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cometeclipsewriting · 5 years

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Strowlers

Season 1: Episode 1

Chapter 5

AO3 Link

Summary: In a world where magic is both real and illegal, a librarian tries to help protect a young girl discovering her powers, while her girlfriend makes a device that helps to find unregistered magic users.

Full video episode can be found for free here!

“So why us?” The black man asked, one elbow braced on his leg. A pair of worn dog tags swayed as he leaned forward, his chunky scarf wrapped tight around his neck against the cool of the summer night. “We are just a group of old friends sitting around a campfire.” He said easily, the flames alighting the assortment of comrades. One woman’s eyebrows twitched up and smoothed away. “Telling stories and singing songs.” As if in response, the young man with the guitar who had been singing softly dropped his voice and stopped strumming.

“Yeah,” Whit replied, also looking at the small group, “But,” she hunched in, her voice lowering. “You’re more than that. I mean… don’t you…” She flared her hands beneath her blanket, spreading her fingers and wiggling them.

“Hey, lady,” The guitar player interjected. “Don’t you know that’s illegal?”

Whit looked askance at him, confused.

“Oh, course she knows,” the older woman interjected, amusement in her voice. She reached out a hand, and with a snap of her fingers, a sparkling light sphere rose a few inches from her fingertips.

Whit’s mouth opened in wonder, delight in seeing real magic transporting her back to a simpler time. Oh, how she wished she had this gift! She had always hoped that it would manifest, but she was much too old now. Oh, she knew the dangers, the risk of being collared. All that still didn’t mean there wasn’t a part of her who longed for it. The pinkish purple drew the eye, captivating. She knew most magic could not be seen but more something felt by other magic users. She hadn’t known that there had been magic occurring in her library that morning, but the A.R.C. agents had once they were close enough. And when they had bust in, it had exploded into physical manifestation. Wind, leaves, the chaos.

But this, this was manifest to be visible. So that she could see it. Specifically for her.

The other woman looked at her friend sternly, disapprovingly. Their leader also looked wary but the rest of the circle was laughing. “Oops,” the woman said with false contrition, chuckling and letting the magic retreat, their merriment lifting Whit’s mood.

The leader’s next question took her back to the seriousness of why she was here. “What’s the range on this tracking device?”

Shaken, Whit fumbled for an answer. “Uh, I don’t know?” She knew almost nothing about it.

“Can you find out?”

All levity faded. “You mean spy on my girlfriend?” Right now, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be in the same room as Amanda. But… she still loved her. Spying felt all sorts of wrong.

“You wanna help this girl? This Nikki?” He tilted his head, looking at her hard, gauging her responses. “You wanna help people with unfocused magic?”

“Yeah,” Whit breathed out, and started to shake her head. “But I thought…” Well, she wasn’t sure what she had thought. These people, Strowlers, they had magic! Couldn’t they do… something? “If there are people who aren’t registered, who’ve trained themselves, who can do things like I saw in the library? Then why not stand up to the government and fix it?”

All the circle made various expressions of pain, despair, sadness. Obviously, they had lost before.

The young man spoke up, “Oh you mean like, drop the whole fairy godmother bomb?” Sarcasm was prevalent in his every word.

Whit sat back, irritated with him and the faint laughter that rose from his friends. She worked her mouth, preventing herself from snapping at them. So maybe she had thought they could do something like that. Surely they could if they wanted to.

“Whit,” their leader laughed out, “There is no charmed weapons cash. We can’t go in wands blazing against the entire might of the United States Government.” Archanologists were everywhere, in all corners of society. And although A.R.C. was not technically affiliated with the government, Whit had seen just today how much control they truly had. The authorities would do whatever was told of them.

“But-“ She tried to say, but he continued.

“Plus,” He said firmly, “Do you really think we could pull this girl from her mother and carry her off?” He squinted at her as she absorbed that question.

“I’m not sure exactly what I thought,” She confessed, slumping into herself, heartsick. She supposed she had thought she could just tell these people about Nikki, and they would handle it from there. “But I know this tracker is a big deal.” She looked them all in the eyes, and she saw the humor leaving them.

The woman who had made the magic sphere turned to the leader. “Josiah,” she finally gave Whit a name in this secretive group. “Once that device is calibrated,” she said, her voice scratchy, “A.R.C. will be able to locate any of us.” The other woman put her hand over her mouth, the young man finally losing his cocky attitude. Josiah studied his friends, their steady quiet and fear. Whit realized that they lived with this every day, their worry about being discovered. As adults who had hidden their magic their whole lives, A.R.C. would brand them criminals. And they would be burned with little care to the outcome, exploited if they retained usefulness or cast aside completely.

When Josiah looked back to the woman speaker, she met his gaze, a steady, confident look. One Josiah shared. Whit felt a tingle race down her spine at that look. A decision had just been made.

Josiah held out a flat hand to the black woman, waiting expectantly. She recoiled slightly, staring at his hand, then at him. When he didn’t retreat, her face took on a resigned cast, and she reached down to a bag resting next to her.

“When you begin a story, it’s time to finish it.” The black woman slapped the cards into his hand, obviously not agreeing with whatever decision he had made. Josiah continued, his words precise and deliberate, a story in its own way. “You are going to pick a card.” Whit looked beneath her lashes. Pick a card? Like in a magician’s fake magic trick? Josiah shuffled the deck. “Only one rule though, whatever card you pick, you must find a way to incorporate it back into the story you just told us.”

Whit was thoroughly unimpressed, doing everything she could to prevent herself from rolling her eyes. What were they playing at here? She had come to them for help, and they were acting like this was a huge deal. But they wanted her to play a kid’s little story game? “What, like, make it up?” She was not here for this.

“Make it better. More right,” he explained, “You’ll know what to do.”

“But what about what really happened?” Playing pretend wasn’t going to fix this issue.

“Who says things have to be real to be true?” His eyes held hers, a faint smile on his lips. “You and I both know how many sides a story can take in its telling.” That rang with her; she did know. As a librarian, she read the evidence of that first hand.

Josiah fanned out the cards, leaning forward to offer them to her. “Draw,” he commanded, making this a significant occasion. One to be treated reverently.

Still unconvinced, Whit rolled her eyes and sighed as she leaned forward and slipped a card free. Yet, even she could feel the tension the circle radiated.

She looked down on it and felt all the built-up mysticism collapse for her. It was a picture of Josiah and this trashcan fire. The card was called The Storyteller, a numerical number eight at the top. In the card Josiah was standing, his hands raised as if he were gesturing in some grand tale. The trashcan had a strange labyrinthian symbol painted on it, one she thought she may have seen before, but was not on the real trashcan. A continuous line started in the middle and dropped to the outside of the design, looping back and forth inside itself as it got closer and closer to circle the center before leaving the pattern. It felt complete in a way, but confusing. And that was it. No secret, no real help. Irritation rose, and she flipped it around to show the group.

They all flinched, some expressing disbelief, while others wary acceptance. Whit shook her head at the momentous reaction to some stupid card. “I don’t get it.”

Josiah pressed his lips together tightly, staring at the card. He clicked his mouth open and leaned into the light, seeming to pick his words carefully before he continued. “Every story is a labyrinth.” He held up the deck of cards, showing her the same design that was on the card’s trashcan was printed on the back of the deck as well. “You begin a journey to the center, then wind your way out of it and end up somewhere new. But while you are in the center, you have a chance to change things.”

Whit looked at the card in her hand and saw that it was not quite the same as the design on the back. The card in her hand had a Shepherd's hook at the start and finish, while the design on the back started and finished with complete circles. Why the difference? And what did he mean, while in the center of a story you have the chance to change things? “How?”

“The best fictions are the ones surrounded by truth.” Whit just looked at him, confused and irritation.

The woman who had showed her the magic chimed in. “And the right story,” She whispered, stars in her eyes, “Can change the world.”

Goosebumps rippled down Whit’s arms. She slowly licked her lips, staring at the fire. She also knew that. Had seen books and stories changed everything. But her telling one around a campfire to a tiny group of people? She raised her gaze, colliding with the power of Josiah’s eyes. “Once upon a time…” He slowly started for her, leaving the words hanging for her to continue. So, she took a breath, rolled her eyes, raised the card she had drawn, and started her story again.

***

“Hi!” Whit said, looking at the black man in a warm scarf, shabby coat and dog tags who was looking around the Collaborative as if he had never seen the place before, a slightly startled look in his eyes. “Can I help you?” She nodded her head towards the table next to her. “Cup of coffee?”

He stared at her for a moment before nodding his head, “Please.” She turned and poured him a cup, using a blue ceramic camping mug she hadn’t known they had.

The man looked around enthusiastically, taking in all the different activities packed into the space. As she handed the mug to him, a patron came up and asked her, “Do we have another, uh-“ In this story, Whit already knew what he wanted.

“Looking for another power strip? Check the cooking class,” and she directed him to the wall with all the spare gadgets. She rolled back to her desk in time to see Amanda open the door. The black man stepped out of Amanda’s way, moving around her as Amanda set the take out down onto the counter.

Whit stood as she had before, communicating with her girlfriend silently. The man moved to Amanda’s side, looking at her intently. He waved one hand in front of Amanda’s face, jerking Whit from the eye contact. But Amanda didn’t see him. Whit blinked, surprised. “Oooh,” Josiah breathed, pointing between the two women. “I see.”

This wasn’t how the conversation had gone. She lightly shook her head, trying to get back to how it had happened. Across the space, the computer sparked, a flame leaping to life. Suddenly Josiah stood behind the computer and slowly passed his hand over the fire. The flame lifted away and vanished. The same patron who now carried a power cord told her, “All good. Fire’s out.” The little group laughed as they had before, not observing the man who had just used magic to make the flames disappear. Whit focused on telling the story.

Soon, Whit and Amanda were nestled on the couch. Only this time, Josiah sat in the chair next to the couch, looking through her bag. Amanda told her, “They said end it.”

“The hell,” Whit lifted her hand from Amanda’s hair, “They have no right to dictate what they do with your own time.”

Amanda continued from Whit’s memory, “The people who pay for my training-“ But this time, her attention turned to where Josiah pulled out her little compact, opening it up and staring at it. Whit made a face at him, incredulous that he was just blatantly going through her things.

“You know what’s funny here?” Josiah spoke to the mirror. “She doesn’t see me. Then, she doesn’t see you either.” Whit frowned and looked at Amanda, who was continuing as if nothing had changed. Still talking about archanologists having to grow up. “Take a look,” Josiah held out the mirror to her, the symbol of her ritual. The one she did every time things got out of control. She would stare into a mirror and collect herself, serious and hidden within.

She reached out a hand and took it from him, her reflected brown eyes darkened. “You smile,” he continued, “but you don’t let anyone in.” Whit dropped the mirror and looked away, irritated that he was judging her. “Don’t let anyone see the messed-up girl behind the charm.”

Whit snapped the mirror closed and bit out, “Why are you psychoanalyzing me?” She handed the compact back to him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he told her, flipping it over and over in his fingers. “You’re the storyteller here.”

Whit burst up off the couch, “That’s bull, and you know it.” She had timed it exactly as it had happened in real life, but the words and actions were to something else. She strode away, as she had done before.

Josiah drawled, “Don’t trust anybody, and they won’t let you down huh?” He looked to where Amanda settled against the couch, a knowing look in his eyes.

Whit frowned, caught between this new narrative and the old. “What are you gonna do with your research?” She asked Amanda, following the script.

“What are you gonna do when you end up alone?” Josiah asked her, voicing a question she hadn’t ever wanted to ask herself. But it was one she had pushed down and hidden when she had wondered earlier in the night. When Amanda had made it sound like she was breaking things off with her. Now the conversation with Amanda froze, the one with Josiah seeming to have made a pocket of time that existed outside of it. The question she had scarcely allowed herself to think kept her from continuing the original conversation.

Was Whit the storyteller here? Or was Josiah somehow asking the exact right questions as she was telling her tale? Josiah rubbed his fingers over the design etched into the compact, staring at her. “If they only know what you show them…” he trailed off and held up her mirror, raising his eyebrows knowingly.

Whit shook her head and whispered, confused and a little scared, “It’s just a compact.”

Josiah raised his eyebrows again, his question not needing to be said allowed. Is that really all it is? The silence stretched for a long moment, potent with the unasked words.

Josiah broke it by asking, “What does Nikki need right now?”

The jump in thought made Whit’s brows furrow, made her lick her lips and consider the question. “If they are going to catch her and I can’t stop it?” Josiah made an agreement noise. Whit thought for a moment more and said, “She is going to need to be strong.” She thought of all those who changed after they were burned. The husks of people mechanically doing what they were told to do, or those who were burned so badly they could do nothing. Of Nikki’s father. “To retain who she is no matter what they do to her.”

Josiah looked at her closely. “And who’s the expert at putting up walls?” He asked her slowly, pointedly.

The questions sunk into Whit, altered her in a way she wasn’t sure of.

Just then, the conversation with Amanda clicked back into play. “This isn’t some fairytale,” Amanda bit out, shifting Whit slowly back to what had happened. “This is about saving people here, in the real world.” What was the difference between a fairytale and real life when it was all a story?

Josiah shifted in his seat, looking at Amanda. “Is that really what you think archanology is doing?” Whit asked softly, disbelieving.

“Yes. I damn well do think that.” Amanda punched out, every line of her rigid with the strength of her conviction.

Whit felt Josiah’s eyes on her again, but she just shook her head at Amanda. “Who are you?” She backed up and collected her jacket.

“Whit!” Amanda bit out, disbelieving. “Wait!”

Whit spun around as she had before, but this time was… different. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was sad. How had she failed to reach this coldness in Amanda? How had she missed the signs of this fervency? Or was it more likely she had just ignored them? Her philosophy of not asking questions so others wouldn’t ask questions about her. If she hadn’t walled away her emotions, and avoided all potential conflict, could they have talked about this? Discovered a way for Amanda to soften and see just what archanology was taking away from people?

Whit shook her head, looking to where Josiah still sat and played with her compact, drawing her eyes to it. No more walls, no more hiding her truth away in a mirror. “I need some space,” she told Amanda, voice trembling slightly. Amanda’s attitude changed from indignation, softening and confused. “I do love you, but I feel like we are lost in the woods without a compass.” She stepped toward Josiah and he offered up her bag.

Whit slung it over her shoulder and stared at Amanda, shaking her head slightly. This was strange, this whole conversation taking on a new cast and feel. She needed to think about, think it through.

Behind her, Amanda shut parted lips, her eyes fluttering as she looked down, expression changing to something Whit couldn’t decipher.

Whit closed the door to the Collaborative in her story. A sudden flash of her drawing the card from Josiah’s deck played in her mind, and then she opened her eyes to life.

It was morning. Pre-dawn. The sky a blue bright enough to see. She was where she had sat, wrapped in the blanket she had been in last night. Only this time she was alone. The trashcan fire was burnt to ash, the stumps where the group, the Strowlers, had been arranged were still in a circle but lacked any signs that they had been occupied at all.

She stood and threw off her blanket, confused. Had she fallen asleep somehow? And they had just left her? Or maybe she had had a mental breakdown after leaving Amanda in anger, thought she had found Strowlers, but in fact just wandered here and fallen asleep?

No. She looked down at the card in her hand. The Storyteller, the labyrinth. It had all happened, but nothing had changed. And somehow it was the next morning.

Whit looked up, and saw the main A.R.C. building in Seattle, framed through power lines and cargo cranes. Whit firmed her jaw. Her little foray into pretend hadn’t done anything. She had to get to work and figure out what to do to help Nikki.

Angrily she crossed her jacket tighter and started walking the miles she needed to cross. Looking down at the card she held, the design on the trashcan, she huffed out a breath and shook her head. What a waste of a night. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it to the side and continued to walk to the library.

#strowlers #magic #fantasy #fiction #f/f #original #modern day #seattle

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ao3-hipster-fangirl-trash · 6 years

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For Pity XV

Masterlist

Overall Summary: Sigyn, queen of Vanaheim, is gifted a consort by the Allfather of Asgard, unknown to her, said consort happens to be his adopted son; Loki, and the only reason he was ‘gifted’ was that he should be someone elses’ problem.

Chapter Summary: Loki explains to Sigyn exactly why Thor thinks he's dead, and a few other things.

Word Count: 1387

Note: Inspired by @nanihoosartblog and her awesome loki x sigyn consort AU! go and check it out!

btw if you want more frequent updates for this story here’s my ao3 account: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superwholocked_wizard

Notes: Fluff?

“Beg your pardon?”

Loki’s eyes had yet to dry of tears, still they pursued through his slightly life changing revelation.

“He doesn’t know I’m alive and, well… blue.”

Sigyn sighed and drew back slightly, not to distance herself from fear, but rather to be able to see him more clearly and gauge his reaction, fearing certain questions may trigger him again.

“Why exactly does he think you’re, well, dead?” Loki took in a deep, shaky breath, trying his best to compose himself from the conversation which was to arise.

He pulled Sigyn back, who had just gone to the standing position, and brought her to him so that his head was resting in her stomach, trying its best to stop the tears of both guilt and fear which were still flowing freely, despite his somewhat even breathing. She stood above him, and began to untangled his raven locks, which she found had a habit of hiding his face, should they want to.

“I made a mistake.” He whispered into her gown, carrying the words almost like a secret.

Sigyn made no move to stop him, but none to egg him on either. Should he want to speak of it he would.

“I was supposed to die, I had been stabbed, I thought I was dead, turned out not.” Alright, he did want to speak of it.

Sigyn kept brushing her hands through his hair, endlessly curious of where this story was to go, and somewhat horrified that the opening line was of death and mutilation, and yet she kept silent, not wanting to disturb him in any way.

“We were trying to stop a catastrophe, we were on Svartalfheim, fighting dark elves whom were hell bent on universal darkness, and Thor’s lover seemed to have found possession of an infinity stone,” he took a breath, before continuing, “and so she was to be a weapon. We fought, I came against a cursed whom I stabbed.”

His words were becoming strained, his breathing beginning to pick up pace again. Sigyn dropped to be lower than him so she could look in his teary eyes. They were completely unfocused and staring at a place which didn’t exist.

She took his hand in hers, trying to give some sort of comfort, which he acknowledged by applying pressure to it, in order to reassure himself of reality.

“He stabbed me.” Sigyn felt her breath hitch, trying her hardest not to imagine Loki, lying on the barren grounds of Svartalfheim, injured and bleeding to death, and yet all she could see was the wound, the fear.

“And, you survived?” He took in another shaky breath, managing to compose himself.

“A scout found me, dragged me back to Asgard and presented me to the king.” She could feel him shaking, not wanting to continue past that point. She got the general idea, he pretended to die and a now morally corrupt Odin, grieving his wife and lacking a son, decided to take his grief out on his ‘son’. She didn’t need to hear the details of it, and nor would she ever force Loki to tell such things.

He opened his mouth to continue but all that came out was silence, his eyes were screwed shut and he had stopped breathing, trying to repress the sobs which were threatening to overtake him once more.

Instead of calming him, Sigyn let a wave of sadness engulf them both, finding it more necessary for him to grieve what had happened rather than repress, leading to him sobbing into the shoulder of her gown, both of them sat on the floor and holding one another as if their lives depended on it.

He simply cried, for as long as necessary. Sigyn did not fuel the sadness, finding that he only needed that small push to allow himself to feel, and instead decided to remain with him in her arms till he tired himself out or stopped crying, whichever came first.

Whilst he cried, he choked out incoherent phrases, the clearest being: “Mother, it was all my fault,” before another wave of despair hit him harder that the hammer his brother wielded.

His tears seemed to be infinite, along with the list of crimes he professed in her ear in almost complete gibberish, however more than once she heard the words ‘it hurt too much’ and more than once she heard talk of murders, or accidental deaths, however every time he said it, it seemed to weigh him down more than relieve him, possibly because talking of it, sharing it with Sigyn was more of a punishment to himself, rather than an atonement.

Because when confessing to a priest, the priest can’t leave.

He knew full well the more he confessed, the more likely she was to leave, yet he couldn’t stop speaking. He spoke of his torture induced Midguardian murder spree, and how he had never felt more disgusted with himself than when his body, contradicting his screaming mind, had raised a weapon against a brave old man. He spoke of how scared he was when he first woke up after his attempted suicide by falling down a black whole. He spoke of so many things which burdened him, and whilst it lightened his guilty gut, his heart became heavier and heavier with the fear she would stand and walk away, for fear of disgust of him.

He was certain that she could barely understand the verbal mess which was exiting him at over 100 miles per hour, but he was certain he heard her breath hitch when he spoke of his mother, and her death.

Eventually, he tired himself out, every word that had left him had taxed him more than the last, his tear ducts had run out of liquid to lose and his whole body was shaking from sheer exhaustion. He had tucked himself into Sigyn’s still present arms, enjoying simply laying on her whilst she still ran her hand soothingly through his hair. His eyes were heavy and yet he refused to let them close.

He nuzzled his forehead into her neck, trying to get comfortable, and enjoying how she brought her hands around his waist and drew him closer to her.

“Do you want to go to bed?” The gentle nod of his head registered on her collar bone.

Sigyn sighed and adjusted her grip so that it was under his arms, and tried hoisting him up, only to have him whine slightly and wrap his arms around her neck, and his legs around her hips. He nuzzled back into her neck, seemingly asserting that, whilst he wanted sleep, he didn’t need a bed to do so.

Instead of complaining, Sigyn adjusted her grip yet again and wrapped her arms around his waist, before standing up and carrying a very clingy Loki with her, whom was either laughing in her neck or sniffing, most likely laughing.

She laid him down on the bed, only to find he refused to let go, and instead tightened his grip, bringing her down on the bed in an odd yet comforting embrace.

“Loki?” He groaned into her neck, almost slumbering.

“Loki I have to change.” His grip tightened more.

“Don’t go.”

She froze, stopping her attempts to dislodge him from her, and instead remained completely still. She tried her best not to put all of her weight on Loki and instead of pulling away, rewrapped her arms around him and pulled herself onto the bed once more, curling around him protectively.

“Alright.”

She brought her chin on to his forehead and rested there, holding him ever closer to her body. She felt him shift slightly, his legs curling into his body rather than wrapped around hers, leaving him in the foetal position with her embracing him.

“Would I have to meet him?” His voice was sleepy, almost not registering the question asked.

“Not necessarily, if you want you can stay here.” She buried her face in his hair, allowing herself to relax into the embrace.

He sighed and shook his head.

“He has to know at some point, I suppose.”

Sigyn hummed in agreement, letting sleep begin to sink its claws into her.

“About you being alive, or that you’re.. blue?”

She heard a chuckle and felt him look up towards her.

“Both, I supposed.”

#loki #loki fanfiction #loki headcannon #marvel fanfiction #marvel headcannon #marvel #loki x ofc #loki x ofc headcannon #loki x ofc fanfiction #loki x sigyn #loki x sigyn fanfiction #loki x sigyn headcannon #sigyn #sigyn fanfiction #sigyn headcannon

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