapes of tourists at her language. “So many adjectives and I don’t even think you’ve ever said his name.”

A man opens up the glass doors to Bergdorf Goodman’s, where cool air and white marble greet us. Immediately, we drift to the dress racks, combing through all of the latest trends.

“Matthias,” she almost growls. “His letters are so proper, telling me that he has heard of my exemplary womanly skills from my parents. That he would delight to see my drawings and sewing and hear me play the piano. It’s ridiculous. I don’t do any of those things by choice.” 

I stifle a laugh. “He seems very… traditional.” 

“Seems?” She throws her hands up, shoving a silk dress back onto the rack with too much force. “He is the definition of the word! And worst of all, he’s attractive! He has snow white hair and is built like one of those huge wrestler guys that people watch on TV.” 

“Why is that a problem?” 

“Because his complete lack of competence makes him a barbarian! A man who thinks the perfect wife is silent and docile. He’s going to have another thing coming when I show up.” 

“He comes from old money in an old country,” I begin, wondering whether I need to tread lightly. “Don’t you think he’s just taught to think that way?” 

She sighs, holding up a stunning evergreen gown against her figure. “I know he is. That’s what’s even worse. I know that everyone where he is from has been taught those values. So even if he came to love me, to understand me, no one on the outside would. His station, his reputation, his fortune, all of it is dependent on how I perform. How I reflect him.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair,” I muse, holding out another red silk dress for her. 

“Money isn’t fair.” 

I blink, surprised at her words. Money is just an object. It has no preference, no deference, no opinions. But I guess the idea of money is more important and tangible than the paper itself. Money has value and expectations beyond the faces staring back at you from the press. It expects manners, it breeds tradition and hierarchy and perfect wives who aren’t allowed to make any. I wonder if Nina will end up bending to those wills, to the one’s she has been raised to. America is such a different place, but I guess money everywhere is the same. It controls you. 

“This.” 

I turn around, face breaking out into a huge smile at the dress Nina is holding. It is a deep purple, with sheer shoulder sleeves and a deep plunging neckline covered in diamond flowers. The waist is cinched, belted by more glittering gems, before it falls and flows in layers of purple silk and satin to the floor, flowers and vines curling around the skirt. Nina’s hair and eyes and skin would look angelic in the dress. I nod fervently, unable to cap my smile as she waves over an employee to open the dressing room. 

While in the dressing rooms, Nina and I talk through the divider. 

“Where was Wylan off to earlier?” I ask, taking off my clothes and folding them neatly on the small leather bench. “He never really seems to be around these days.” 

“Yeah,” Nina says, with a grunt. “He’s been trying to rekindle his relationship with his father, studying a lot. You know, the usual dysfunctional family stuff.” 

I laugh. “My family wasn’t dysfunctional in that way.” 

“I would say you were lucky,” Nina begins and I can hear her zipper up as mine does. “But I know you weren’t.” 

At the same time, we step out of the dressing room, identical smiles breaking open our faces before we clasp our hands together and squeal with happiness. The dresses look perfect, we look perfect, everything looks perfect. 

And now we just have to find dresses for Alina and Zoya. 

With these price tags, Kaz is going to regret lending us his credit card. 

----

“Something Kaz Brekker doesn’t know how to do,” I tease a few days later,“drive.” 

He shoots me a healthy side glare, uncurling his fingers from around the steering wheel. The sun is shining through the left side of the car, illuminating his high cheeks and arched brow bones with dazzling light. If Kaz weren’t so… him, I’m confident he would have made an amazing Calvin Klein model. Especially because his lips are always relaxed in a bit of a natural pout and his resting stance is so relaxed, yet also confident. He is striking. 

And he doesn’t belong to me. Nor do I think he ever will. 

Despite their claims and attempts to put distance between their relationship, it has become common knowledge in the Crow Club that Kaz and Inej are a package deal. And it doesn’t take a trained Journalism major to read between those lines. It is blindingly obvious in the subtle ways she touches him, the way his gaze softens when he looks at her. She is the ice to his fire, and when needed, he is the same for her. A complimentary pair in every way, even if it seems unlikely on the surface. 

“Okay,” I begin, gesturing to the automatic gears between us. I explain what each of the letters stand for, instructing him to move the clutch into reverse and slowly ease up on the brake. With a bit of a jerk, Kaz obeys, turning the wheel to back us out of the spot in the empty parking lot. It had taken a bit of a road trip to find this place outside of the city. I had driven Kaz and myself into New Jersey, where the early morning dawn had just begun to crest, giving our driving lessons an advantage. Kaz had immediately, and somewhat reluctantly, urged me to teach him, claiming we would need it for this assignment. Inej had pushed him along with the conversation, rolling her eyes at how his own pride blocked up his request. 

“Now go back into drive,” I say, lurching forward when he does and pushes his foot down too forcefully on the gas pedal. He turns in circles around the empty lot, taking care to avoid the lamp posts. On every straight away, Kaz seems to hit the gas with a little more force, graceful turns giving way to concussion-inducing races. It seems he has the turning part down, but the lurching and jerking of the car would get him pulled over quickly. 

And although Kaz will no doubt be having a new fake I.D. made by one of our extra Crows, the risk of involving a police officer is not one any of us want to take. 

“Slow down there, Nascar.” I laugh.

He eases up, taking his time to get used to the ebb and flow of the vehicle. Where he got the car is beyond me, but I am also beyond questioning Kaz’s ability to secure random and often, complicated, objects for our heists. He has become my biggest puzzle, my biggest mystery to solve. And if it hasn’t been one hell of an adventure trying to figure him out. Observing him and listening and learning his subtle tells when he is angry or pleased or scheming. Lately, though, it feels as if the obsession for uncovering his truths have blossomed into something else, something that makes my heart race a little faster and my palms sweat. Something I haven’t been able to control. And how I hate not being in control. 

“Turn out onto the street,” I instruct, forcing myself to speak and get out of my own head. 

He obliges, the car absorbing the bumps in the curb as Kaz makes a graceful right turn. His black gloves glide smoothly along the steering wheel, the sleeve of his shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his pale wrist. My mind begins to wander again, to whether or not Inej has touched them, if she has held his wrists down as she gracefully slid on top of him. I wonder if she has kissed him, if he whispers her secrets to her like some sort of sexy spy pillow talk. 

“Cataleya,” Kaz is saying, the four syllables of my name like chimes from his mouth. 

“Sorry,” I shake my head, swallowing and casting him a glance. “What?” 

“Where are we going?” He repeats, monotone and bored. 

His driving has already gotten smoother, his feet steady on the brake and gas as I tell him to pull onto the dirt on the side of the two-lane road and turn around. There are still no cars out here at this hour, an Amtrak just beginning its morning route on a station in the distance. I can see the outline of the city beyond the valley, half blocked by trees and tall grass. The skyscrapers are haloed by the rising sun, like a safe haven calling me back home. 

“Who taught you to drive?” Kaz says, his raspy voice surprisingly light. 

“A friend I had growing up,” I reply, surprised.

“That’s a nice friend,” he comments, voice taking on an edge I don’t understand. 

I snort. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have any family to do it.”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel ever so slightly and if I weren’t observant I probably would have missed it. The way he tenses up. The way his jaw clenches and the car begins to move a bit faster as his foot locks onto the gas. “Me either.” 

“I found my mother dead.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. Kaz’s gaze shifts a bit, but he keeps his focus on the road as I continue. “I went to bury a dead cat in my mother’s old garden. We never touched it, my father never tended to it, or let me, after he said she left us. But when I went out to the garden and began to dig, I lost track of time, I dug far deeper than I intended. My father wasn’t home, I wanted to be there, in that garden, and away from him if he came home, for as long as possible. I didn’t realize how far I had dug until,” I swallow, inhaling and turning to Kaz. “Until a hand began to form beneath the dirt, and then an arm, and I saw the wedding ring, the bruises, the blue of her dress…” 

Kaz’s lips part, the only admission of emotion he gives. 

“The coroner said she had been dead for four months. Four months,” my voice broke, splintered on the fragments of my memories. “That she had been beaten and buried there. They couldn’t… couldn’t prove it was my father. He had money, lots of it. And he paid a lot of people to keep quiet.” 

“Is that why you love journalism?” Kaz asks, slowing the car to ready his turn back into the empty lot. “Exposing them? Making them pay with more than their blood money and with plain blood?”

I inhale, lips curling back in more of a snarl than a smile. “Everyone I knew. Everyone I knew who was involved. I have made them pay. In some form.” I throw Kaz a true smile, a devilish gleam in my eyes. “Although I suppose you already know that. It’s why Inej noticed me in the first place.” 

“One of the many reasons,” Kaz replies, words back to being clipped, tight. 

With a smooth arc of the steering wheel, Kaz turns the car into the same spot as before, hitting a little too hard on the brake before coming to a stop. My hair moves in front of my face at the jolt, a blessed curtain separating me from him. I can feel him thinking, churning over my words, assessing me. 

Kaz hardly seems fazed as I peek at him around my hair. His dark eyes are far away, his gloved hands slack on the wheel. I still myself, hearing the purr of the car engine, hearing Kaz’s breathing, shallow and uneven, as he goes into the place he so rarely dives. His eyes are almost glazed, like he’s been drinking, completely lost in his own thoughts. I know some of his story already. From Nina. From Jesper. From my research. 

“Your brother,” I murmur, soft and low. 

His hands tighten on the wheel until they are bone white, staring straight ahead at the tree lined landscape. “Jordie,” he pushes through his teeth. “His name was Jordie.” 

My spine straightens. Kaz has never said anything about his brother, and has never allowed any of the Crows besides Inej into his life in this way. And I wonder how far he has even let her in. I swallow, questioning if I should press or let it be. I am just about to get out and switch places with him to take us back into the city, when he opens his mouth and to my bewilderment, continues to speak. 

“My parents were mixed up in some bad stuff before we came here. We lived in the countryside, with a bit of land and no one around us for miles. My brother was older than me, only by four years, but enough to know how to keep me from looking where I shouldn’t. From keeping me happy and sheltered.” A muscle flickers in Kaz’s jaw, his pale skin going ashier with each word, “I didn’t know what was happening when they came. The thugs my parents had been hopping between towns, cities, and states to avoid for over a decade. Jordie took me, the remaining cash from the safe, that my father had stolen, and fled to New York City. He hoped we would be invisible among so many people.” 

I don’t know I am holding my breath until I release it, low and shaky. Kaz is silent again, staring off, flexing and unflexing his fingers against the steering wheel, like a silent reminder that he is here. 

“Are they alive?” I ask, voice so silent it’s almost nothing. 

“I don’t know,” Kaz admits. “But we never heard from them. I’ve never heard. So I can only assume not. And I don’t think I would want to see them if they were.”  

“And Jordie…?” I venture, terrified to hear more, but also terrified he’ll clam up. I am desperate for more. Desperate to know him. 

“We weren’t safe here. They found us. Or, found Jordie. While I was gone.” Every single syllable from his lips are forced and painful, laced with self loathing and regret. Survivor's guilt. “I was supposed to be there, but Jordie had sent me away. On an errand down in Brooklyn. He knew we were trapped, and wanted me to live, if he couldn’t. If Jordie could convince them he was alone and I had been shipped somewhere else... ” He breathes in and out, slowly and deeply, focusing on some point in the distance. “They ruled it as a suicide. He had cut his own throat, only his DNA on the knife, only his blood… I don’t know if he did it before they came. Or if they staged it. The not knowing. The guessing. That’s what makes it worse.” 

“So you look for control in other places.” I say. “In the market. In investment. In the Crows. I do the same thing.” 

“The Crows stand for the same thing you do, Cataleya.” Kaz says, looking at me with an intense stare. “Exposure. We want things to be different. We want people to pay, truly pay, for what they have done. Instead of buying silence. Buying lies. We want the truth. Only the truth.” 

His words pierce me, his black hair stark against his forehead, shaved sides longer than he normally keeps them. His eyebrows are set in a hard determined line, lips closed, and jaw locked in determination. I know he made those people pay, the ones who took his brother from him. I can see it on his face. 

“How did you survive?” I begin, “without him?”

Kaz licked his lips and let out a low chuckle. “Our money was gone. But we knew some people. Kids we met on the street. They made me a fake to get into bars with; I was barely sixteen by that time, but I looked older. Rougher. I had a skill for counting cards and made a small fortune quickly by playing in run down joints and eventually, working my way into larger, more expensive establishments. It was hard, I lived and breathed revenge, for Jordie. I wanted to have him back. To have something that was mine. I built up a small fortune, studied the market, and began investing. By the time I applied to the University of Ketterdam it didn’t matter that I only had my GED and no family, my self-made fortune was enough.” 

“But why here?” I ask, furrowing my brows in confusion. “Why school at all?” 

Kaz continues to look at me, eyes blazing. “Because we had a dream. Jordie and I. We had a dream that we would never forget what happened. That we had to run. And that when we were older, more settled, we would build something here. In New York City, something that would last. Something with a legacy. Like Crows, Jordie had said, symbolizing death but themselves being alive. We were dealt bad luck and would bestow it on others who deserve it.” 

“Thus, The Crow Club,” I finish his sentence, gaze roaming his face. “A secret society at one of the world’s best universities that would have a legacy. Have prestige. Have a family.” 

“Something that is mine,” Kaz’s lips part, wet from his tongue. 

“Yes, yours.” I echo. 

We are both silent for a few moments. Weighing our words. Our truths. Even the trees outside seem to stop in the wind, leaves quiet and branches unwavering. Kaz has opened up in a way I have never seen before. Never expected. He has been through so much. So much like me. Dealt with death. Loss. Life. We aren’t so different. None of the Crows are. 

“What about the others?” 

“Those aren’t my stories to tell,” Kaz responds, voice returning to its detached state.

I nod, once, accepting. I know a few of them already. Nina. Wylan. The new recruits. But Inej and Jesper are mysteries. Complete and whole geniuses shrouded in questions. I don’t like questions. Especially ones I can’t answer. 

“How did you survive? With him?” Kaz’s voice rings again, reflecting my earlier question. His words are too big for the small car, inhaling deeply through my nose as a small smile graces my lips. His long fingers move the shift into reverse to back out of the spot to drive us back to the city himself. The true test of his skill on the Manhattan streets.  

“That friend. The one who taught me how to drive,” I reply, a bit of wistful nostalgia filling my tone. “He helped me. Took care of me. Looked after me.” 

“Past tense?” He inquires, feet smooth as he presses on the gas pedal. 

“We are still friends,” I say. “I think. Things are just… different.” 

“Different. That’s an understatement.” He replies, voice drenched with irony. “Everything is different, isn’t it, depending on how you look at it.”

I nod and laugh, giving him a compliment on how swiftly he picked up driving before we settle into a comfortable silence. Crows. Allies. Friends. If we can call ourselves that. 

I hope we can. 

----

Today, I am supposed to meet the enemy. 

Kaz told me yesterday he set up a rendezvous at one of the campus coffee spots and that there would be someone waiting for me there. Someone he wouldn’t name. Someone that I am supposed to gather information from. Someone who thinks we are on a date. 

I had almost hit him when he pulled up his phone to show me the fake dating profile that was made for me. Pictures of me smiling, laughing, most of them pictures I didn’t even remember taking, all glowed brightly at me, accentuated by a bio that said I liked my men tall, dark, and tortured. 

How cliche. 

“Nina made it,” Kaz had shrugged then returned his phone back to his pocket. 

“And you would be surprised by how many matches you made,” Inej’s voice was laced with humor, lilting into the room without a trace. 

“She’ll walk you over,” Kaz said, gesturing around the room to her unknown location. “Like any dutiful girl would for her best friend about to go on a date from an app. Then, you’ll just need to proceed as normal. Ask him about his life, his job, his degree, his connection to UOK. All the basics. The main concern is reading him out for a vibe, his family has had a lot of influence in some shady shit and he’s from another society here.”

So that’s what this was about? Some sour deals that probably put Kaz out of some easy money and a rival society that was challenging Kaz’s position in the control of campus secrets and his standing legacy? I don’t feel like that is the whole story, but that’s all that Kaz was willing to give me at the time. 

And he hadn’t said anything this afternoon when I had gone into the Crow Library to meet Inej. He acted like nothing ever happened, like he hadn’t revealed some of his darkest secrets to me. Like we hadn’t shared a moment of… something. He barely looked at me from his desk, hair rumpled and face flushed from stress, in my tight long sleeve dress and tights, combat boots laced up around my ankles in case this random guy got the wrong idea. 

The air outside had turned to autumn, giving us an unusually cold and windy day. I was puttering around and trying to think of something to say to Kaz, when Inej came down the staircase with silent feet, dressed in a pair of black leggings and a cream knit sweater. Her hair had been mused in the back and her face also looked a bit red. I had almost laughed, looking between her flushed state and Kaz’s slightly red cheeks, before giving Inej a knowing quirk of my eyebrows. 

And now, outside of the library and alone, walking across the cobblestoned campus paths with autumn leaves falling around us, I turn to her. “Do I even want to know?” 

“It’s college,” she replies, so quiet it’s almost to herself. “Things happen.” 

“Things don’t just happen with Kaz Brekker.” 

She looks at me, face breaking out into a blinding smile that splits her beautifully baked face. “They do when he’s in a rather… compromising position.” 

“Inej!” I release the laugh I’ve been holding, the now pulled back coil of her hair showing off the reddened tips of her ears. Since I have known of Inej, she has always been rather modest. Sure of herself in a quiet way. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need reassurance or shields. Inej herself is a shield, a force of silent secrets she keeps hidden beneath the unsuspecting lithe of her dancer’s frame. 

We take a right turn down one of the main campus paths, small walkways opening up into a large courtyard. Students mill about, sitting on statues, kissing underneath the garden archways, reading books on their way into classes. The University of Ketterdam has always been such an eclectic place, not only because of its location in New York City, but because of its campus. Lush, green, beautiful. An ode to history and architecture and modernity all the same. The programs here are some of the best in the world and while tuition isn’t cheap, the value of a Ketterdam degree is worth it. 

“Is it bad that I kind of do want to know though?” I begin, not even sure what I’m saying. 

“No,” Inej says, voice thoughtful and not defensive in any way. This is why I love Inej. So honest and unafraid. “I think everyone wants to know about Kaz. Everyone wants to be the hero that solves the mystery or the lover that turns a prince from darkness.” She pauses, looking around at the students, seeming lost in thought. Her dark eyebrows crease together, as if in thought or sadness. “Some people just can’t be saved.” 

I can tell she’s referring to Kaz. But I’m not sure if I agree. I think everyone can be saved. I think darkness lives in everyone and all a person needs is a bit of light to show them through. People weren’t born into darkness, or evil, they were made that way. Through that, they could be unmade. And Inej has enough light and strength in one of her hands to see any person through the blackest of tunnels. I think of what Kaz had said to me, in the car, about his story, about his desire for revenge. For retribution. Maybe I want to believe we can be saved from the darkness because I want to be saved. Because like calls to like. And there is a deep chasm within Kaz that sings to me. 

Inej moves her head to look at me, a full and unabashed gaze that somehow makes me uncomfortable. Like she can see straight to my soul. Like she can see every lie I have told or every promise I have broken or every secret I have kept. Like she can see my desires and my shame and my longing for things I can’t have.

“But we love them anyway, don’t we?” She finishes, giving me a contemplative look. 

I think of the people I love, the people I did love, when there were still people in my life that were capable of receiving such a thing; people who were dark and painful and I still loved them anyway. Love can be such a blinding thing. Blinding and binding. 

“Yeah,” I echo, her reflective tone rubbing off onto my voice. “We do.” 

The both of us descend into silence as we continue to walk across the quad. I begin to feel my stomach turn, my palms sweat. No matter how many times I have done this, not dates, but encounter new people, this feeling returns. Every time I have to meet someone new, report on something, present something for a class, I would feel anxiety grip my insides and twist. When I was younger, that anxiety was terrifying, it made me cower, it made me scared. But as I got older, I began to use it and cling to it. I began to form it into an entity that gave me courage instead of taking it, something that would ground me to myself and propel me into my fears. 

Inej begins, “Kaz texted and said he’s outside. Reading. Good luck.” Then she’s gone.

Steadying my breath, the smell of coffee hits my nostrils as I round the library steps to the small path beside it. The coffee shop is nestled into the side of the huge, brick building, almost like a tumor sprouting from the side. Inej has completely disappeared, only leaving the familiar scent of herbs in her wake. She is supposed to be going up the library steps to find a good vantage point from one of the many windows facing the coffee shop on the building’s side. Students move around through the cafe windows, in and out of the doors, little bell ringing to signal both arrival and departure. 

But I am not paying attention to any of them. 

Because there is a boy. A man. Sitting at one of the tables outside, his long legs stretched underneath the opposite chair, wearing a pair of leather sneakers. His long fingers are thumbing through a novel, covers worn and pages yellow with age. He can feel someone there, looking, sitting up and turning in that little metal chair to see who. To see me. 

It’s Alek. 

I blanch, mouth going dry and jaw slackening. I know him. I more than know him. I- 

“Cataleya,” his voice is pure night, laced and dripping with stars. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, not even phased. Not that I have ever seen him look surprised. I flash back to that day in the garden, to his hands on my face, wiping my tears, to his arms around me, murmuring condolences, to the face that I could see through my blurred tears. Dark hair, pale skin, beautifully big gray eyes. I had barely known him, barely seen him despite our houses being right next door, despite our windows being on opposite sides of the alley and me being able to spy on him when his curtains were parted at night. 

“Aleksander?” I stand a little straighter, gathering my shock and shoving it deep down. 

He smiles, standing up from the chair on the patio of the coffee shop. He is so tall, taller than I remember. His dark jeans are fitted against his legs and the black long sleeve button down he is wearing shows off a large portion of his impeccable chest. I don’t remember when the last time I saw him was, but I definitely don’t recall feeling the pulsing and intense heat that flashes through my body when I look at him. I suddenly feel naked. And stupid. 

Is Kaz trying to kill me?

Swallowing thickly, I scan the windows on the side of the library for Inej, wondering if she has already found a perch to play spy. The sun reflects off of each glass surface in the afternoon light, making it impossible to see through any of them. Blowing a breath through my lips, I attempt to quell the storm brewing and churning in my stomach. 

“What a wonderful surprise this is,” Alek starts. 

I catch the edge in his voice, the way the tone lilts at the end. A tell of how much this encounter is not a surprise. For him anyway. But I smile, I nod and I watch as he fluidly closes the distance between us and takes me in his arms. 

I hate how I exhale. 

How my whole body relaxes. 

I hate how good it feels. 

Like coming home. 

He smells like winter and barren tree branches, like snow and absence of light. Like a dark night wrapping me in its embrace and taking away the pain that days bring. Peaceful and mysterious all the same. Just as I remember it. Just as I remember him. 

“Since when did you start wearing all black?” I joke as he pulls away, gesturing to his outfit. “Are you some kind of darkling now?” 

He gives me a blinding grin, chuckling under his breath. 

“Something like that.” 

He gestures us back over to the table and I sit across from him, back rigid and legs crossed. I feel like a mannequin, still and stoic, despite the intense pounding of my heart and rush of blood through my veins. 

“How have you been?” He asks, leaning back in his chair with an amused look on his face. “I must say I was very surprised when your profile popped up Tinder.” 

I clench my jaw, working my teeth against each other. “Yeah, so was I.” 

Tilting his head to the side, Alek studies me, eyes unabashedly roaming from my face to my chest to my waist, to my legs visible on the side of the table. I swallow, trying to clear the unfamiliar lump in my throat before I speak. 

“But I’m good. Great, even. But I didn’t even know you are here. That you went here in the first place.” 

“It’s a temporary thing,” Alek responds. 

“Temporary?” I push. 

“I’m just getting a business credential for the semester,” he says, airy and dismissive. 

I narrow my eyes at him, hoping he can feel the suspicion and annoyance radiating from my look. He drums his fingers on the table, weighing my stare with a measured, even gaze that infuriates me further. I always hated when he did this when we were kids. Always challenging me. Always trying to get me to back down. Luckily, our time apart has sharpened my detective skills and my comfort with confrontation. 

Alek sighs, blinking slowly. “Fine. I’m here because of you.” 

My jaw slackens. 

Because of me? 

“I missed you,” he whispers, in a rare display of vulnerability and affection, before reaching across the table to take my hand. 

Fire lashes up my wrist and arm, chills spreading in its wake. His touch is electrifying me, his skin like a hot branding iron pushing into me with delicious pain. Alek’s jaw is set, the hard lines on his chin lined with stubble. I want to take his face in my hands and kiss him. I want to feel him against me and get lost in the impossibly deep gray ocean of his eyes. 

“Where were you then?” I venture, pushing down the pressing anxiety. 

“I had a lot to deal with after my dad died,” he responds, voice detached and noncommittal. “I’m really sorry I let our relationship fall away, but I didn’t want to drag you down into my grief. You’ve always had enough on your plate.” 

“You helped me through grief.” My tone steadies. “I wanted to help you.” 

He huffs, “I didn’t want your help.” 

The words are like a slap in the face, pulling my hand from his with a start. His dad’s death had been very abrupt and unexpected, launching Alek into a world of unknown wealth and property and an accumulation of other assets he wasn’t even aware his father had. His death was ruled under suspicious circumstances, but no leads were ever found for a murderer or any other sort of foul play. And with Alek’s mother long gone to cancer, he found himself newly eighteen and alone in the world. Except he wasn’t alone. He always had me. 

Alek releases a breath, eyes softening as he leans back in his chair, aware of the mistake in his harsh words. He pushes a hand through his hair, the dark waves parting for his hand like a saint in the sea. 

“I don’t mean it like that. I wanted you to be there, Cataleya. But some things you have to do on your own, you know? I had so much to figure out and sort through and… it was overwhelming.” 

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Alek was never the kind of guy to ask for help, especially not from people he is close to. He always did things alone, always felt weak for not building his own empire, his own legacy, his own destiny, without anyone else. But two years, I haven’t heard from him in two years and now here he is. In front of me. Asking for some sort of forgiveness. Is there anything to forgive? The pit in my stomach says yes. But my throbbing heart and other throbbing parts of me say no. 

“I missed you, too.” 

A small smile blossoms across his face, the sight beautiful and stupefying. 

“I can’t help but notice you walked here with Inej Ghafa,” he starts and my alert senses begin to tingle. “Isn’t she a part of Kaz Brekker’s Crow Club?” 

“How do you know about that?” I ask before I can help myself.

“Anyone who is anyone knows about Kaz,” he responds, almost spitting his name. 

“Okay…” I begin, unease settling into my stomach like a stone. “But why do you?” 

“He has something I need.” 

The stone becomes a boulder. 

“Are you-” I stop, then start again. “You’re the one that this is for.” 

“If by “this”, you mean whatever scheme he is planning to trap me in, then yes.”

“But why? How do you even know him? Don’t you know who he is and what he does? What are you thinking going against Kaz?” I ask urgently, struggling to keep my voice low. 

He pins me to the chair with a dead look. “He has debts he needs to pay.” 

“You’re going vague again?” I shake my head, irritated with his bipolar intensity then flippancy. “You need to back down. Or you’re going to end up hurt.” 

A smirk tugs at his full lips, “Your lack of faith in me is really inspiring, Cataleya.” 

“It’s not that,” I retort, exasperated, crossing my arms. “Kaz is really powerful. With more networks and connections than you know. If you don’t stop whatever crusade you have on him, you’re the one that’s going to end up indebted.” 

He laughs this time, a full and deep laugh that surprises me. “Has he really dug his talons that deep in you? That you’ve forgotten how wide my own connections spread? How cunning I can be?” 

“We haven’t spoken in two years,” I respond, pettily. “I don’t know you at all anymore.” 

He leans forward, eyes incredibly dark and face serious. “You know that’s not true.”

I hold his stare, raising my eyebrows, feeling satisfied that I made my point. Alek reaches across the table and places his palm up on it in invitation. I can see the veins of his inner wrist, with dark ink snaking across the blue and disappearing under his shirt sleeve. He didn’t have any tattoos when I last talked to him. My fingers itch to push back the fabric and see them. His secrets. Like Kaz’s, they are so plain on his skin yet hidden through metaphors and signs. 

Licking my lips, I push out a breath and put my hand atop his, feeling his eyes follow mine to where the ink is displayed. Without saying anything, he pushes the sleeve of his shirt up his forearm, stopping at the inner crook of his elbow. 

Inhaling and holding, I blink at the constellation on the inside of his forearm. A night sky, swirling with black and dead space, with creatures in between zombies and ghosts with huge demon wings flying through it. There is a ship at the base of his wrist, a small stern gliding through dark sand, a tiny speck compared to the massive size of the creatures flying above it. It is dark and torturing and incredibly impassioned. I let the pads of my fingers drift softly up Alek’s arm, watching goosebumps form on his skin. 

“What are they?” I ask. 

“They’re called volcra,” Alek says. “Beings that live in darkness and are afraid of light. They feed on those who come into their path, who are unable to see or defend themselves in the black sea of sand.” 

“It’s so… intense.” I search for the right word to describe it, coming up short. 

“I want to remind myself to not be afraid of light. Of happiness. That the things that I may think make me weak, really make me strong. I need to find more light, to find my light. I have been full of darkness for a long time, Cataelya. I’ve lived in a thousand moments of it.” 

I tilt my head, fingers pressed into the inside of his elbow and looking up at him through my lashes. His eyes are trained to the spot where our skin is meeting, his lips parted and eyebrows furrowed a bit in the middle. I resist the urge to flatten it with my thumb, letting the wind and the sound of other students fill the silence between us. 

“You were the only light in my life for a long time,” I say to him, tracing the volcra’s deformed bodies with my index finger. “I had nothing. I had no one. You pulled me from that nothingness. From the darkness. And held me in your arms. Brought me up to somewhere better. Where I can hope. Where I can not only see light, but make my own. That is invaluable to me.” 

He catches my hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Can you help me, then? Can you bring me back my light, too?” 

My breathing stalls. I know what he’s asking from me. I know it’s more than just offering a flashlight through the tunnel. I know it’s more complicated than I can currently imagine. Alek stands up, coming around the table to kneel in front of my chair. Some students stare, wondering if they’re about to witness a proposal. I ignore them, keeping my eyes trained on Alek’s imploring gaze. I know in this moment, I will give him the world, the moon, and all of its stars. I will give him all of my sun and then some, I will summon everything I have to fill the darkest parts of him. 

He takes my face in his hands, palms impossibly soft on my cheeks. Subtly, slowly, I nod, watching his face break a part into a smile. Without pausing, Alek leans forward and kisses me. His lips are smooth and plush, completely stunning me into inaction as he runs his fingers along the sides of my throat. I sigh into his mouth, body realizing what is happening just as he is pulling away. Parting my lips, I stupidly sit in my chair as he gets up in one flowing movement.

Alek looks down at me with a smile. “I hope to see you soon then, Cataleya.” 

Just like that, he scoops up his book and walks away. Gone as quickly as he appeared. 

----

The room is completely aglow with light, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and candles lit around the room. Everything has a soft, burnt hue, like the room is on fire from below and the blaze is lighting the space. It must be the size of the University of Ketterdam quad, with hundreds of people talking, dancing, eating, and drinking. I recognize some students and faculty, but most are a blur of unfamiliar gowns and tuxedos. 

“They know how to throw a party,” Nik says appreciatively. 

“If they didn’t, no one would take them seriously.” Zoya retorts, leaving Nik’s side without so much as a glance to drift into the crowd. The smell of honey and sweet drinks spreads through the room, long tables lining either wall stacked with a massive spread. 

“That’s where I’ll be,” whispers Nina. 

I smile at her, gathering my dress in my hands and descending the few flat stairs to the main rooms. The floor is a beautiful tile, mosaics and colors that I can’t decipher flowing from the entry way beneath the mass of bodies. There is something magical about it all, something historic, like stepping into a time machine. The walls are lined with thick tapestries, with small halls leading into different areas of grandeur. I shouldn’t be surprised that wealth like this still exists, but every time I see it, I am. 

Scanning the space, I see Alek from across the ballroom, near one of the food tables, his gaze drifting across my body before a smile forms on his lips. He is wearing an all black suit, lapels crisp and smooth, with a single blood rose pinned above his heart. It mimics the read of my dress, the stain of my lips, the seduction in his eyes. He cocks his head slightly, dark hair falling over one of his beautifully arched eyebrows. 

I hold his stare, letting the bubbling pit of fire burn deeply in my stomach. The pit that forms when he looks at me, seated low and hot. The pit that would cackle and seethe if he would touch me, if his pale hands would settle on my hips and his lips would touch the shell of my ear, whispering sweet nothings and dirty everythings into my ear. Snaking my tongue between my lips, I watch as Aleksander tracks the motion, his posture straightening ever so slightly. 

And then Kaz is there. In my line of vision. 

The fire sputters out, replaced by something else. Something that grips my lungs and forces my heart to beat faster. His suit is a deep navy, bringing out the smooth pearl of his skin and accenting the night of his hair. He looks like a shooting star, dark and light at the same time. I wonder who picked it out for him, or if he selected it himself. I can’t imagine Kaz in a tailor’s shop, trying on suits and drinking bourbon with the upper elites with him. 

But then again, maybe I can. He is a business man after all. And great at faking it. 

Kaz catches my stare, tipping his head up in greeting before disappearing into the crowd. Nina and Nik dissolve from my side as well, going to observe and mingle before the drama begins. Alina is the only one left next to me, her golden dress sparkling in the chandelier light. She turns to me and sets her hand on my arm gingerly, sun earrings dangling from her ears. 

“Be careful,” she whispers. “He’s not who you think he is.” 

I open my mouth, about to ask her what she means before her hand is gone, and so is she. I watch her move into a group of people, hugging a man in a dark gray tuxedo from behind before giving him a kiss. Must be Mal. I don’t feel right, especially after what Alina said to me. I feel like something is amiss, but I don’t know what. 

I spot Kaz again, whispering something to Inej along the back wall. Her dark eyes drift to me, cementing the feeling in place. 

Alone, I cross the space to Alek. I had seen him twice since our fateful coffee date and both times had been very formal and full of business. Full of me trying to help him get his light back. Through some sort of grand scheme, it seems. One that required me to also recruit Nik, Alina, and Zoya to help Alek while seeming like they are helping Kaz. Sort of like a double agent, except I don’t know which side I want to be standing on at the end. 

“How are you?” Alek asks, tone casual to an untrained ear, but clipped enough for me to hear the true question behind his words. 

“Something’s wrong,” I respond under my breath before I loudly declare my happiness.

He lets his gaze linger on my face for a moment, schooling his features into neutrality. 

“Can you handle it?” 

“I’m not sure,” I admit, dropping my fake smile. “I might need help.” 

Vague enough, but he clearly gets the message, rolling his shoulders before giving me a dazzling grin. Alek reaches a long arm to stop the waiter passing by, grabbing two flutes of sparkling gold champagne and extending one to me. As if this is only our second time meeting. As if we both happened here by incident and he is looking to get lucky.

“I could never refuse such a beautiful woman.” 

I return his smile, throwing back the entire drink for some liquid courage. It tastes sweet and fizzy against my tongue, a faint acidity coating the roof of my mouth. Alek takes a long and thoughtful sip of his own champagne, much more graceful than me and folds my arm into the crook of his elbow. He begins to lead me from the ballroom, towards the Crow’s meeting spot. I look behind my shoulder, searching for their familiar faces. But all I see is Nina, already watching, her eyes focused intently on the joining of my arm with Alek’s while she pretends to listen to Nik, whose lips are moving with passionate fervor. Her mouth parts ever so slightly as she catches my eye. 

“Careful,” Alek mutters, forcing me to turn my head back in front of me. 

Dread and fear coil in my gut. I have never seen Nina look that way. I have never seen her look at me and not see me. I still don’t spot any of the other Crows at their reported positions around the room, where they were supposed to stay until I could get Alek alone and before I could lead Kaz to Alek and they could duel it out and I could decide who to side with then.

 I swallow, mind racing, trying to calm myself by believing that there’s a reason for their absence. 

 Alek seems to sense my trepidation, holding my arm a bit tighter as we meander from the crowded room into a near empty hallway. 

“Something’s wrong,” I repeat, trying to unravel everything quickly. Too quickly. 

Kaz, pushing everyone into this heist with such force. The others, more quiet than usual, less pressing for Kaz to give them details. Kaz, letting me teach him to drive, letting himself be vulnerable for me. Inej, barely talking to me a week into our plan. Nina, completely open and honest and warm until she saw me with Alek. Jesper, less happy than usual, less enthusiastic, more solemn and quiet, often excusing himself when I came into the room. And Wylan, always seeming to be off rekindling his relationship with his father. 

I didn’t need to help them with appearances at all. 

When fear arrives, something is about to happen. 

“It’s a trap,” I breathe, clenching my jaw and letting my stomach pit out inside of me. 

“I know,” Alek replies, cool and distant. 

My blood turns to ice. “What do you mean, “I know”?” 

He doesn’t respond, turning right down the hallway that leads to a back patio exit, and not to the left, to that private seating area where the Crows were supposed to be waiting. Alek increases his pace ever so slightly, giving me a glazed and lusted look when people come out of the rooms to pass us by, too high or drunk or exhausted to care. 

I try to stamp down the panic in my bones. How could I be so stupid? How could I get so caught up playing both sides that I didn’t see what was right in front of me? This is not the part where things are supposed to go wrong. I am supposed to get to choose. I am supposed to see them interact, gauge my feelings, myself, my words, and decide which side I want to be on. If I want to be a Raven or a Crow. If I want to be crime or creation. Of course, Alek is one step ahead. And so is Kaz. 

“We need to be more casual, less uptight,” Alek states as he pushes through the glass doors leading into the large mansion courtyard at the end of the corridor. “If any of them are watching, they’ll hurry things along if they sense we’re onto them.” 

“I think they already know,” I swallow, the night air turning cold and bitter. We hover on the cramped patio for a moment, not descending the small set of stone stairs into the gardens beyond. I can hear voices from inside, music drifting about, people laughing and heavy breathing from behind bushes. I wish I could have gone to this party with no other intentions than for fun. 

Maybe in a different life.  

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” Alek shrugs. 

And then I am up against the thin black railing behind me, Alek’s hands settling into the curve of my hips. I can feel his warmth through the satin of my dress, bleeding fire into my skin, my heart, my core. He licks his lips and pushes me tighter against him. Our bodies are flush in all of the right places; hard and soft in all of the right places. 

“Kiss me, Cataleya,” he baits me, voice low and raspy. 

He doesn’t have to say it twice. 

I surge forward, his lips plush and velvet against mine. He smells like winter, like snow and frosty tree branches and endless starry nights. I grew up with this smell, revelled in it, fell in love with it. His dark hair brushes against my forehead, the strands so soft and gentle in a way I had never known Alek to be. He is always pushing, moving, plotting. 

He reminds me of Kaz in that way. 

Kaz. 

Alek’s tongue slips along mine, sparks flying and thundering in my ears. Haven’t I wanted him like this for so long? Haven’t I imagined what this would feel like since our first kiss, being barely a peck? Haven’t I dreamed that he would want me? That he would have me in the way I desired? 

So why is this falling so flat now? 

Kaz. 

The voice reverberates through me, like a Crow picking from a dead body, peeling flesh from bone until I am stripped bare. My head begins to pound, a dull ache in the base of my skull. Alek runs his fingers up my bare arms, drawing goosebumps in his wake until I am shivering beneath him. 

“Cataleya,” he murmurs, deep and throaty. 

The old feeling returns, the burning desire, the expectant eyes. The little girl waiting for her master to approve. The little girl waiting for someone bigger, someone better, to grab her hand and drag her from the dirt. I feel ridiculous for not being able to squash it down, to tamper it. I don’t know if that feeling would ever die. The feeling of dependence. Of unworthiness. 

Alek seems as if he’s about to say something, but his head whips to the side. I follow the movement, the stone of dread in my stomach sinking deeper when I realize the courtyard has gone quiet around us. Not a single sound from behind the bushes, not a giggle or a whisper or a moan. Too quiet. The sound of death. 

The headache threatens to split my brain a part, eyes blurring as I watch Alek attempt to stumble down the stairs. He gets one step in before a figure blocks his path. My breathing becomes laborious, squinting through black spots clouding my vision before I can see who it is. 

Wylan. 

His suit is a forest green, dark velvet tailored for his tall lanky frame. The color perfectly offsets the ruddiness of his hair and his shoes are a deep brown leather, squeaky clean and new. Leave it to Kaz to outfit all of the Crows with his endless bank account. 

“I’m sorry,” Wylan says, face truly betraying some measure of regret. 

The pieces click together, like a lock sliding into place. 

He hasn’t been working with his father all these weeks. He has been working on something else entirely. Something that would take lots of time, lots of care, and lots of studying. When Nina said those things I thought she was talking about how he was mending the relationship with his father. She was not. And not just that, but his studies most likely required more than himself for success. Probably Leoni, the incredibly kind and intelligent biochemical engineering major who Kaz sometimes recruited for special missions that required more stealth, less blood. 

Wylan was studying poison. 

And we had ingested it from the champagne. 

----

My head is throbbing when I come to, the sound of a car engine roaring in my ears. I don’t know how I got here. All I remember is Alek, his hands on me, his warmth leaving me to spin me into the arms of someone else. The shaved hair, the deep brown eyes, the palor of his skin, the stability of his grip around my waist. Then Alek again, his lips on mine, my back against the wall.

 I force myself to swallow, trying to see anything through the blindfold at my eyes. I am still in my dress, the silk smooth on my skin, and I can feel the car coming to a stop as I struggle to find the strength to say something. 

My bones feel like liquid, muscles weak and shaking. But Alek had been the only one who offered me a drink, he had been the only one I trusted enough to gulp heartily. Wylan. I remember Wylan. Standing at the ledge of the stairs in the courtyard. Me and Alek. 

Poisoned. 

The car’s back door opens and I feel a rush of the cold night air as two gloved hands drag me by my feet from the vehicle and out onto the street. Dread coils in my stomach and my skin pricks with goosebumps, the cobble stones ripping at my exposed ankles and arms. After being dragged a few hundred feet, hissing at the burn of scapes and tearing on my skin from the uneven street, I am forced onto my knees.  I don’t feel right. Nothing feels right. Where is Kaz? 

As if in answer, the blindfold is yanked down my face from behind, my eyes blurring and struggling to adjust to the dark light of my surroundings. I am in an alley, wedged between two buildings built of collapsing brick. I can hear the faint whiz of cars, but in front of me is only a few hundred paces of the alleyway and then trees. I am not being brought here to talk. It’s too secluded. Too quiet. And the smell, bark and sap and something else… I clench my jaw. 

A shadow fills my periphery and I struggle to stay up on my knees as a figure takes shape in front of me. The navy suit, clean white shirt, the black leather gloves, the hard lines of his jaw and set of his eyes. I know why I am here. I know what this is. His stare is furious, rage and ice and merciless vengeful eyes boring into mine. 

He made the choice for me.

“Kaz,” I rasp, voice cracking and broken. 

He snarls at his name from my mouth, shoving me up into the nearest building. I stumble in my heels, his movements fast and forceful enough to drive my back into the wall with no problem. The rough edges of the brick dig into my back, clawing at my skin. This is nowhere near the last experience I had against a wall, with Alek. Caressing me, kissing me, igniting me. I try to stay calm. I try to think. But all I can see is Kaz’s face in front of me, burning with hatred and disdain as he rams me harder into the unforgiving bricks. 

I try to hold in my scream as a knife plunges into my side from one of the roofs above, deep and intense pain bursting through me. I don’t know who threw it, I don’t know how many of them are up there and how many stayed behind. I don’t know how long they’ve been in on it, I don’t know if Kaz has been aware the entire time. But I do know that now he knows, they all do. And that I won’t be leaving here alive. 

I can’t move enough to take the knife from my side, the hilt small, but the blade curved and lodged deep above the bone of my hip. Blood seeps through my dress, the red becoming impossibly darker, and the drip drip of the liquid pings against the stone street as it runs down my legs. It’s the only sound between us besides my ragged breathing, pained and desperate. 

“This was all a test of loyalty,” he says evenly. “You failed.”

And I would die for it. 

Kaz’s hands close around my throat, gaze steely and intent. I try not to panic, my jaw locking and lungs constricting with the pressure of his grip. The warmth of the blood continues spreading and soaking through my side, red and sticky and filling my nostrils with the scent of copper. I can already barely breathe, trying and failing to make it through the pain. It makes sense how loose Kaz’s lips had been with me, all the questions he had asked to try and taunt me, to reveal my relationship to Alek, how he let me teach him; he thought I would be a dead woman soon. And dead women don’t spill secrets. Or give lessons beyond the grave.

“We knew it was you all along,” Kaz says in my face, tone even as he chokes me. “Funny. You didn’t even know he was here until we flushed him out for you. Until we set up that date and watched you become the person we suspected you were. Until you crawled back to him and pretended he was the only light in the pit of darkness that’s been your life.” Kaz’s gloved fingers are hot against my pulse and his hair is falling down his forehead, sides freshly shaved. I can see every prick of stubble along his chin, see the muscles feathering in his jaw. I’ve never been this close to him before. Not even in the car. A day that felt so long ago. Like a lifetime. 

“Don’t you know why we scouted you in the first place? We knew he would try to ruin us from the inside out and use you to do it, it was only a matter of time. But that game can be played by both sides.” His voice is low, a snarl that roars in my ears, my side throbbing. “Nikolai, Alina, Zoya… you thought that you were bringing in new recruits to then turn against us. We had them first. They were always Crows, not one of Aleksander Morosova’s ravens. They have even more of a reason to want revenge on him than I do. And I’ll bet they’re being even less pleasant with him than I am with you right now.” 

A pit burns inside of me, low and feral, deepening with each of his words. 

“But even before that, I wanted you.” 

And I know, at the tenor of his voice, it’s not the kind of want that I would ever seek. At how his voice drops, so no one else can possibly hear, that I will not like what he is going to say. 

“I wanted you the moment I saw you and your father’s face in the news. When I heard what he did to your mother even though no one would believe he could have done it. I knew he did.” He is seething, spitting on me as he goes on. “I knew that he was capable of ordering violence. Of committing it and buying people’s silence. I could see it in his eyes, I could see it in the way he held you against him. Possessive and consuming.”

I have gone completely still, the very blood in my veins seeming to stop, the pulsing at my side ebbing into a dull ache. His words are in a bubble, trapped between our lips. Each syllable pops and rebuilds it, over and over. Trapping me, over and over. 

“I didn’t leave the day they came to kill Jordie.” He continues, “I thought something was wrong, for him to force me out the way he did. I hid on the roof of our building and climbed down the stairs of the fire escape a few hours later. Then I saw him. Your father. Positioning my brother’s body on our couch, I saw him take the bloodied knife and place it on the floor, beneath Jordie’s fingers. I watched as he cleaned off any fingerprints, stole away any evidence. He had no blood on him and by the two men that stumbled onto the street and disappeared down an alley, I knew he hadn’t done the actual act...

“But what’s worse? Following an order for murder or sanctioning it?” 

I feel tears slipping down my cheeks, dropping like flies on Kaz’s gloves. 

“I followed him. Learned everything I could. I learned that he had been involved with an underground drug operation for decades. That my parents had been in debt with them due to some bad decisions in my dad’s twenties. And that your father had been sent to collect or kill. To send a message to the other debtors. Little did your father know that the victims had two children, that they escaped. And that they would be coming for him.” 

The air around me turns infinitely colder, everything still and quiet except Kaz’s voice. 

“I watched you too.” He continues, fingers losing their grip a bit on my throat. “I watched to see who you would be. If we would indeed become enemies, as our parents were. I observed you grow with Morosova, how he controlled you, how he led you away all those years, how he kept you quiet and kept you in the dark so you would never find out the truth and be killed, like your mother was.” 

His words stab me deeper than the knife, my heart in ribbons. Hearing him confirm my darkest fears unleashes the worst parts of me, the parts I tried so hard to keep hidden. Terrified. Insecure. Silent. Obedient. The little girl with an abusive father and dead mother. I hadn’t been her in so long, but Kaz is stripping me down. Shredding me. 

 Kaz’s voice drops lower, as if he’s telling me a horrible secret. “He knew about it, Cataleya. Aleksander,” he purrs the name like a curse, “he knew everything. His father was one of the men your father ordered to kill Jordie. Who was a part of the team dispatched to eradicate those who didn’t pay, eradicate my parents. Your parents were working together, how fitting that you and Aleksander would, as well. Fate is funny that way.” 

The world shatters around me, broken and splintering into a million pieces. Alek knew. He sat there and listened to me while I cried about my mother, how I had desperately wanted his help to look into what happened. He had warned me to want anything was to give myself up. That the only way for me to find peace was to move forward and never look back. That if I continued to want for closure, I would never find it.

 “The problem with wanting is that it makes us weak.” He had said, over and over. 

How ironically true that had become. 

Kaz isn’t done. He continues to pick at me, the Crow in him unable to stop, his dark eyes burning with hate. “Where your own father failed, Aleksander’s father succeeded. He remembered seeing pictures in my house, of me and of Jordie. He remembered that there were two boys. And when I killed him by placing a bomb under his car to be rigged as an oil problem, his son stepped into the role to finish what his father started. To silence me too. But he didn’t and for me, for Jordie, I swore I would destroy them, brick by brick.” 

My breathing is coming out in short rasps, eyes blurred with tears of anger and embarrassment and white hot pain. I have been played. So horribly. By everyone in my life. Lied to. By every single person I had known. Even Alek. Alek, who had been the one person I thought would save me. Would be the one in the end to stand by me, to see me, to understand me. But he didn’t. He never did. He used me. Just like my father did. To be a sweet, obedient girl. 

In the few months I had known Kaz, he has seen more of me than Alek ever did. 

All we ever wanted, me and Alek and Kaz, was to feel safe and be loved. But we never trusted anyone enough to be either. So we fought and resisted and pushed. Into darkness. 

A whistle sounds from above, quick and melodic. Inej. Signaling Kaz that he needs to hurry. That enough is enough. But I can see it in his eyes. The hardness. The black pits of revenge and hatred and loathing he feels when he looks at me. It would never be enough. This retribution that he savored for years will never last as long as he wishes it to. I want to wither away into nothing under his stare. Not enough. Not his. Never his. Never a Crow.

“I know you love him,” he whispers so none of the others lurking can hear. “I know he’s the one who saved you. But he used you, Cataleya. He controlled you. You could’ve been so much better, so much bigger. It’s a shame the apple never falls far from the tree.”

I wish it had been you to save me instead. I think, shoving the words down my constricted throat. Maybe if it were Kaz, all those years ago, then things wouldn’t have gotten so messed up. Then maybe I would have been more like Inej, graceful, strong, full of more purpose than what Alek gave me. Maybe I could have meant something. To someone. To the Crows. 

But Kaz didn’t find me. Alek did. Alek led me from the garden and held my hand. Alek stroked my hair and told me it would be okay. That I would be okay. Alek raised me to be unforgiving, to scheme and stab people in the back to fill the empty hole in my life. Control. Kaz had said. How he controlled me. How he deceived me. With love. Love. Fake. Love. Fake love. I want to cry or scream at all of them, shaking with rage. I have been a pawn this whole time. 

“We are all controlled by something.” I push out, my voice weak. 

I try to swallow and fail at the reapplied pressure of Kaz’s palms, drool and spit bubbling from my lips. The alley wall is hard against my back, the night sky black and endless above me. The smog cover is so thick I can’t see the stars, despite the bright spots beginning to dance in my vision. I feel something prick at my spine with the pressure of my position like a silent reminder, mind sharpening and resolve strengthening. Love or no love. I have to finish what I started. I have to complete my assignment. Even if it isn’t one from Kaz. 

Even if it is from a liar. 

Lies are all I have known. 

All I have to hold on to. 

I can’t be saved. From darkness. My own or from others. I have waded too deep, gone too far. I may not be a true Raven, but I am definitely not a Crow. No matter how much I wish I could be. No matter how much I came to appreciate them, to care for them, to trust them. 

Trust is the most dangerous weapon of all. 

Slipping my hands behind my back as if I am trying to scramble against the wall, I reach for the cool metal of the blade attached along the zipper of my dress, letting out a choking cry to cover the unsheathing of my knife. The movement burns my side, ripping open my wound further to pour more blood. It runs over Kaz’s dress shoes, stains my legs. I am losing it too quickly, too much of it ebbing from me at once. Kaz’s hands press harder to my throat, forcing me, willing me, begging me to die now that his speech is over. I know he doesn’t enjoy this. I know he doesn’t relish in murder. Neither do I. 

But love is love.

Control is control. 

And business is business. 

Kaz would agree on that. 

“If I’m going down, Kaz,” I begin, voice barely a whisper. “You’re coming with me.” 

Without wasting another second, I shove the tip of my knife deep between Kaz’s ribs, watching his face contort in pain and dark eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then furrow in agony. Almost immediately, I hear a scream tear from somewhere on the roofs above and feel a pang of sorrow course through me. Inej just watched me stab the love of her life. Inej, the strong, graceful warrior who had been through more than all of us. She had screamed. Wailed.

I hear her words echo around my brain. The autumn leaves. Her cream sweater. The weight of her stare. “Some people just can’t be saved. But we love them anyway.”  

My sight falters.

 Kaz’s grip on my neck loosens, then completely disappears as he stumbles back and I fall towards the concrete without him holding me in place. An arrow pierces my shoulder from above, Jesper no doubt. With that incredible skill for landing true. The impact pushes me forward into Kaz’s already falling body, his white tux shirt now stained with blood. 

The world spins, my head making hard contact with the street. 

“This action will have no echo.” The rough words leak from Kaz’s lips, voice faint and faraway. If I could cry now I would, remembering the meaning of those words that Inej had told me just days ago. We would repeat nothing now. No more harm. To ourselves or others. This is our repentance. Our forgiveness.

Kaz is close to me, for I can feel the warmth of his body and the slick of his blood as it mixes with mine and stains the concrete.

If someone told me nine years ago, when I buried that cat and found my mother buried instead, that this is where I would end up, I wonder how differently my life would have been. I wonder if I would have chosen a different path. One full of forgiveness and happiness. The one of creation instead of crime. Instead of revenge and retribution. The weight of those decisions hang over me like a cloak, protecting and exposing me at the same time. Using the last bits of my strength, I turn my head to the side to look at him. 

Kaz is on his back beside me, so close that I can reach out and touch him. Touch his hand that is limp with resignation, his side that is red with blood, his lips that are white with death. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. Even as a small line of blood trickles from the corner of his lips and pings onto the stones. I let my eyes close, pretending the stars behind my eyelids belong to the sky and not to the Grim Reaper. Pretending the stars are his eyes.

We’ve all had hard lives. We’ve all taken on assignments that were too big for us. We’ve all done things we regretted and we all leaned on each other too much for our own good while leaning on no one at all. We all let the ghosts of our pasts haunt us into our future. Especially Kaz. And that’s the problem with trusting ghosts, in the end you become one. 

You become transparent, empty, without an echo. 

“No mourners.” I manage to mumble into the night. 

“No funerals.” A disembodied voice murmurs back, but I’m not sure who it belongs to. 

And then there is nothing but darkness. 

---

~Admin Eggplant

#gvbb #gvbb20 #gvbb creation #grisha #grishaverse #grishaverse big bang #grishaverse fic #six of crows #crooked kingdom #shadow and bone #seige and storm #ruin and rising #king of scars #leigh bardugo #the darkling #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #alina starkov #matthias helvar #aleksander morozova #six of crows fic #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky #leoni hilli #new york #modern au #fluff

[highviewsmoved]

⁂ shigaraki tomura x reader. (old god shigaraki & female reader)  ❝ gods cannot love mortals. ❞

Similar to the seasons, death changes.

There are whispers of an ancient deity that descends when it is someone's time to go. Who appears when men fall in war, in sickness or in their own beds rattling their last breath.

The name of his is unspoken, for he has wandered the earth for years, collecting souls, leaving death and destruction in his wake. An omen of some kind, similar to the caw of a crow. He will exist.

He will be there and he will wait.

Death himself comes for her in early autumn, when the trees are bare, the branches similar to skeletal fingers pushing up from the earth; the leaves stuck wet to the ground after a morning of rain.

She is cleaning, yukata rolled to her legs and sleeves tied in tasuki to keep from getting wet from the splash of water. It was simple, an easy mistake. She suddenly missteps when she goes back to refill the bamboo tub, falling in head first into the freezing stream.

The locals, the people in her village warned her the water is vicious for its current. The current had stolen a child not too long ago, the mother’s wailing echoes could still be heard throughout the mountain. Water fills her lungs, suffocating her, as her head knocks against a rock.

She is now at the mercy of the beast, and she hopes the river deity will spare her. When she resurfaces much later she has blacked out, unknowing what or who had saved her.

She remembers the abyss; white and red.

And the face of a man who crumbles.

--

Her mother tells her she lived because he had spared her.

“Who, mother?”

“Death,” she says simply. “He can be merciful.”

She listens carefully while the porridge cooks, the smell delicious. She grips the rag between her fists tightly, and she thinks she has seen the face of death. He is very similar to a human.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “Is he always alone?”

Mother is quiet for sometime, she’s not sure she may have heard her. Until she finally responds. “Yes, always.”

--

She sees death when he takes the soul of an old man in her village, the grieving of the family being heard as others come out of their huts to see the mourning, and she sees him.

Death is there, and he comes with the snow in winter, so unlike when he comes in spring or in summer. The frost creeps into her lungs, as she watches him, holding firewood close to her chest.

The old man by his side as Death looks at her, his spider lily eyes holding hers, as if enchanted; and she feels the tickle of snow on her cheek.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy. How many more people will he leave with?

--

Death stumbles upon her; she is kneeling, gazing up at the old chestnut tree, and when he hears her calling he comes. She has believed in him.

“Do you take away my people?” She asks him, her hands on her thighs, talking to this deity who has been known for so long. The tale whispers about him being the one who appears when death and destruction are at bay. In the middle of battlefields, always by a sea of corpses he steps through. She is not afraid of him, perhaps she should be.

The branches shiver, light splaying through.

He is there and he does not speak.

Her voice shakes, her fists tightening. The feeling of pain gripping her throat. “Where do you take the dead?”

Tomura responds, in a tone crisp like winter. “Home.”

--

His voice is the hiss of a snake, coiled deep around her throat; a warning. “This is a small mercy.” He had been there when the cliff near her almost swept her away, he had come just in time as she thought of him. He had heard her heart.  

She cannot deny him, it is true that all the chances he has given her have been at best, luck. Or maybe it is him saving her. This she does not want to believe. He has saved her many times but has not spared her people. She should despise him.

Her voice is steel and iron, “you have given me many.”

He looks at her, taken aback as if she had slapped him. She exposes him like a wound, she realizes this much too late.

“The last time,” he reminds her, tone poisonous.

--

She has not seen him since the leaves have changed and at dawn he comes to her, underneath the large chestnuts. The wicker basket has fallen, she cannot bear to look.

“Who have you come for?” Her question is lost in the breeze, tears wet against her cheeks.

She is tired of fighting, of trying to fight off death himself (she has not fought him, she has welcomed him) who has come every time the season changes and for the people in her village. For the people she loves.

He has come anyway. Despite no one believing in him, praying to him; except for her and her mother. She hoped he would listen.

“Do not ask such things if you wish to not know the answer,” his tone is cold but his eyes burn against her back; skin prickling at the heat.

She exhales heavily, breath shuddering. She has cried for hours knowing her mother's time is soon. Deep in her heart she has known he will come anyway.

“Please,” she cries gently, then with much more pain, “please don’t take her away.”

Tomura cannot hold her to that. No more. It is time. “You know already.”

Her chin quivers, trying so hard to be strong. “Then answer me this, when will you take her?”

He thought it was obvious enough, but he will give her what she asks. Only this time; always this time.

“At dawn.” Then with much more promise, “I am coming for her at dawn.” If it is this morning or the next or the next. She does not know.

--

She remembers the first time she saw his face, covered in a mess of hair, bright and glowing like starlight. His eyes redder than the spider lilies that bloom across the meadows. They say the meaning behind those flowers is rebirth, to say goodbye. He is clad in all black, the fabric wrapping around him tattered from travel.

“What is your name?” Her knees are touching soft grass beneath her, dewy from the morning. Her heart pounds considerably louder when his footsteps have quieted.

“Tomura,” it is said like a breeze, so gentle that it carries.

She swallows, curious about his name, so she speaks it and the tree branches bend against the power it holds. Leaves fall changing to brown. The wind howls quietly, slipping by through her hair and face.

“Why have you come here, Tomura?” The wind swirls above.

He approaches, shadowed by the shade. “I come to know.”

“Know? Of what?” She turns her head in a peculiar way, eyes full of wonder. How odd for a deity to make themselves known to a human. So many times this god of death and destruction has done this. So many times he has hid in the shadows of mourning.

“Of things I seek and do not understand.”

Her heart trills like a songbird.

“Am I something you seek and do not understand?”

It is brave to ask such things, the temperature has dropped considerably and the birds have stopped singing. Everything has grown quiet, even the god near her.

“Yes,” and he is gone, she turns quickly to see and notices the patch of brown earth where he stood, the lush green that surrounded him, had paid the price.

--

She has prayed to Tomura, the god of death and destruction to protect her people, he has not forsaken them. He has saved them despite the bitter feeling of grief still anew. The loss of her mother, the old man, and so many more. All of it is painful. Living is painful.

Home, he had said. He takes them to a place where they can rest peacefully is what he promised, but she cannot help but wonder if he had created this, or if this was how life always is.

Death is a cycle.

--

She dreams of a large hand, of a wasteland surrounding her; she wanders the terrain filled with nothing, and she sees him. White hair and dark cloak billowing in a wind she cannot feel.

“Tomura?” She calls, and he does not turn, he stands there. When she reaches him he has slowly become dust, withering in the wind, sweeping past her.

She is suffocating from the particles as it wraps around her. She awakens, the fire put out in her home, smoke rising, the fabric of her bedding stuck to her sweaty body. She knows what her dream is about.

He will soon be gone.

--

“Will you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I fade away.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She runs to him, closing the distance, her embrace is tight against him, he can feel her heartbeat. Her time ticking slowly away.

She will die of old age. He will die because he loved.

She breathes close; warm breath near his ear, and he sighs. He has dreamed of this. Tomura’s mind goes elsewhere during nights away. He has always dreamed of her.

Her soul he has spared, slowly collecting the surrounding ones. She knew this, yet here she is, with him.

He is feared and known. She is a human.

Gods cannot love mortals.

“Live for me,” she gasps against him. “Fight and live,” she begs, her body shaking with guilt. She has unknowingly brought his end.

“I cannot.”

“What can I give you in exchange? My soul?” He exhales, sounding close to a laugh, a smile cracking his lips.

“I will not allow that exchange.”

She pulls away, eyes filled with bitter tears, and she has never looked more brilliant than ever. She is alive.

He longs to touch her like he has often wished of doing.

So he does. Fingers, crumbling slowly; he touches her cheek, and she is so surprised to find it warm; soothing like the summer sun.

She leans into it, wishing she could have this moment forever.

“Your name—“ she stops, then touches his face, his hair, his lips. Caressing all of him.

“Tomura means to mourn,” he says, eyes glittering.

“I will mourn you, yes,” she promises, his arms wrap around her waist, hands moving towards her shoulder blades. How long has he lived without this? Centuries. Her lips brush close to his temples, “but I will love you always.”

Tomura leans in close, foreheads pressed together, lips breadths apart.

“And I you.”

--

She awakens in the forest holding nothing but black fabric.

--

When it is her time to go from this earth, she is old and weary. She had grandchildren, marrying a kind farmer who passed before her. In her seat she stares out where the chestnut trees stand tall, woven in branches.

The blossoms from nearby waft in the wind. It is her time to go, she grips the piece of black fabric she has held onto.

She closes her eyes, and she rests peacefully, her heart stuttering to a halt.

The way it is painless, as it wraps around her; darkness is not as the stories say; it is not unforgiving. The tunnel of light she moves through as she is back in the wasteland from a dream she had years ago.

Tomura stands tall, cape billowing in a windless desert. She gasps, tears streaming down her face as he is turned to her. Not like the dream of where he seemed so far, but now he is so close.

She goes to him, embracing him once more.

“Welcome back,” she says against his chest, he holds her tightly, no longer crumbling.

“I have been here and I have waited,” his voice is still rough like wood being scraped.

He wraps her close, his hands still warm like sunlight, hair bright and eyes similar to spider lilies.

“You are human?” She asks, pulling away to look at him, eyes searching his features, he still looks the same since the last time she saw him all those years ago.

“Deities are born from humans,” he states, “we are one and the same.”

Her tears are wiped gently with his thumb, fingers gliding across her neck and collarbone. This closeness he has missed.

She grabs his hand and presses her lips to each finger. Tomura no longer takes, he has given and given until her soul found his. They were born for this moment, she no longer hears the sorrowful noise of cicadas in the summer sun, silence has never felt more welcoming.

It is not harsh or lonesome, they have one another.

“I kept a part of you with me,” she confesses against his cheek, and his hands glide down her back, the feeling of her he has craved for years since he left.

He keeps her so close that they could become one. “And you can continue to do so, as long as you stay with me,” he murmurs.

Her breath fans his hair as she brushes her fingers through the locks. “Always and forever.” She is finally home with him.

The promise between god and human has been made, and they stay like this for eternity.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #bnha imagines

[thenightisland]

Your voice is gone now; I hardly hear you. Your starry voice all shadow now and the earth dark again with your great changes of heart.

And by day the grass going brown in places under the broad shadows of the maple trees. Now, everywhere I am talked to by silence

so it is clear I have no access to you; I do not exist for you, you have drawn  a line through my name.

In what contempt do you hold us to believe only loss can impress your power on us,

the first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies - 

When you go, you go absolutely, deducting visible life from all things

but not all life, lest we turn from you.

- Louise Gluck, “Vespers”

#louise gluck #the wild iris #booklr #poetry #books #loss #lilies #vespers #karen liveblogs books #poetry blogging 2020

[adrasteiax]

the first rains of autumn shaking the white lilies—

Louise Glück, from Vespers in “Poems 1962-2012″

#poetry #louise glück #vespers #poems 1962 2012 #literature #poem #lit #from my collection

[dat-town]

how to un-break a heart?

Characters: Mino & You

Setting: slice of life

Genre: angst

Summary: “If I read our story backwards, it's about how I un-broke your heart, and then we were happy until one day, you forgot about me forever.” ― Joseph Gordon-Levitt, The Tiny Book of Tiny Stories, Vol. 1

Words: 2k

Merry Christmas @lily-blue​ dear! ♥

Snow was falling heavily outside with the sweet scent of mulled wine lingering around when you saw his name flashing on your phone's screen. You knew you shouldn't take that, not with your fragile heart on the line, tongue wanting to dance back on those reckless words. You didn't only break his heart but smashed your own in your fist as well. Realistically speaking, in the long run, it was still better this way, you tried to convince yourself.

But was it really?

The bed felt too big, too empty and too cold without him and you were lying down, lifeless, watching the swirling snowflakes through your bedroom's window. The fairy lights, forgotten there from Christmas made everything so lovely. Ironically pretty while it stirred up memories too: playful, tipsy kisses shared under a mistletoe and watching stupid movies while cuddled up. But it didn't take long and bitter memories came back to haunt you as well: stupid arguments about the tree decorations, the Christmas party his parents had and tears ruining your makeup when he just looked at you with a resigned sigh, giving up on you and whispered Fine after you told him you wanted to break up.

The screen went dark just like the dancing flame of hope extinguished in your chest, swiftly and irreversibly, and your nails dug into the pillow under your head soaked with your salty tears. You hated yourself for the rush of feelings taking you under when the phone lit up again, his name written there engraving the syllables into your mind once again. And you made the mistake; you took it, lifting the device to your ears with shaking hands.

“Minho...” you started but your voice cracked before you could have scolded him for calling. You heard party music from there and shouting and him panting as if he had been running. Maybe he did.

"Baby…" he hiccuped and although it was a pathetic little sound, your sensitive heart churned still. He sounded drunk and desperate. He sounded like he missed you. "Can't we… go back to spring?" he asked so hopelessly and then the line went silent.

You haven’t heard from him ever since, not even when the season of withering and eternal snow has passed. You had only seen your trace in his art and yet, you were too proud to call and tell him that you wished flowers bloomed again (in your heart too).

Saying I love you had always been hard on you. The words tasted heavy in your mouth and you didn't like the weight.

But it seemed so easy to Minho, he kept saying it, murmuring it into the crook of your neck, into the coconut scented waves of your hair, kissing his way down your blade bones and biting your earlobe. He confessed over every mug of shared coffee in the morning and when he pulled you closer on the colder autumn nights, pressing kisses onto the exposed skin of your shoulders while holding you oh so close. He made it seem so easy and uncomplicated, he made the word 'love' lose its meaning because he told you even after your arguments and petty fights when you were still mad at him. He told you under the pouring rain and among colourful leaves of fall when he made you laugh in the middle of the streets. He told you when you got a promotion and he said he was proud but you could see it in his deep dark eyes that he wasn't genuinely happy about your stricter work hours and busier schedule. You blamed it on him being an artist, always so free, a bird not belonging into a cage and you hoped your embracing arms wouldn't become one of those metal jails and yet, maybe it was him who put you under pressure. Expectations you couldn't live up to made you feel like a disappointment, and what did he love in you then if not the girl you actually were? And since when did love had such conditions?

Doubts poisoned your heart more and more and nobody seemed to notice than something was inevitably wrong. All of your friends loved him, your mother was charmed and even though your father didn't think art could provide a stable income he quite liked him as well. They kept asking you about him, inviting him over to every family event of programs and sometimes you wished you could take a breather.

He loved you so much, why couldn't you love him back the same? There must have been something wrong with you because nobody had ever made you feel like the way he did and yet it wasn't enough? Because to love was to give your all, bare, flawed, willing and yet, you started asking yourself whether it was worth it. Almost eight months into your relationship you had felt as if it was wearing down on you like eight years. You could feel the storm coming. That heavy argument on that rainy night was just a prelude.

"Oh baby, I told you to take an umbrella with you, didn't I?" he greeted you as soon as you crossed the threshold, drenched, hair wet and your shoulders shaking a bit. You had a shitty day, you didn't need him preaching but you didn't want to snap at him for caring, so you let him hush you into the bathroom and took the steaming hot cup of coffee once you were wrapped in a fluffy blanket on your couch.

"Stop it," you murmured under your nose.

"What? I– I didn't do anything…"

"You baby me. You treat me like a child just because I'm forgetful and clumsy. It makes me feel like I'm your responsibility or some shit and not your girlfriend. It sucks," you spat, knuckles turning white from the force you grabbed onto the soft material of the blanket.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Minho apologized immediately, too soon to your liking as if he wasn't even thinking it through. Maybe that was the main problem.

"Exactly. You never mean stuff," you blamed it all on him. But most of all for saying I love you too much, making it lose its meaning.

That cold, rainy November night was the first when he slept on the couch and disappeared in the morning before you could say sorry. But it wasn't the last.

Summer was scorching hot that year. Sweat-covered bodies lying together over the duvet hoping for some breeze coming from the fan after the aircon broke at your place. The sweet taste of icy strawberry smoothies lingered in your mouth and your hands stroke down the expanse of tattoos over Minho's chest. You liked tracing the inked lines feeling goosebumps forming under your eager fingertips and watching that smile he flashed at you, in moments like this you always thought things couldn't have been more perfect.

"What about a day trip to somewhere next weekend? We could visit a beach," he suggested out of the blue but it painted a soft smile over your swollen lips.

During summer you had tons of free time next to your part-time job, even took up an occasional journalist job writing when you found the topic of the next release up to your liking. Minho told you that you should have spent more time writing, finding a full-time job based on that instead of the administrative one you had currently. He liked to read your stuff, be it a short story or a semi-academic article about rhetorics in k-pop MVs. On one hand it was flattering how much belief he had in you but on the other, it caused you distress because it wasn't that easy. He chose art, a risky way, but he had already found sponsors with his talent, so he spoke easily but writing was different. So you always hushed his encouragement away.

"Okay, let's do that. Where to?" you looked up at him with a wide smile, eyes sparkling from excitement.

"Dunno. Anywhere is fine as long as it's with you," he said so casually that you had the urge to bury your face into your hands.

"Eww, that's cheesy. Don't say that," you shook your head giggling, turning your body to reach for your phone on the bedside table.

Back on your stomach, nuzzling close to him, you opened up the browser, scanning through the map to find a good destination. Though it was hard to concentrate on the task at hand with his artist fingers drawing skillful patterns on your bare back. On days like this, in moments like this, it was so easy to be (in love) with him.

It was a heavily flower-scented spring, the cherry blossoms just bloomed, painting the streets of Seoul all shades of pink. One could breathe in the season of rebirth even through the thick smog over the metropolis. However, you had rather breathed words and art, bathing in culture at its finest, wondering of whys as if you could find the answer of the universe in a drop of pigment.

“You have been standing there for quite a while,” a deep voice noted startling you out of your daze, making you turn your head towards the source on instinct only to find a young, tall, handsome man next to you. You liked to think you had an eye for beauty and you could see it painted in his features. He wasn't pretty or ugly, he wasn't flawless or artificial. There was some raw strength in the sharp lines of his features but there was undeniable softness in the caramel brown of his eyes.

“Ah yeah. I try to figure this one out,” you collected yourself quickly, looking back at the abstract portrait of a woman.

“What about it?” The guy only a few years older than you asked, curiosity taking a hold of him. You didn't mind, you liked talking about art.

“It has such happy colours and yet it's just so sad. A mess of emotions really,” you explained the cause of your confusion as well as the reason of your awe. It was interesting how an artist using the bright colours of the Sun and fire and flowers could emphasis such raw sorrow just because of the facial expression and the painting technique alone.

“Are you here alone?” the stranger asked and it tugged on the corner of your mouth.

“Nah, I came with a friend but she ditched me to talk with the curator,” you shrugged because you didn't really mind wandering around all by yourself. And apparently, you weren't alone anymore as you looked up at the guy to introduce yourself, so he could match a name with the strange obsession about paradoxical art.

“I'm Minho, or Mino as my friends call me. Glad to meet you,” he smiled down at you and his eyes narrowed cutely from the motion. However, your attention snapped back to the painting, or more precisely the little white card next to it, displaying the title and the name of the artist.

“You… wait! Is this your painting?” Your jaw dropped as you looked up at him. You couldn't help but found his laugh endearing.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, ruffling his hair before clearing his throat. "What do you say? Wanna grab a coffee and talk about stuff like my art while you wait for your friend?"

You didn't even have to think. You just smiled, having a good feeling about it, feeling that he could become someone you can't forget easily.

And oh' how right you were, not knowing the weight of its consequences, the heartbreak and sadness after all the happy memories. A mess of emotions really, just like his painting and hell, how much you wished that you could go back, back to spring, to mend both of your hearts.

#stories #mino scenarios #mino imagines #winner scenarios #winner imagines #song mino #mino angst

[yotsubanoclover]

The Promise of Happiness

After all of this is over, let’s be happy together - the two of us.

Entry for @saeranchoiweek day 1 - Seasons 💕

Isn’t there anything I can do for him? You murmur to yourself, standing by the kitchen counter. Tiptoeing, you watch as Saeran continues working. The sound of mouse clicking fills the otherwise silent night. Sometimes you can hear him murmuring as he speaks in low but clear voice to whoever is on the other side of the call - perhaps it is Jumin, Jaehee, or someone from the C&R Intelligence Unit.

Shaking your head slightly, you heave a long sigh. You have nowhere near the computer skill he has, nor do you know anything about hacking, so you cannot help him with whatever he’s doing right now. Still, your chest feels tight imagining he has to work throughout the whole night, not getting even a wink of sleep.

He did say he wanted something sweet, you thought to yourself as you grab the mug you prepared for him with both hands. The warmth is comforting. And I wanted to make him something warm - with this, he gets both. You smile at the thought and begin walking towards the sofa where Saeran is working. He is so engrossed at his task that he doesn’t even notice you are there until you put the mug in front of him.

“Oh.” He looks at the mug, then at you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even notice you coming.”

“I thought you’d be hungry.” You hand him the mug. The sweet aroma coming from the chocolate seems to release his tensions, as well. “I’m sorry this is all I could manage.”

He seems more relaxed he takes his first sip. “Thank you.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Never better.” He takes another sip before offering the mug to you. “Here, have some, too.”

You blush, but take a sip anyway. Immediately your body feels warmer. “Are you sure you can’t rest at all?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “I need to find out where they might hide my brother.”

“You had to carry me all the way here, too.” You look down at your bandaged, sprained ankle from falling down on the way here. “I’m worried you’ll faint.”

To your surprise, Saeran takes your hand and pats the top of your head. “You’re worrying for me that much - I’ll be fine. Is your ankle better?”

You nod, pursing your lips to a pout.

“Hey.” He takes your chin with one hand, making you face him. “I’ll be fine. Rather, you should be the one to sleep.”

Shaking your head, you stand up, squeezing his hand once before retreating back to the kitchen. Of course, you have to stop Saeran from helping you. You’re still limp, but it doesn’t hurt as much as before. Before long, you return with a thick blanket you happen to find in the kitchen cabinet. You stop short with flushed face, before snuggling with him as you put the blanket over the two of you.

He tenses up, before relaxing again, taking your hand in his.

“I’ll stay with you,” you tell him. “Is that okay?”

He looks away, red to the ears. “O-of course.”

The two of you stay like that, snuggled up, as Saeran continues working. You nearly doze off so many times, waken up by the beeping sound coming from the laptop once in a while. You watch as Saeran’s eyes light up every time the computer beeps, as if he’s found something, but then his shoulders would slump back down a moment later.

The monitor beeps yet again. “I found him.” His voice is like a sigh.

You lean forward, closer to the monitor, hoping to see something. Though, as expected, you understand none of the things you see. Past the complicated codes, you notice there is a picture of a rundown house on the monitor.

“You did it!”

“I did it...” He looks your way, relieved. “I should send this to the Intelligence Unit.”

It didn’t even take a minute - Saeran closes his laptop shut, standing up, and offering one hand to you. “Let’s go.”

You put the blanket aside, struggling to stand up. “Where to?”

He hands you his magenta suit. “Wear this. It’s chilly outside.”

So we’re going outside, you think to yourself while putting on the suit over your mini black dress. You have to roll the sleeves three times, and the hem could trip you, but it smells like him. It’s impossible not to smile.

“Is something funny?” he asks, to which you shake your head. He’s crouching on the floor with his back at you. “Here. I’ll carry you.”

“Ah - you don’t need to-“

“Just get on,” he insists. “You can’t let it worsen.”

You relent and let him carry you again. It feels like your heart is trying to get out of its place. “So... where are we going?” you ask to distract yourself.

“You’ll see.” You can hear him smile.

Okay... let’s try something else. “Saeran... when we find Seven and everything’s over, what do you want to do? Do you have any plans?”

“Hmm... I’d like to buy a house for us,” he answers.

A... a house? You blush at the thought. “What is it like?”

“A house in the countryside - a log cabin seems nice, too.” You can tell he’s enjoying himself. “I’ll grow a small garden at the back, and fill it with all kinds of flowers.”

You rest your head on his back, imagining the happy scenario. Just the two of you in the beautiful house - which will definitely smell like flowers all around - tending to the garden together, cooking together...

Saeran is still talking. “In the spring, we’ll watch the flowers bloom and decorate the house with them. We can also sleep on the grass smelling like the rain, under the stars, hand in hand.

“In the summer, we’ll swim at the beach - can you swim? Actually I’ve never visited a real beach before. I’m looking forward to experience it for the very first time with you. Then, we will have some ice cream together, too. It will be lots of fun!”

“What about autumn?”

“In autumn, we can take a walk side by side in the park - the air will be so delicious! It won’t be warm, but it won’t be too cold either - just the perfect weather! I will also cook lots of new dish everyday.

“Then in winter...” he takes a deep breath, stopping his steps. “We will play snow fight, share a muffler, then... then we will snuggle by the fireplace, drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.”

You’re barely holding yourself from squealing. “I’m looking forward to each and everything of them.”

“Me too.” He resumes walking. “It still feels like a dream, doesn’t it? We were supposed to be in a scary situation right now, but I can’t help from being happy that we’re together.” He turns his head to you. “Are you scared?”

“I am, but...” you look away. “You’re with me.”

He chuckles. “We’re here.”

He helps you to get down, taking your hand in his. Your ankle feels painful again as soon as you step on the ground on your heels. Trying hard not to flinch as he guides you through the woods, it took you a while to notice what he wants to show you. Just a few steps away, barely noticeable and hunched under a big tree, you see a small plant with tiny white flowers. The buds shape like small bells, fluttering as the chilly wind blows.

“A lily of the valley,” slips out of your mouth as the two of you walk closer, being careful not to damage the fragile plant.

“I wanted to show you this.” Saeran gives your hand a light squeeze. “What I said just now - I wasn’t just saying it, I promise I will make it happen. After all of this is over, let’s be happy together - the two of us.”

Staring right into your eyes, he utters the next line, much clearer and surer than the rest. “I love you.”

You bury your face in his chest, enveloping yourself with his warmth. “I love you, too, Saeran.”

Staying like that for a while, both of you notice the sun rising. Its warm ray of light shines over the two of you, as if illuminating the promise you just shared together.

Saeran Week Entries: Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

Master list

Buy me a coffee? :)

#saeranchoiweek #cheritz #mystic messenger #mm saeran #mysme saeran #mystic messenger saeran #saeran choi #saeyoung choi #seven #707 #mysme fanfic #mystic messenger fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ray route #v route #love #saeran x mc #saeran x reader #saeran week #saeran choi week

[spxderman-s]

daisies

requested by: @heartattackholland 

summary: Tom Holland was your best friend growing up, but as his acting career took off--the two of you fell out of touch. However, past feelings for him rise up again as a wedding invitation from him arrives for you in the mail. 

pairings: tom holland x reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: a lot of angst, a lot of explicit swearing

a/n: this shit y’all--whew--i was FEELIN the angst with this one guys, it was bananas. i loved it. i also tried to incorporate more of his family into it, and also a very made-up side character. enjoy, babes! 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” you asked, your voice carrying in the sweet summer breeze.

Tom looked up from the flower crown he was weaving together, his brow furrowing in thought. “I don’t know….maybe an actor.”

“An actor?” you smiled, plucking a daisy from the grassy field. “Why?”

“I want to make people smile and make people laugh,” he replied, his hands stilling in his lap. “I want to make people feel things, you know?”

You didn’t answer right away, lifting your face to the warm sun overhead. The two of you sat on the pasture hill on his grandparents’ property in the English countryside, and Tom often took you here during the long summers. You were both eight years old at the time, joined at the hip. He would challenge you to races, you would make him weave daisies together--you would wrestle him, and he would ask you to read out of the thick volume of poems sitting on the mantle of the fireplace to him.

“What about you?” he asked, lifting his finished crown for you to see. “What do you want to be?”

You bowed your head towards him and he placed it upon your soft locks. “Different,” was all you said.

Tom’s toothy grin made you giggle. He plucked a handful of daisies and held them together in a makeshift bouquet, and held them out to you. “You know what we should do?”

“What?” you asked, your small hand grasping the flowers.

“When we’re old, we should get married,” he proposed, a blush rising in his cheeks. “If neither of us are married by the time we’re old, we should make a pact now.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Married?”

Tom shrugged his skinny shoulders. “I’ve seen lots of people do it on TV.”

“Let’s do a spit shake on it,” you suggested, spitting into your hand and sticking it out. “When we’re old.”

Tom followed suit, and the two of you joined hands in a shake, bursting into laughter immediately afterwards, the sounds of your innocent happiness echoing down the hill and over the rolling grassy hills.

Your eyes opened, staring at the ceiling of your room. You blinked the sleep away slowly, rolling over to look at the time--late.

Mid-morning sunlight was filtering through the open window, a cool autumn breeze gently lifting the white cotton curtains that hung over them. You rolled over onto your back again, closing your eyes. Why had you dreamt of Tom? Why that particular memory? You could see his young face with closed eyes, the daisies in your hand, the vow you had made echoing in your mind.

Thinking of him tugged at an invisible chord in your heart. It had been four years since you had last seen Tom--and that was the first time you had dreamt about him since he left.

Your hand lifted and draped over your face, feeling the sadness begin to bubble up in your chest, the tears welling up in your eyes. Sitting up with a groan, you ran a hand through your unruly bedhead, and your nose caught a waft of something delicious cooking downstairs. Enough to distract you from the dream, you pulled on a sweatshirt and made your way down the rickety steps and into the kitchen.

“Well, well,” your grandmother said from the stove, looking at you over her half-moon spectacles with a taunting expression. “Look who decided to get up.”

You stuck your tongue out at her, and poured yourself a steaming cup of coffee before seating yourself at the breakfast nook. Your grandmother chuckled to herself and returned to pushing around the pan of scrambled eggs.

“Could you go into town for me today, love?” she asked, pointing to the list on the fridge. “I just need a few things.”

“Sure,” you agreed, your voice still raspy from sleep. “Where are the keys to the truck?”

“By the door, darling.”

You sipped your coffee quietly, looking out the large bay window beside you, the cloudy sky promising rain that day. You saw your grandfather working the tractor in the field, their cocker spaniel chasing the chickens, and that old, cranky tabby cat you loved so much overlooking everything from the barn. You loved spending summers here, but with work--you could only manage a week or two from the city to visit them, each time getting later and later into the year.

“Oh,” your grandmother spoke, motioning to a pile of mail on the counter, “a letter came for you.”

You stood up to fetch it. “From who?”

“I didn’t see.”

You carded through the stack of envelopes, until you saw your name. Strange, addressed to your grandparents’ house. Flipping it over, it had no return address, only an elaborate golden sticker on the back holding it closed--and you pulled it open with ease, sliding the thick paper from it.

Your eyes scanned the words written on the paper, feeling your stomach drop to your feet and the room begin to spin. You have been cordially invited to….

“[Y/N]?”

The letter dropped from your shaking hands, and you rushed to collapse at the table before you fell to the hardwood floor, your grandmother rushing to pick the paper up, her hand going to her mouth as she read the words.

“I’m not going,” you said hoarsely. “I don’t even know why I got an invitation.”

“He invited all three of us, darling,” she spoke, her voice soft and full of worry. “It’s next month, at his grandparents’ farm.”

“A barn wedding.” Sarcasm dripped from your words. “Of course.”

“Sweetheart,” your grandmother murmured, her gnarled hand giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “If you don’t go, you’ll regret it.”

This is why you had the dream. “He doesn’t talk to me for four fucking years, and I’m the one who has to play the good guy?”

“Language,” she scolded.

“A fucking wedding,” you muttered under your breath. You felt your hands ball into fists, and you stared out of the bay window--thick, droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, streaking along the glass pane.

“Why do we have to go to the rehearsal?” you muttered, glaring at your reflection in the window of your grandfather’s truck. A month had passed too quickly, and here you were--preparing for the worst.

“Quit fussing,” your grandmother chastised. “John and Teresa are good friends of ours--they want us there. Did you forget all of the summers they spent chasing after you and little Tom?”

“I try to forget,” you grumbled, a finger tracing a falling raindrop. Who has a wedding during the rainy season?

The truck pulled into the all-too familiar drive, and a wave of nostalgia hit you as you looked out the window--seeing the farmhouse, the pastures in the hills, and the giant red barn that had definitely seen better days. There were a few cars already parked, and you could see light emitting from the barn itself.

Keep your shit together, you commanded yourself as you and your grandparents hurried towards the large doors to get out of the rain. You immediately picked out John and Teresa, who stood by the entrance, speaking to another elderly couple you didn’t recognize.

Teresa noticed you first, her weathered face lighting up with joy. “Darling, look who’s here!” John followed her suit, and they politely excused themselves to rush over to you.

“It’s so good to see you again,” John said, tugging on a lock of your hair like he used to do when you were a child. “You’ve grown!”

“You’ve become such a beautiful young woman,” Teresa commented, wrapping her arms around you, and whispered into your ear, “It’s been too long, love.”

They greeted your grandparents, and you stepped off to the side as they began to chat about the weather and this year’s harvest. The barn smelled of forgotten memories, and as your eyes traveled along the hayloft beams, you found yourself smiling as you remembered seeing who could balance the longest on them. You hardly recognized the barn now, though. Towards the back, the altar was set up, a few rows of white chairs in front of it, and a handful of tables for the reception bringing up the rear. You trailed your fingertips along the soft tablecloths, remembering his words that summer on the hill, and you couldn’t help but wish that this was your wedding.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

His voice ripped through your thoughts. And when you looked up, there he was--flesh and bone. He had aged quite well, filled out his skinny physique and grew a couple inches. But you could see in his eyes, that he was still that scrawny kid you remembered. He stood a couple of tables away from you, his hands fiddling with the button on his vest. A deep, maroon tie complimented his complexion nicely, something you hadn’t ever imagine he’d wear. But he looked good. Happy.

There were a thousand things you wanted to say to him, right there in that barn. He could tell, by the way he was keeping his distance.

“How could I not?” was all you replied, fingers still resting on the tablecloth.

He grimaced, gesturing to the barn. “This was all Natalie’s doing--it’s kind of overdone.”

Natalie. That’s a nice name. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t like the smell of lilies,” he stated, wrinkling his nose. “But she insisted.”

“What would you have picked?”

“Daisies.”

You looked away from him then, feeling the heat creep into your cheeks. You couldn’t stand the sight of daisies anymore, so you were glad to be surrounded by the lilies. “How are your parents?”

“They’re alright,” he replied, moving a few steps closer to you before stopping across the table from you. You hadn’t been this close to him in so long, you had forgotten how to act. You wanted to cry, scream, shout--all of those suppressed emotions bubbled and festered in your heart as you stared at him from across the table. “They miss you.”

“I’ll say hi to them.”

“Tom?” a female’s voice sounded. You turned to look, and a beautiful young woman walked up to him and slipped her arm into his. “Who’s this?”

He grinned, and said, “Natalie, this is [Y/N], a very good friend of mine from when I was a kid that I told you about. Our grandparents both own farms.”

She regarded you with dark eyes, before plastering on a fake smile and sticking her hand out. “Pleasure to meet you, [Y/N].”

You shook her stiff hand, mirroring her smile. “You too.”

As Tom opened his mouth to speak, Natalie steered him away. As they left, you caught her hissed words: “I told you not to invite her.”

Great. Even though you didn’t want to come in the first place, you weren’t even supposed to be here.

You needed to breathe. The barn suddenly felt like it was closing in on you, and you quietly slipped out of the large doors and into the light drizzle. Fuck the rehearsal, you thought, but you couldn’t leave your grandparents stranded. The rain felt relieving on your warm face, and you decided to ditch the barn and take a nice walk out to the pasture.

By the time you followed the familiar path to your favorite spot underneath the gnarled peach tree on the hill overlooking the property, you were soaked to the bone. Your hair fell in dripping ringlets around your face, your skin feeling refreshingly cool as you sank onto the grass patch, your hands running over the vibrant green blades.

You wondered if Tom ever took Natalie to this spot, if they had ever sat here together, if he ever picked daisies for her. Pushing the thought from your mind, you closed your eyes and tilted your face to the skies, wanting nothing more than to wash away with the rains themselves.

“Are you crazy?”

Your eyes snapped open, and you wiped the droplets away from your face to see who had found you here.

Tom was standing there, shivering. “It’s pouring rain, and the first thing you do is sit in it?”

“I couldn’t stay in that barn for another second,” you snapped, not caring anymore. No one else could hear you. “I couldn’t stand in the same room as you--as her--”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, moving closer to you, the rain pelting harder. He was so close--so close you could just reach out and….

“You left me!” you snarled, standing up and balling your fists again. “God, Tom--you--you disappeared!”

He was dumbstruck, his mouth going slack. As if he couldn’t form the words, he just stuttered, “What are--what--I…”

A heavy sigh escaped you as you felt the weight of that burden lifted from you shoulders. He knew how you felt, now. All those years of carrying it in your pocket, never once gathering the courage to just call, he knew.

“Your career took off,” you continued, your voice breaking with emotion. “And you--you just vanished from my life. No more calls, no more texts, no more friendship.”

He was standing directly in front of you now, a wet curl falling from his gelled hair to rest on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over the sound of pouring rain.

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it, Tom,” you snapped, and all he did was stare at you. “Say something!”

“What else do you want me to say?” he shouted back, taking your shoulders roughly.

“I was in love with you!” you screamed, shoving him away. “You fucking idiot, I’m still in love with you!”

He stumbled away, his eyes ablaze and his mouth open again in shock. There was a break of silence between you two, while your angry words hung in the air.

“And you invite me to this,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely towards the barn. “As if nothing ever happened.”

Your eyes had shifted to stare at the grass beneath you, the cold and sorrow settling into your bones. You wanted to disappear into the clouds, into the earth, anywhere away from here. All of your cards were out on the table now, and you waited for him to do the same.

When he didn’t say anything, you shook your head. “Go marry Natalie, go live your life. I want you to be happy--that’s all I care about now.” With that, you pushed past him and walked back to the farm, alone and shivering.

“Just give Paul a ring, he’ll put together the spreadsheets you need for the conference on Tuesday,” you spoke into your phone as you scribbled some words onto a Post-It note and stuck it to your desk’s computer. “Alright, have a good weekend--happy holidays to you too.”

Your office was quiet--everyone else had gone home. Glancing at the clock, you began filing paperwork into your box, and made your own way home.

It had been three months since you left Tom at his rehearsal dinner. You returned to your flat in London, resumed living your life at the office, and tried to forget everything that had happened, everything you had said.

As you pushed the revolving door into your building, the doorman smiled at you, tipping his hat. “Happy holidays, miss.”

“You too, Eddie,” you replied, winking at him before taking the elevator up to your floor. Your grandparents wanted you to come out to the country this weekend for Christmas, but all you wanted to do was be alone. You unlocked your door, bumping it open with your hip, and flicked on the lights.

You took off the day’s makeup and slipped out of your collared dress. Pulling on an old pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, you poured a glass of wine and stood by the giant window overlooking London.

You wondered where he was now, if he was bundled up with his new wife somewhere warm and cozy. Turning away from the window, you went to sit on the couch to watch TV before you went to bed. A few seconds after you picked up the remote and got comfortable, a knock sounded from your front door.

Sighing, you cursed Eddie for never buzzing anyone in. You reluctantly got up, and peeked into the peephole to see who it was. They had their back to the door, but you could just make out a mop of brown curls. No fucking way.

You swallowed nervously, debating on whether or not you should even open the door. But something in you did--and when it opened, he turned around, his expression passive.

“Before you say anything,” he interrupted you as you opened your mouth to speak. “There are a few things I want to say.” He pulled out a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and cleared his throat.

“I don’t like lilies, or roses, or orchids, I like daisies. I like daisies because they remind me of summers with you,” he started, his voice wavering, “when we spent nearly every day together growing up. You always had the same smile. I asked my parents, my grandparents, your grandparents about you during the time we weren’t together, because I missed you--I missed my best friend, my first...my first love.” He paused for a moment, but refused to look at you and kept reading. “I fell in love with you when we promised to marry each other that day on the hill, and I kept falling in love every time you laughed or said my name or read poems to me. I thought that it would be too hard because never once did I think you reciprocated the way I felt about you--the way I still feel about you.”

Tom looked up at you now, that curl falling over his forehead again. “It was always you,” he murmured. “From that day on the hill, it was always you.”

“Tom,” you whispered, but he shook his head to stop you.

“I’m not finished,” he said. He pulled something else from his pocket, and took a deep breath. “I intend to keep that spit shake promise we made, [Y/N].” And right there in front of you, in your apartment’s hallway, Tom knelt to one knee and opened the small, velvet box to reveal a silver diamond ring--not the one Natalie had been wearing. “Will you marry me?”

“But--you--” you sputtered, confused. “What happened to Natalie?”

His eyes darkened. “She was in it for money,” he muttered, “I found out through numerous bank statements the night of the rehearsal dinner.”

You sank to the floor to meet his eyes, taking his hands into your own. “I only have one request, and then I’ll marry you.”

“Anything,” he breathed.

“Daisies,” you smiled.

tagging: @tronnoristheotp @nedthegay @i-saved-me @theweirdowithablogo @skymoonandstardust @timemngmtoptimisationproblems @thumper-darling @holywinchesterness @grabyourpolaroidandmyhand @ketterdame @tonight-couldbeforgettable @dimplesandcutesmiles @terrashrone @leorai-lemony-lewa @yoinkpeter @spider-boo-5 @elizzabeth21 @multi-parker @rvrdxle @gaiasambuci @bisexualmomfriend 

#tom holland #tom holland imagines #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #peter parker #peter parker imagines #peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman #spider man: homecoming #spiderman imagines #spiderman fanfiction #spiderman homecoming imagines

[lumen-tellus]

(haha recurring extremely bad headspace go brrrrrrrrr)

.

.

.

There really is something impossible about life without love.

You’ve known it for a while now. In the coldness of your empty home, the weariness in your face, a reluctance to greet the mornings, the sheer nothingness in your head as you contemplate what could be and will be and what would you like it all be - but you’re coming up with nothing, nothing but the rain clouds of today’s and yesterday’s and tomorrow’s autumn winds.

You’re not sure how long you can keep up with this. These days, even as it chills your bones, you open the windows and spend hours just listening to the heavy rainfall, focusing on the sounds of rain drops and tear drops pattering and pattering everywhere, petrichor drifting, eyes and mind hyperfocusing as drops shaking the leaves of a nearby plant, shaking, sliding, dropping, disappearing. You sit at the sill and watch and watch and you’re going to catch a cold, that’s a fact, but the only one who can drape a blanket over your shoulders and advise you to do something less foolish is you. Just you.

Your mother is not here to do these things for you, soft-toned even as she chides you. Neither is your father, who would have conjured something warm around in a heartbeat and asked you, ever pleasant, what was so fascinating about the world outside this time. A husband, the only one from a million years ago, would have dragged you away from the sill and wrapped you in the house’s entire collection of blankets if you even did so much as sneeze from the cold. So would your best friend, shooting you looks that would have made you sheepish. And your son, the first and the last and the most precious, would have fretted in loud silence and from the ever-usual feedback loop of concern, you would have cared about him and cared about yourself and that’s the thing, isn’t it? It takes such love to care about anything.

A sigh. You had hoped for longevity, at the very least. A long but mortal life. Immortality truly is worthless - you can hear your aunt just saying that, simple but bitter, laughed off at the end with a dramatic sniff. She always had dark circles, a persistent fatigue somewhere, but she still had the energy to laugh in the end. Absurdism, perhaps. The idea that the world is just so illogical, to live so reckless, to die so pointless because if the world has even lesser value than a random string of numbers, less value than a monkey at a typewriter who will never print Shakespeare’s Hamlet, than what would dying do at that point of being extinguished?

So she lived and laughed and died, as did everyone eventually, and you’re here. It feels so unbearably cold these days. You never were one for winter - but you tolerated it in the past, shoveling snow along your cottage doorstep because Vivian wanted to make snow angels (”The only good angels, Mama!”) and Lily would be in an irritable mood at the thought of her garden projects dying under all that ice fluff (”Sylvia, I am your good friend, yes? Then get rid of the snow. Do that and I’ll make those stupid caramel cookies you like so much.”). There’s no incentive for that anymore, and you don’t think there ever will be, for as long as white ravens sit in the treetops, their beady red eyes watching, confining. The holy war of ideology in the heavens is at a stalemate, but you would make such a fine bet on who’s right and what’s wrong and it’s only because of Auntie May and her sheer disdain for the Highest’s servants that you’re not giving them what they want.

Doesn’t mean it can’t be tiring. That’s why you sit at the rainy sill, shivering, because that’s as much as you can do right now and the most you can even muster a want for. It’s almost like not being alive, and when you can think, you do think so. You can’t live without love. So you slowly curl your toes as lightning streaks and thunder follows, and you listen, listen, listen.

#fiction #projecting on an adult sylvie in some au or the other hours GOOOOOOOOOOOOOo

[grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales]

Cold comes and goes, love remains

It is summer but why not. Set after Snow Queen.

Magic always leaves trace. Magic of immortal things from before time doubly so. Gerda cannot forget and Kai can’t help but remember.

Together, they make it work.

They never tell you what happens after. After the tale. After the villain is defeated and you are back home. After the friend is saved.

Sometimes, Gerda wonders if that is her mistake. Should she have walked in while Snow Queen sat on her throne, engaged her in duel, killed her? Her stomach turns at thought of killing a living being, of taking another’s life.

But Snow Queen isn’t human. Gerda isn’t even sure she can be counted as alive. And what use is there for world of somebody that steals children and buries people under ice and snow?

‘’ No,’’ says Kai. ‘’ You did everything great. Without you, I’d never be free. And you wouldn’t kill her. You shouldn’t stain your hands with blood.’’

He doesn’t lie, as Snow Queen didn’t ( couldn’t), but like her leaves piece of truth hidden. He doesn’t say that otherwise Gerda would have fallen, one more victim of frostbite. He doesn’t say that you can’t kill blizzard, can’t harm winter, can’t make cold of vast space bleed. You can only prepare shelters, wrap yourself in fur and wool, and wait for it to pass.

He doesn’t say that army of angels was needed to fight against horde of snowflakes, that even Michael, he who leads God’s armies, would have failed against Queen there, in heart of her power.

He doesn’t say that Queen deserves no punishment, that she did nothing wrong. Winter gale doesn’t choose which way it blows, doesn’t seek to end lives. How can something without conscience, without morality, be called evil?

At first, everything is same as before. They are at home, living with grandmothers, playing on roofs and planting roses. They forget for a while.

It is small things at first. Seeing herself in windows and mirrors, all tall and grown up. Meeting old friends and not recognizing them. Reminders of years missed that slip from grandmother’s mouth. Finding job.

Whispers of roses. Chatter of birds. Kai’s hair, long and white as freshly fallen snow. His dark skin, once warm and rich as fertile earth, now pale as frozen ground of taiga.

Gerda closes her eyes and pretends not to hear.

‘’ It is so hot.’’ Gerda’s granny says.

‘’ I don’t remember summer this dry and warm.’’ Answers Kai’s.

‘’  I don’t think  I could stand a day more of this heat.’’ Lies Kai. It is easier to pretend then admit that neither heat or cold bother him anymore ( Gerda restored his memory and took him home, but Queen kissed him, and he isn’t sure if she made him immune or fire and ice don’t dare harm him, but since that day he could go nude in blizzard and wrap himself in furs and walk through desert and not feel anything).

‘’ Rain will soon fall.’’ It comes out of her mouth without thinking. They turn, blink, and grandmothers ask  ( how do you know, why are you sure, did somebody tell you).

Words stop in her mouth. How does she explain, sparrows gossiping about faraway storm, soon to come. How does she explain about roses knowing, feeling it’s arrival, starving for water that shall descend from sky.

‘’ I just know.’’  It is enough for now.

She sets up flower shop.  Of course she does. What else could she have done?

Many things. She could have opened bakery, or served in inn, or became a teacher. She could have become a nurse, or started selling clothes she made, or cared for children of not so rich families. And she is princess’s friend. She could have had anything. She really shouldn’t treat it as such mundane thing, even if it maybe is. Because even princesses have friends but who would have thought that she, Gerda, would be one to befriend the princess. She has spent years on journey, planning, hoping, fighting to survive. Childhood friends are nothing but blur in her mind. Princess is one of few people in world she can call friend anymore.

Princess in name only, she should add, for her friend has reigned over their land since she was fifteen, first aided by regent and advisers then alone, guided by her own wisdom. Year still needs to pass for her to ascend to mantle of monarch formally, which is stupid tradition in Gerda’s opinion, but Princess is content with waiting- rules are to be followed, and Gerda doesn’t begrudge her that, as long as none suffer under them.

But thing is, she could have had any job she wanted. Anything that didn’t involve flowers and plants and hearing voices nobody else does, understanding their songs and stories. She didn’t have to do that.

But she likes gardening. She has always loved it, since she can remember planting and tending seeds, nurturing and guiding young green things to their first bloom, caring for them through year until cruel frost steals their life, as winter always does.

And she will be damned if she lets magic or bad memories take that away from her

She is successful.  Beyond that even. She nourishes her plants, like mother caring for children, and they drive. Years of experience and hard work and knowledge she gained make sure none can match her.

Her flowers don’t speak, which surprises and relaxes her (but doesn’t disappoint, of course not). Flowers of old woman who enchanted her could speak like men, though they knew only to tell one story and to argue. Her roses, red and white, could muster words, not sentences but still expressions that she could understand.

Flowers she grows just murmur, too low for her to understand, and sing their wordless tunes. Still, she feels, and can imagine what story they would tell, if nourished by old woman’s magic.

 Lily who drowns with despair, rolling off it like dew would be about girl who lost too much and walked into lake on her own. 

Wildflowers that chime like jingle bells would be about three girls running under summer sun in green meadow. 

Carnation with anger and pride as bright as fire would be about woman who knows what she desires, and dance laughing at those who try to stop her, for sooner will world burn than she will bow.

That is what attracts her customers, she muses. Somehow, she coaxes out those stories from flowers into hearts, and people know that her boquets mean more than any else. They come to her with wishes, flowers for first date, flowers for marriage, flowers for separation, for funeral, for spite, for apology. She cares not for so called flower language or even colors clashing in some cases-she gives grieving mother sunflower that scream with rage and loss, violets that soothe and give strength to move on, pink roses that fondly sing of loved ones long gone by. 

Her competition laughs at first, but then they smell her work, or walk in room containing her pots, and their hearts are overcome with emotion, and they know she is right.

Gerda laughs. Perhaps it isn’t so bad. People are happy and she brings many coin home.

Grandma is waiting for her home, with magnificent red dress. It is woolen, and bright, and beautifully embroidered. Grandma cannot stop talking about it.

‘‘-and then I said, of course I can’t take it Martha, it is too good for us, I cannot believe ho well you sew, and that color is so vibrant,  but she said nonsense after all times she spent in my house she is like my own daughter, and she needs some reward for all her hard work, and she and Kai were always such good friends with Brigitta, she was one who embroidered those stars, said she can’t wait to reconnect, and I said oh really, thank you so much Martha, these new shops are run by idiots who refuse to make more than five dresses for girls that aren’t thin like sprigs, but don’t think you won’t be getting three new shawls and-’‘ Grandma stops, looking at Gerda’s lost, stricken face.

‘‘Gerda, sweetie, what happened? Are you sick? Was there problem at work? Do you-’‘

‘‘Grandma,’‘ Gerda says, voice shaking ‘’ those people-Martha, Brigitte, I...I don’t remember who they are.’‘ 

‘‘Oh.’‘ Grandma says, patting Gerda’s hair as woman collapses in her arms, sobbing.

She always goes to church now. She did before too, but she now refuses to miss a single gathering. When she comes down with flu, grandmothers have to restrain her from getting up.

They don’t understand. She saw God answer her prayer, saw her breath form in army of angels, bright guardians with wings of flame and bodies of jewels and too many eyes of thunder, saw them fight demonic forces that kept her from Kai.

God has shown her mercy. Answered her prayer out of so many. Absolute loyalty is least she owes Him. He created her, Kai, her world and everything she holds dear. He sent His son to die for their sins, and He gave Heaven to virtuous. 

And she needs to pay her sins. She hears voices of beasts, can command them, birds and bugs and cat and dogs, and she knows that is magic, and she saw witches and demons, was bewitched herself and escaped, saved her enthralled friend with His aid.

Magic is work of devil, and devil tempts and tricks, clothed in bright golden light, and his gifts lie and beguil, masked as blessing, and like gambling and wine magic is addictive and ruins people and...

She doesn’t want to be witch. She doesn’t want to be evil. She doesn’t want to harm people. To go to Hell. To become wicked and cruel like Snow Queen.  To betray Him.

She cries and prays.

‘‘I don’t think she was a demon. Or witch. Or anything like that.’‘ Kai admits once. It is beginning of autumn, but night cold and yet Kai isn’t.

(It is not quite the truth, but he doesn’t want Gerda to worry, not after everything she has done for him, not after what bastard he had been. Better to say, he is always cold, but it doesn’t grieve him. He’s got the winter in his bones, and he will live with that for rest of his days, and honestly, he likes it).

Gerda looks at him, shocked and alarmed and bundled in jackets, and she doesn’t know what to say because Kai never confided in her what his time at palace was like but now he says this and she fears he is tempted again and she wants them all to heal, and you must talk if you want to achieve that, but she wants to forget and leave everything behind.

But Kai can’t. He wants to heal too, but he doesn’t know where to start, and sometimes he thinks healing requires thinking and accepting and letting what happened become part of their lives forever, and sometimes he isn’t sure if he wants to forget, but he knows that he can’t, for he went with Snow Queen and she kissed him and he lived in her realm growing without need to eat or sleep or drink and now there is winter in his bones, cold in his blood and frost under his skin, and he knows piece of her rests within him and  he knows that wherever he goes he will carry snow within himself and he can’t pretend so long.

‘‘Kai...’‘ Gerda begins ‘‘She.... did something happen, Did you... Did she return?’‘‘

‘‘I saw nothing of her this day, or yesterday, or any other day since you saved me.’‘ He says gently. He doesn’t say that he didn’t need to see her-wherever there is cold she has reach, even at height of summer, and her power flows through universe itself, and she rests within him, bound together by winter as mother and son are by blood, or bond even stronger than that.

‘‘I just... I was thinking about what you said. I think angels came because of you, not her. Your prayer and your heart, that is your strength, like Bae said. he gave it to you, because you got it.’‘ Kai smiles, slow and sweet, and Gerda doesn’t look at his teeth, white and shining like fresh snow on morning sun ‘‘ I don’t make sense do I? I think... He helped you because you helped yourself first.’

But that doesn’t really have much to do with her, you know? I don’t think she serves God, but I don’t think she is against him. She is out of it all, like wind or snow. I asked her once, you know, how can you tell between good and evil.’’

‘‘And what did she say?’‘ Gerda doesn’t know what to expect. Demon would likely give some answer that seemed innocent but advised human to be selfish.

‘‘She looked at me, puzzled-I think that was only time I saw her confused, maybe first time she was ever confused- and asked me what those words mean. I don’t remember what I said, but she didn’t understand. 

And once she talked to me about angels and demons, said that they are God’s servants, extensions of his will. But demons wanted to control world, to enslave other creatures and take what was not theirs  and rebelled against him. She said that like all people and beings that are his they have soul. And...’‘

‘‘I know that Kai. Did she tell anything more.’‘ She didn’t want to believe that, but demon wouldn’t have admitted they were evil. But neither were humans demons and there were many evil ones.

‘‘She told me once that she doesn’t have one. Soul that is. And she doesn’t lie Gerda Believe me, I know she can’t, just as I know to calculate or to breathe. She isn’t  human, but she isn’t demon either.’‘

‘‘But what could she be otherwise?’‘ Kai looks through window into deep blackness between stars, there where cold is strongest. he thinks he can imagine cold, sharp yet soft hand stroking his back, fondling his hair, can imagine laugh and wail in hush of wind.

‘‘She is... she is old, and cold and alone, and that is all.’‘

They say that women who talk with animals are witches, that beasts are demons in disguise and their familiars, and perhaps Gerda should stop feeding birds but every animal she encounters and unlike some cynics she isn’t quite so ready to believe that world is full of demons.

Kai’s words were strange, but she trusts him like brother, and chooses to believe. Because at end of day, faith is what she must have, and she is sure God would have given her sign otherwise.

Besides, most beasts are quite dumb, even pretty white doves she fattens, thinking only of food and mates. Not like Bae, or Mr. and Mrs. Raven.

And such thinking is insulting to them, she considers. If normal animals are demons because she can understand them, then what of ones that speak and think like humans? What of princess, whose dreams dance? Or of two wise women who helped her, kind leaders of their villages? Would somebody name her friends, who helped her so much demons or witches for that?

Perhaps it is not magic at all, but simply gift to understand others-she understood different tongues as if they were her own, now that she thinks of it. Perhaps she just listens better than most people. And she doubts that demons would give her such gift, or that angels would fight for sake of wicked creature (they were angels, she knows, true and through, she could feel their holiness, their goodness in depths of her soul, and it was greatest thing she ever felt, no demon could fake that).

So with smile, she resumes feeding her white doves.

There are many distasteful men in world, Gerda is aware. Men with no manners nor respect, who, utterly entitled, treat women and children as things. She would have to be raised under the rock, or in that land of Greek women warriors Kai told her about, not to know about them. Single reason why she is surprised when older customer gropes her is that shop is full of people.

He is surprised when she slaps him, so she can forgive herself for that. He shouts, more from surprise than pain-she didn’t smack him as hard as she could or should, have had- for he is too much used for this. Too many girls are afraid, knowing that few will help them, and those men take silence for yes.

‘‘Dear God, what has gotten in you, lass?’‘

‘‘What has gotten in me? How dare you?’‘ Grandma always said that Gerda had more bravery than self-preservation, but Gerda reckons if she could go over half world as child then she can shout at this man when she is a woman .’‘ You, sir, have honor of being most rude and shameful customer I had displeasure of serving. How dare you act so toward young woman, nay any woman at all! I hope you haven’t been bothering any other girl here other wise..’‘ 

He is angry, and red, and raises his hand. Several customers ran to Gerda’s side, fastest being sixty year old widow with steely hair buying flowers for cheap funeral and fourteen year old boy taking single flower for each of his eight siblings. man’s hand falls down.

But window is thrown open, and golden October sunlight pours inside as half dozen white doves descend, pecking at his bald head. Man lets her go as he tries to fend them off. Gerda stares in awe, then rises cross around her  neck and whispers her thanks.

‘‘Miss Gerda, are you alright?’‘ The boy asks, having run to her side. Widow watches with stern, steely gaze, her angry eyes like embers as she shouts to two strong men standing near her to take ‘‘gentleman’‘ outside, using names and words that would make sailors red as strawberries. Two men comply, their necks as flushed as Gerda at widow’s words.

‘‘I am well, thank you.’‘ She says to everybody inside.’‘ Promise me you will never be like that man when you grow up.’‘ She whispers to him, and he nods, face determined and hard. She doesn’t doubt it. His mother is honest woman of strong hand, if little easy to set off, and his father is nice man who is always kind to all even if they don’t have much. And boy himself is, as far as she knows from seeing him around neighbor, just as kind and honest.

‘‘ I will keep flowers, mister, but you can have your money back once you learn to behave properly.’‘ She says and takes three coins off counter, giving them to boy and widow as shop laughs.

‘‘Thank you.’‘ She whispers to doves. they stare at her with their red eyes before cooing back.

‘‘Feed us. Nice girl. All people love you. Man bad, man harm. Cannot allow that.’‘ Gerda laughs and thanks again. Amount of birdseed increases, and so does amount of feathery flyers keeping watch over her.

She doesn’t have such incidents ever regain.

In November, they attend her friend’s coronation. She gets invitation, personally signed by future Queen herself. She is allowed to bring guests. Nobody from house says anything, but news spread and soon Gerda is given as much as attention as mayor himself. Still nobody is surprised when she brings  grandmothers and Kai.

They are given great chambers, and coronation is magnificent, her wise friend ascending to her rightful throne, dressed in royal regalia. They dance (Gerda is astonished to see grandmas pick up fast, complicated dance with each other) and laugh and eat and everything is beautiful. And then Kai and prince meet.

There is no fight, no problem at all. Not even teasing or bantering. But once they meet Gerda realizes how much things have changed.

She once confused him for Kai. It was easy to mistake them in dark for each other while prince was sleeping-but once his face was revealed she saw her mistake immediately.  Head was right size, neck long enough and forehead just as wide, with thin eyebrow and right jaw and pointy chin. But his eyes were bigger than Kai’s, his ears shorter and rounder, nose not as prominent and lips much plumper, teeth not as small and cheekbones not as sharp.

Still, they could have been cousins. Or even brothers. Both knew nothing of their parents, and were right age to maybe be fraternal twins- prince grew up in orphanage and Kai was found abandoned  on street by his grandmother (in the snow, but this she never told anybody). Only problem was that they grew up in towns on opposite sides of country. Still she joked about confusing them again once they met each other.

And they did, and Gerda could no longer deny how much Kai changed. Both were tall and strong and slim, but Kai seemed tall and robust and thin like frozen mountain, or frost covered pine tree. 

Their skin was dark as earth, but Kai’s was harsh and frigid like dead, frozen taiga where nothing could grow. Prince’s hair was just as long and fair as her friend’s once was, but now it was pale and white like pure snow and bleached bones.  

Their teeth were healthy and clean, but Kai’s were blinding white and seemed pointy at times.  Prince’s hands were warm, while Kai’s felt like sticking hand in mountain river. Prince’s eyes were sparkling, so were Kai’s, but whereas eyes of prince shone with joy and mischief, Kai’s reflected still light of aurora.

And only there, in room full of people, hundreds of them, instead of apartment filled with four, did she notice how off Kai felt.  How hairs on her neck rose, as something deep in her bones remembered and said:old, inhuman,wrong,eldritch,other, run,beware, don’t trust,hide, too powerful.

But she ignored it. Kai was her friend, and some stupid voice in her head didn’t know him better than she.

Only when they went to coronation, did he truly notice how small and weak and not right everything looks.

He sees castle, gold and marble and brilliant, and thinks of palace rising from ground unto sky, made of snow that will never melt and with doors of wind that will never stop. And he knows how fast and how easily this so called castle will crumble.

He walks halls, small finite halls in which people are pushing and hitting each other and having problem keeping distance and thinks of endless labyrinths that could contain whole world and still not lose one percent of space yet were always empty.

Decorations are wrought, and ugly, imperfect things not wrought by will. They cannot change shape or rise to defend castle and he knows that if he compared candles and statues he would find that they aren’t perfectly same. He sees candles and thinks of pale northern lights adorning walls and roof, part of castle, contained in floor and pillars and freely travelling through air.

He sees throne, ugly, red and gold thing, and thinks of pale mirror, frozen bottomless lake of reason containing world and answers to all questions and then some, watches tables and portraits and thinks of ice pieces that made such perfect puzzles.

And he sees Gerda’s friend the queen, and his very mind screams and recoils upon thinking of calling her so. He almost cries when he says ‘’glory to queen’’, his bones breaking. 

For in place of this mortal creature, being of flesh and blood and bone, being that can be killed and thorn apart and shattered and rebelled against by any he sees a goddess, gigantic and beyond measure and of power deep beyond comprehension, woman with body of glaciers and restless soulless eyes of stars and hair of northern light and clothes of snow and voice of sharp winter wind, being that stands against vulcanoes and turns magma to stone, who can take away life with touch and turn land harsh and barren, woman older than very time, who rules vast expanses of empty space and brought winter in existence and who will one day bury entire universe in cold and ice when time is right for her to do so (she doesn’t hate other elements and seasons, no matter what anybody says. World has time and place for all, and when it is time for fire and heat to devour all she will accept and burn and wait for flames to die out just as they will wait for her hold to shatter, and so on and on).

He doesn’t hate Gerda’s friend-could never hate her, nor her husband, she is so wise and smart and ambitious and cunning and caring and will make great leader, but part of his very soul shivers and shrivels and dies whenever he thinks of her as a queen- none of them humans realize, he understands, what true monarch says.

‘‘Isn’t she true queen?’‘ Gerda asks, smile as bright as Sun, and for her sake he will lie even as his tongue blackens and rots.

‘‘Yes, she is.’‘ He says and quickly coughs up blood that spills from his mouth.

Fate snatched them, and changed what they were in something else, but just because they are something else now doesn’t they will stop being friends.

They will endure, that is what they do.

#snow queen #kai #gerda #SQ Princess

[ocaptainauthor]

You first meet her in the hallowed halls of your father’s palace. In the depths of the Underworld she glows like a star in a vast void. She is too young to be a queen, but your father assures you that she is. His queen, but not really, he says. Somehow, you understand what he means. Her laughter sounds like the sun rising, and in the chill of the halls her breath makes fog clouds. “You should see her when spring comes,” your father says, his cold hand upon your shoulder. He smiles at you, and you are reminded that the heart of winter is the crackling of a fire in the hearth and the company of loved ones. They are a striking pair, the king and queen of this place. She drags you into her garden and teaches you how to make flower crowns and complains about her mother. The lilies you weave for her crown are a purple-red, her favorite color. She gives you small white lilies, calls you “valley flower.” One supper, while your father is away, having some urgent meeting, she reaches behind your ears and brings out two coins of glittering gold. She lays them in your palms and they are warm like her hands. “Shh,” she whispers, “don’t tell the ferryman.” You never think to ask if she’s one of them. She can’t be, not with the tiny sun inside her eyes. She’s friends with them, as much as one can be, and side by side you’d never entertain the thought of her being anything like they are. She asks you, when the time has almost come, if you’d like to leave with her. You glance at your father and he smiles, says something like, “go on and steal my queen, why don’t you?” But you know this is his blessing. She takes you by the hand, and you feel the sun on the earth above, the snow bowing, making way, the early buds peaking above the thawed soil. You land in the dirt and she pulls from the ground a perfect pomegranate. “Stay for the spring?” she asks. You find that spring is cruel. She is as merciless aboveground as she is merciful below. She calls back the frosts once, twice, thrice, and the new spring shoots quiver in unexpected chills. In the Underworld you were your father’s daughter, his last and only priestess, but here you are nothing but a subject of her capricious will. Her sunlight goes from blinding to a dim oil-lamp in moments. She flickers in the rain she sends cascading onto your head. Some days you lie out on the grass and she reads your palms, telling you the breaks in your lifeline are your visits to your father’s realm. You don’t believe her; your father told you that in his kingdom you were never really dead. She laughs, and tells you he was sparing your mortal sensibilities. She lies, she lies, she lies. In summer she drifts away, as another claims the skies and scorches the earth with her fiery roar. Sometimes she visits and she paints your nails and mutters curses at the sun, and complains about her mother. (You heard her curse the earth once and for a week she was pale and almost, almost human. She never uttered unkind words toward the soil again.) She takes you to the Wild Hunt of her cousin, and only turns you into a deer twice. Her cousin smiles, rolls her eyes. It is so easy with them, to see the family resemblance. Her cousin asks you if you are like them. You shake your head, and the Mistress of the Wild Hunt looks quizzically at you, and then at her. She grins at her cousin, and the Hunt continues. She is gone for most of the season, and you miss her, try to find her sunlight eyes in passing strangers on the sidewalks, try to taste the light she brought the world in every fruit. She sends you pomegranates, sometimes. It’s a little joke, between you and she and your father. Your nails match the color of the fruit and you laugh because she knew, she always would. She returns as the leaves change, and she dresses accordingly. On Samhain, she opens a portal and your father waves. He tells you to take good care of her. You grin and nod. Before the winter comes she takes you to a faerie ball, and you remember the benefits of having someone like her in company. She is so inhuman, with her deft steps and effortlessness in all that she does. She stretches a hand to a tree and the leaves turn, and she looks green for a moment, and smiles sharply. This is where the green goes, you think. This is why the light dies. She braids leaves into your hair and presents you to astral royalty as the heir of the Underworld. They are impressed but unimpressed with the mortality of your body. She saves you from death, again, again. The ground cools where she sits. As in spring when she radiated warmth she now takes it back, bleeds the earth dry of sun-energy and breathes out the last warm wind of autumn. She is no more monster than the seasons but to see her glowing while the trees are hibernating is unnerving. She is both the mother and the executioner of sunlight. The earth turns, and cools, and she will be the first one to breathe snow upon us all. Days before your father’s chariot arrives to reenact her mother’s deepest tragedy, she has covered the earth in cold. She is still so, so warm. She is glowing, full of sunlight in her bones. She cuts her hand on a branch and where the ambrosia drops a sprout arises. She kills it, drawing the warmth back into herself. You find the autumn may be crueler than the spring. Your father is the one to call you back for winter. She must go, you are invited. She gives you little choice, still with her hand clasped in yours. A cold hand falls upon your shoulder and dark horses take you below the earth to the first home of every living thing and the last place they shall ever go.

a study of persephone, by O. Captain.

#O. Captain's writing #prose #devotional work #writers on tumblr #hellenic #hellenic pagan

[verse-aday-blog]

“Ten Remarkable Interpretations”

1 I’m not too old to dance meadowlarks: great punctuation locks in black and blocks, crepuscular and vain the sun in its descent. “You kicked up dust” of which the Ural mountains are but dim reminders through a wooded alley loud as if disturbed in the unbuttoned fog that grays a pedestrian’s silhouette while the passport picture reaching out to me is true or false to tetrahedral nation-states dead in winter water, enzyme ice. I cannot fear to be forgotten a child born another book the dust at dusk of skilled sculptors whose cities sink the swollen toad, her pride flamingoes, lilies, and boy flowers the center of a blue-black vault, history on it, an apron.

2 Language is a victim of its own success while into the carriage comes a louder lyric me of which the Cockscomb Mountains are like apples rotting in the dust that none of us would be content with and a caterpillar’s cud to chew poor tucks can kill, pour tanks, and call. People are forced to live, work, yearn with bourgeois linearity to change this nerdy life upon row upon row upon row of the river pulled further and further apart under the unswallowed elegy of a collared stork. Then productivity as reproductivity ends. Motion gets immobilized by perception into things perceptions get but perception gets it wrong is language. Let’s use it.

3 Doing is highly thought of and frequently abandoned as at a bus stop beside a stunted gingko, and time is tossed a laundry pile large as the crown of a tree or the gravid animal of Pythagoras, and every mathematician dies while runnels vacillate or do nothing astrophysically speaking. Let’s go for eggs and to the bakery. My kid wants to be a puppeteer. But someone must polish glass and since then the refugees weep wax and travel over agate pastures and gag. But we have to trust philosophy—and deny the property where depiction most perfectly depiction depicts. In a faux chateau of finance the proposition is a picture of corn cakes, last crumbs, weapons passing from hand to hand. Let’s rest. Life is fast. As the city rat, resuming, says: “Rudeness is rude.”

4 It can be argued from horseback—the horse a ruby roan as night falls on the shores before an infant knows of time— that there is something in mathematics shorn of ideology. I propose too that there are many things with their capacity to collide or combine with other things in the vicinity (that gravitational field of monsters)— and budding dust small flies: they totter. The public does not need to be convinced. An idiom like Kierkegaard on Halloween gathering twigs and fathering eggs while a stunted thorn frolics in the shade now dead inconsistently down the large white sea does what a poem does, making itself understood.

5 Every situation can be taken as subject to a proposition at stake at this stage of the state. Rejection of a context need not be of one’s own hoeing of the sun, one’s head a building site. Say I rode in on a vicious mule surrounded by leaves under the northern star, the eternal conflict. Say I beat my brow and only put on shows, withered webs, a rigmarole, an atrocity to which I’ll give no words. I refuse it representation. The janitor is innocent, autumn is ill, and cruelty is the rule. I swear you’ll be my father until I die from a flea bite or while beating a metal drum, eating honey and corn like a girl again with an umbrella under a redwood tree with all of which I am in a certain sense one. The roof on trust of hover can’t render love pathetic. I claim too much and yield to the Bighorn Mountains of which the truth of history is but an indifferent silence.

6 Because we refuse to personify the gaping east or deformed west or cranial north or sacrificial south we must accept this box and these panoramas to which we were led through sliding doors just as certain Alpine cliffs reproduce the “head” variants of Mayan “script” with an impersonal cluck to the jeweler. Wherever a human is to be found, there you will find occupation, a skyscraper, a 9-foot copper weathervane, imperial pickles a force plundering an unarmed ceramic bowl. Urban greenbelts lift a feisty allegorical vegetation in human voice above an opium fish, a dime in cinders under the wind and there are wealthy men, skin not yet charred. They are popular as hardware, music, poached eggs, modesty, multicolored snapdragons and the alphabet sacrificed in times of need. I live under the authority of a stucco beehive and a soldier says affectionately to me, You there!

7 We think, we approach, we exist sweep and speak, on ziplines or not. Sayings spread as amusements for children women and men by pony-poets, beetle-poets, crow-poets are voiced by the words themselves and not by anyone speaking them. I dab fingernail polish on six croquet balls. Which of the names of Hercules do you hear and in which of your ways of which the hill behind the soldier bathed in sweat is like a general’s nose or the yellow bowl upturned beside the kitchen sink after I wash it to dry. It’s now a wedding finch a reference to whistling rain a great honesty in the far sacerdotal south. Do they piss on the spider, the aged face of the great organizer on slender evidence, the rising sun that hangs a puppet from my hands?

8 The mountaineer rappels at midnight the wall a wall a wall a woman recalls: a contingent object—it might never have existed then you look at your fists and there are the letters o in admonition, odor, foot. A dog shakes premonitions from its coat lovers of time—time of all kinds— winged insects, mosquitoes mostly but also moths. Welcome, unwelcome, buffeted? Who can make durable wax? Who can knot? The baker is a man and brutalizes wheat and all attempts recall a textual residue of celebrating rats a game of backgammon with dancing kissing getting drunk hugging singing crying when we were leaving war a stumbling block reconstructed and constructed o xank history thistle e tspung hatchet corvid head over human heels, facing a direction wrong or right.

9 Pity combatants on the line who self-concretize, becoming paving stones but I say too loudly that of which I don’t know how to say enough borrowing transcription from a local pebble held in a palm from which a puppet tugs as if pulled by the revolutions of the planets Mercury Saturn or Mars over nearly twelve and a half million days marking time, which is the subject matter of history in which the sun itself bakes the bread then drawn from the oven and cooling under the proprietary nakedness of the caustic trees. So, asked a bee of experience, “How is it that umbrellas are raised against the future of the sun?” Remnants of the past don’t expect us, remnants of the past didn’t foretell us. Our songs are sonically shattered over shortwave by a scop singing the praises of his patron, the racist acquitted—he nods and flees the derelict pattern.

10 People work under the clouds and are direct inheritors of the things that happen every twenty days. What saddle do we use? A wolf has been caught and it sweats. My own sleeps do not unfold in easy procession which is called lustrous, erect, major, and will in some field cease altogether. Then tell me what you have to say. The chains obey, the dogs piss under glass, voracious fish leap from the beams, we do arbitrary things—appear and disappear as leonine as dogs. The first person is made for oneself, denizen of a cult or rubbish heap ready for the evening show in the cavern of centuries. The second is made for you, a respectable human of greenish hue. We had a drink and it cost a house into which we moved, music coming from stone. By Lyn Hejinian, from The Spectacle

#poetry #poem #lyn hejinian #the spectacle