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sabraeal · 2 years

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and all my winding roads have led me here (to you), Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2022, Day 1: Beauty and the Beast Kindness, Night, Curse

The (Clarines) version of the song sung in this fic is this one written by @what-plant-metaphor-am-i! The second I heard it I knew it would have to be the one I used for the fic; hopefully she enjoys the raunchy Tanbarun version I made in return

I’m not much for people, Obi told her once, back before they’d known just how much coal would last a burner for a winter night, or how many miles of a sea a ship could cut across with all hands and sails unfurled. I don’t tend to stick around.

And yet, as the scholars of Lilias press around him, laughing at the flaps on his cap or plucking at the golden buttons of his coat, she realizes: he’s rarely without a crowd. In the training yard the recruits follow him like ducklings, waddling after him with wide eyes and rounder mouths; in the palace’s halls he’s always flanked by Makiri and his captains, discussing some patrol or another; and here, with her scholars, he’s the life of the party, everyone jostling elbows to come close and chuckle at the latest joke going round the guardhouse. No matter where she takes him, Obi is at the center of everything, and she--

She doesn’t know how to break through. Not the way she would have just minutes ago, slipping though with a smile and enjoying the way his arm would relax beneath her palm. Your cheeks are flushed, she’d say, a tease and a scold wrapped up in one. Don’t you know you need to keep warm up on your wall?

How easy it would have been to lead him away, to sit him by the fire and fend off the offers of too many drinks, curling into his side as simply as she always had and let his voice ease the hours away.

And now it is impossible. Yuzuri’s giggle echoes in her ears, and no matter which way she turns it over him her mind, looks like Obi needs to be warmed up, no longer conjures those conversations cozened in a forgotten corner, but instead--

Instead she thinks of his coat. Not this one the guard has given him, too short to warm much of anything, only making him look tall and lean beneath the heft of his cloak, but the old one. It’d hung long, the way Mitsuhide’s always had, more tunic than jacket in the Sereg way. Even when it fell open at the collar, Shirayuki had thought it looked warm, like a blanket someone might huddle under while the snow fell.

And it’s only a hop, a skip, a jump to think of it open to the waist, of how she might be so small as to fit inside it so long as she pressed close. How his own heat might mingle with hers, the way it had beneath the covers on Lilias’s coldest nights, and he--

Oh no, he’s coming toward her.

It’s tempting to do what’s always worked before: turn tail and run, hoping her good sense can catch up to her before he can. But there’s no use; if Zen chased her down in that wood without even breaking a sweat, a crowded room won’t even make Obi break stride. All it might get her is hurt feelings, and Obi-- Obi deserves better than that from her. He’s earned better than that.

So instead she plants herself on the carpet with all the courage of a deer before a carriage, legs trembling from the effort.

“Miss!” He can’t have grown since this morning, and yet she doesn’t remember having to crane her neck so much to bridge the gulf between their eyes. “I thought I saw you hiding back here.”

“I’m not hiding.” For all her speculation about the sort of warmth she could steal if she burrowed under his jacket, she hardly needs it. He stands close enough that she could reach out her hand and touch him with arm to spare, and still she feels his heat, barely muted by fabric and space. “I was just...cutting the cake.”

His glove splays over his chest; a gesture meant to be a joke, rather than a reminder of how large his hands are. “Without me? The guest of honor?”

“It’s not as if you’re the only one,” she informs him loftily. “There’s three of us, and we did have a majority.”

His brows lift, just enough to crinkle his scar. “That’s a very democratic celebration from a royal pharmacist.”

Her mouth twitches. “I get it from my father.”

“Now that I can see.” There’s a light in his eyes as he leans closer, a spark that dances as he says, “And Yuzuri getting punchy around drink three for something with enough cream to moo might have helped too, huh?”

“W-well.” Her back bumps into the table, jostling the dishes. “That might have had something to do with it.”

His hum rumbles in her ears, loud as if she were touching him, as if her bones themselves were conducting the sound even though there’s enough space still for someone to slip between them. It’s her only warning before that space disappears, the scent of leather and winter’s chill washing over her as Obi reaches out, lighting fast, to swipe a swirl of cream.

That would be bad enough to set her poor heart galloping in her chest, confused and skittish as a horse without its blinders, but then his mouth closes around that finger, sucking off the cream, and-- and--

Her mind goes utterly blank.

“Delicious,” he sighs, tongue trailing over his lips. “I’ll give it to Yuzuri, she sure knows how to pick a cake.”

“Here,” Shirayuki manages, her voice sounding as if it’s coming from down the hall rather than her own mouth. “Have some.”

It’s nothing to lift a plate from the table and shove it into his hands, and yet, she still nearly mangles it, getting half his fingers covered in frosting and the other half all tangled up in her own. If she’d been hoping to make some space between them, she’s sure done a botch job of it.

His skin has always been darker than hers, copper to her ivory, but it’s all the more apparent when his fingers wiggle, cream wobbling treacherously where it’s heaped on his knuckles. Obi blinks, eyes wide as he contemplates the mess she’s made, and the moment he opens his mouth, she-- she--

Well, she can’t help but wonder if he’ll lick them clean.

He doesn’t. “Here I was coming over here to see if I could get you something. And instead you’re the one getting me cake.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me,” she assures him, too breathless, not at all contemplating the uses of her own tongue. Not like it’s doing anything useful right now besides making her stumble over every word anyway. “It’s right here! if I want something I can just get it.”

It’s obscene how his mouth curls, that lop-sided smile of sending a jolt of-- of something straight down to her toes and back again. “I wasn’t talking about the cake.”

There’s a rumble in his chest, and-- and it must be new. It wouldn’t startle her otherwise, jolting her one step back and making all the silverware clatter on the tablecloth. “Y-you weren’t? Then--?”

But if he did want you. Yuzuri’s slur burrows into her ears, a burr she can’t shake off. Would that change anything?

It wouldn’t. It couldn’t, because it’s-- it’s impossible. Obi may be discreet, but he’s not subtle, not about something like this. If he’d been able to keep his opinions to himself, Mitsuhide wouldn’t need to look over his shoulder every time he picked up a dropped paper. On the other hand, Kiki wouldn’t know just how powerful she was without her coat on in the yard, and, well--

The point is, if Obi felt even the slightest stirring when she entered the room, he would have-- she would have--

“I thought you might want a drink.” His chin bobs toward her. “You’re over here empty handed when we all know just how you feel about Suzu’s cider.”

This time he does raise his hand, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he bends to take it into his mouth, and she--

She squeaks. “I don’t think I’ll be drinking tonight.”

That draws him up short, unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately? Shirayuki can’t tell. “Miss, are you--?”

“I think I hear Yuzuri,” she blurts out, skirting a step around him. “Calling me, that is. So I better...”

She tries for an elegant bob of the head, something that said I’m leaving while also implying, but not for any reason that concerns you. Hopefully with enough confidence to add, don’t check.

If the way Obi’s eyebrows furrow is any indication, she fails on every count. “Miss, is there something--?”

She’d been hoping for a graceful exit, but in the end, Shirayuki will take full-on flight over having to talk about this any day.

“See you later,” she manages, nearly tripping over one of the girls from the geology department. “Enjoy the cake!”

In the end, Shirayuki does take that drink, though from a far safer distance if not from a steadier pair of hands.

“Here.” Yuzuri presses a warm mug on her with a laugh, cider sloshing over the rim. “Looks like you need it.”

Shirayuki suspects that she might be right.

It’s by the same magic that Yuzuri manages the second; appearing out of the crowd like some otherworldly creature, hair a tangled halo and earmuffs askew, before disappearing once more. Someone’s brought out a mandolone, and another a pipe, and with half the pharmacy’s day shift beating their hands on the table, something approaching music hangs in the air.

“Well the first snow has fallen,” a voice strains against the noise, pitched too high too start and too soft to hold, “and the second, third and fourth--”

She loses the thread of the melody, but it comes back in force when half the party shouts out, “Because we’re up so bloody north!”

A giggle bubbles out of her, and though these aren’t the words she’d grown up with-- those wouldn’t be fit for this sort of company, no matter what Yuzuri likes to encourage her to-- her toes set to tapping, and when it comes time for the second verse, she shouts out as loud the rest of the revelers, “cos we get twice the night!”

It’s then that her ear catches his voice, keeping up with the third verse, even if the rest of them can only stumble through. There’s as many as twelve to this one-- Suzu told her once when he’d found some notes about it in the archives, trying to win a bet about the wording of completely different song-- but she’s never heard more than five, and most of the scholars seem to know only a the first two plus whichever verse tickles them most.

But Obi’s always been a quick learner; when the last of his fellow singers bow out with a laugh, he tells the mandolone player to pick up the pace and launched into--

Ah, well. The verses she knew. At least, as much as she could hear through her grandmother’s hands.

“’Let us lay down together,’ the little herbwife said--” it’s strange how loud her voice is in her ears, the burr of his deepest notes shivering through her bones where he tempts the edge of his range-- “for a back on the mattress is the best treatment for the head--”

Ah, she’s never quite noticed that entendre, not until Obi’s smile wraps around it like a promise.

“--now the answer to your problem with which your questions begs--” the melody stretches his talents the other way now, climbing up the octave, but his voice doesn’t crack an inch-- “has always been best found right between the legs.”

It shouldn’t mean anything, not at all, but his eyes meet hers and-- and--

Obi looks like he knows a lot about that, Yuzuri had said, too confident. A lot, a lot--

Her hand slaps to her cheek, not nearly cool enough to quell its burning. That’s quite enough of that.

Yuzuri ambushes her with the third drink, flushed and jingling from the bells someone’s hung around her neck. Shirayuki’s tempted to wave her off-- the room’s already starting to sway, and if she tries anything more athletic than wall-leaning, she might have some distinct issues with the direction of flow in her esophageal region-- but instead she takes it, nursing it like Lata does his rocks.

It’s a mistake; this many drinks makes her thoughtful. If Obi had been watching, he would have kept her from making it. Occupational hazard, he would have told her, plucking it from her hand. Don’t need to be following you off any towers tonight.

But he’s not. No, instead he’s caught in a corner with a handful of scholars from the philosophical sciences, looking more entertained by the minute. One of them can’t be much older than Ryuu, but her head tilts just so, a fountain of loose blonde curls frothing over her shoulder, and her hand comes to rest on his arm. Obi glances down, eyebrows lifting barely more than a twitch, and she expects him to slip away, to put space between them the way he always does when she attempts to bridge that gulf.

And yet, he doesn’t. Instead his lips curl at one corner, those sharp eyes of his fixed to where hers keep flapping. The way Zen’s would after his interest wandered, weary of more mundane matters and eager to-- to--

Ah. Well. Perhaps she shouldn’t be watching so closely then. It may be a public venue, but there’s no reason for her to spy on anything so, er, intimate. Or at least, heading toward that quarter. Obi deserves better than serving as her entertainment.

Still, it’s an effort to look away, to drag her attention anywhere but where he stands, the same way it had been when she and Zen had stumbled upon his date in the marketplace all those years ago. I’m done with all that, he’d laughed later, walking her home. Too messy for me.

But now...

She shakes her head. He couldn’t have been twenty-five when he said that, still struggling to grow much more than stubble on his cheeks. Shirayuki may have chosen plants over a partner, a career over being cooped up in the castle, but that doesn’t mean that Obi has to follow suit.

He’d never shown much of an interest, abstaining from all the same banquets and being flowers on all the same walls when propriety forced them into them anyway, but she can understand how it might appeal to a commander of the guard when so many of his junior officers were so keen to be wed. Just last week, Hiro had come by her office to give her the invitation to his in person, beaming as he told her about the lady scholar he’d be making his wife in only a month’s time.

If that’s what Obi wants, then she’s happy to support him. It’s only--

If he had been an option, Yuzuri’s words echo, loud even in the din, would that have changed anything?

It’s silly to even entertain it. She never had been, save for maybe those first few weeks, when he was all sharp edges and she might have posed some challenge. But now that he knows her-- maybe even better than anyone ever has--

Well, he would have done something, wouldn’t he? Said something. He flirts with her the same as anyone, but there’s no heat in it; he only likes to skirt propriety, to see what might make her squirm. If there was any more to it than that, he’d seek out her touch rather than tolerate it, closing that distance between their bodies for some other reason than duty. A hand on her hip, a breath over the skin over her neck, pin her to a wall...

Oh! Well. The cider might have warmed her, but that’s done quite a bit more. An interesting idea to think on, for...academic purposes. Not because--

“Looks like you’re just about done for the night.”

There’s laughter in Obi’s eyes as he slips the mug from her numb fingers. Her eyes catch on his open collar as he bends, gaping to bear the touchable skin of his throat. “H-huh?”

“You’re all flushed.” He smiles, one side tugging higher than the other, more fond than salacious. “You want to catch a breath, Miss? Maybe take a turn outside?”

“Ah...” She considers the room, the thick press of bodies that only seems to grow more cloying as the night goes on-- and then thinks of how it would be if it were just her and Obi, his heat radiating through the wool of his coat--

Shirayuki bobs her head, hoping it’s the right direction for a yes.

“Good,” he sighs, a laugh hidden inside it. “I’m dying to be able to hear myself think for a minute.”

Lilias may no longer be steeped in winter, the cold no longer burning every sliver of skin uncovered, but snow still coats what’s not cobble, squatting in slumped piles made months before. The breeze riffles through her cloak like a thief, still brisk even if it lacks all the bite of the nights before, stealing the break from her lungs and warmth from her pockets.

To think, if she stayed in Wistal, she would be wearing linen instead of wool and still sweating. Ah, no, worse-- her birthday would be a day earmarked on the court’s social calendar, a momentous occasion for her to fed and feted until she could hardly stand to see another cake. There would be no time to stand beneath the night sky, tracing the same lines the ancient scholars did between the stars; no quiet to escape to when the din grew too loud. Princesses lived for their people, after all.

There were reasons she hadn’t chosen that life. Good ones, better than just simple inconvenience. But tonight, as her breath mists trails into the late spring chill, it’s the petty ones that give her the most comfort.

A cape drops heavily across her shoulders, chasing away winter’s icy fingers. Her hands fly up, but she only manages to brush fingertips before Obi’s touch scuttles away. There it is again; she reaches, he retreats.

And yet it’s not far enough for his warmth to leave her, a tangible pressure at her shoulder. “Something the matter, Miss?”

She blinks, craning her neck until she meets the concern in his eyes. “Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” A corner of his mouth threatens to cant, trembling where he holds it steady. A perfect place for lips, her mind offers her, unbidden. “Which means you’re up to something.”

“Oh!” She tears her gaze away, letting it skitter over the stones like snow on the wind. “No. I wasn’t...I was only thinking.”

His laugh clouds the corner of her vision. “Ah, Miss. Don’t you know that’s worse?”

It’s odd to be so low at this time of night; usually their nighttime wanderings bring them along the wall, the whole of Lilias spread out beneath their feet. But tonight there are no twinkling lights below them, only the ones above, caught in the aurora’s current. “Should I be dissatisfied with my life, do you think?”

He shifts at her shoulder, all that confidence of his turned uncertain. She has a gift for doing that to him, for some reason. “Wanna run that by me again?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do at thirty, isn’t it?” She deflates with a sigh, her back bowing into his chest. He stiffens beneath the touch, but tolerates it. He likes her that much at least. “Think you haven’t done enough.”

“Ha.” The sound rattles along her spine before it ever makes it out of his mouth. “I think that’s for other people, Miss. Ones who haven’t spread Phostyrias across the North, or helped keep a civil war from spilling across Clarines soil. Or has that-- that stuff--?”

Rumor might paint Obi’s tongue silver, but it doesn’t make science any easier for him to speak. “Fervidus argens.”

“Right, that.” His shoulder twitches at her back, at least half a shrug. “Someone who hasn’t made that into something more than a bad night at the banquet.”

“I suppose that’s all impressive.” Her fingers clench at his cape, drawing it tighter around her shoulders until she’s enveloped in his scent, leather and pine and southern spice. “But...”

“But?”

“There’s things I haven’t done.” Her head tilts, just enough to meet his eyes as she tells him, “Gotten you to say my name, for one.”

Obi’s skin isn’t one to show a blush, not even as pale as it’s gotten up here, away from the sun. But still, his ears pink, just at the tips. “Miss...”

She takes pity on him, turning her attention back to the stars. “And according to Yuzuri, I’ve missed out on my chance for romance.”

He’s quiet then; the sort that’s far too thoughtful for something so silly, lasting entirely too long.

“If you wanted that,” he begins, voice rough as if he’d let a team of horses drag it gate to gate both ways. “Master would have--”

“Please.” Her hand flies into the space between them, and oh, she’s clearly had too much, since her fingertips take extra care in closing his mouth. “Don’t do that. I’m not-- I wasn’t trying to talk about Zen. There’s no regrets there, Obi. We did what was right for the both of us.”

And one of us was hurt far less by it than we expected, she nearly says, but his silence stifles it the way words never could. It’s not an absence of sound, the way she’s used to, but one that prickles with what’s unsaid. She and Zen might have said their piece about the dwindling end of their road together, but Obi-- Obi had only watched.

His jaw flexes beneath her hand, and she lets it fall away. It would serve her right if he scolded her now; leaving Zen behind had been her choice, but Obi’s future had always been mixed up in theirs, the way Kiki or Mitsuhide’s never was. His position depended on her being the second prince’s princess, someone deserving of protection, and she-- she let it all slip through her fingers, as easy as sand through an hourglass.

Whatever she expects, it’s not for him to say, “Did you want one? A romance?”

“No.” It comes out harsher than she means. “I mean, it’s never been a priority. I’ve always had other things to worry about. But sometimes...”

Her mouth works, but it take a few minutes before she manages to get out, “Sometimes I think about my mother. And my father. They had me when they were hardly twenty, and I...”

She swallows, hard. “I wonder if by choosing all this, I’ve given up to have that. Ah, have a family, I mean.”

It’s a silly thing, she knows it, but Obi doesn’t laugh. No, when she turns to look at him, he’s serious, those narrow brows of his drawn tight over the blade of his nose. “You know, if you’re worried about that, you could do what Yuzuri did.”

Shirayuki blinks. “What’s that?”

White flashes in the dim. “Make a pact with Suzu.”

“W-wha--?”

He slips around her, grin far too wide. “If she’s thirty and no one better’s come along, then he’ll get her pregnant.”

Distantly, she’s aware that her jaw’s just hanging there, open for the world to see, but there’s little and less she can do about it. “Yuzuri did what?”

He’s far too pleased when he offers, “I bet if you hurry, Suzu would be happy to help you too.”

Perhaps if she hadn’t sipped at that last cider, she might be able to hide her grimace. Or at least soften it into something else.

“Aw, c’mon, Miss. Don’t be like that.” His grin only widens, hovering far too close. “Think about it. Your kids would be half-siblings! Other girls might have double weddings, but you’d be sister wi--”

Her hand jumps up again, covering his mouth. This is becoming a bad habit. “I don’t want children that badly!”

It’s terrible how nice it feels to have his finger wrap around her wrist, even worse than the smile that presses into her palm. He pulls it down just enough to eke out, “But a sibling would be good for Little Ryuu--”

“Oh shush,” she murmurs, even as she lets her hand go limp in his grip. “He’s old enough to be a father himself, if he wanted.”

Obi shudders. “Perish the thought. But if you don’t want Suzu, there’s plenty of books in the library. I bet if you asked Kazaha--”

Her cheeks hurt from the way they pull. “Kaza--? Obi, you know that he--”

“You’re right,” Obi agrees too easily. “He’d never go for it out of the gate. Maybe if you went to one of his poetry readings?”

A laugh bursts out of her, unbidden. “Oh, please, stop.”

“What about the guy in geology? What’s his name?” Obi never forgets a name or a face, especially one that’s introduced itself to her. But he makes a good show of it, using her own fingers to tap his chin as he muses, “Daiki? Daisuke?”

“Daichi,” she supplies wearily, tamping down on the laugh that threatens to bubble out. “And I don’t want him or Kazaha to father my children, thank you.”

“Playing hard to get, are you?” he hums, brows leaping up his forehead. “Well, I suppose we could send out for Shikito. Or maybe ask Miss Kiki if she’d be willing to let Mister out of the stables--”

“Obi!” It’s impossible keep that laugh behind her teeth, not when she’s already gasping as he winds up to offer the next crop of unfortunately. “Please! I don’t want either of them. Or any of these ridiculous...parent pacts! I only--”

He tugs on her wrist, and it’s a misjudgement on his part; even without the cider, her laughter makes her helpless. They both stumble, careening back until his hits a pillar, and she--

She lands squarely on his chest. Or maybe his stomach, from the way he winces.

“Oh, come on, Miss,” he groans, head leaning back against the column. “Just give me a name. No, a hint. I promise--”

“If I was going to choose anyone,” she blurts out, too breathless, “it would be you.”

Her wrist aches where he grips it, so hard she nearly winces before it falls away altogether. He might have even put more space between them, if she wasn’t resting directly on his chest, palms keeping him pinned to the pillar. Instead he just stares down at her, wary as a cat caught in a corner, eyes too large in his face.

“I didn’t mean...” That I want to have sex with you, she means to say, except-- except she’s all too aware now why her breath quickens when he enters a room, or why her stomach flips when he bends closer than he usually dares, smile near enough to see the cracks on his lips. “It’s only that I...I trust you. We’ve been together long than...” Most couples we know. “...Zen and I ever were in the same place!”

Ah, that’s...worse.

“And, uh...” She clears her throat, trying on a smile that doesn’t quite fit. “You work has better hours.”

“Ah-haah. Well,” he manages weakly, not quite meeting her eyes. “That’s the sort of pragmatic consideration I expect from you, Miss.”

Shirayuki levers herself away, letting the chill slip between them. For once, Obi looks relieved.

Ha, and to think, Yuzuri has called him an option.

“Don’t worry, Obi.” she murmurs, staring down at where her hands grip each other, rather than him. “I would never impose on you like that. Or your happiness! Not with some silly pact or whatever. I mean, you looked like you having a good time tonight with that girl--”

“Girl.” He does look at her now, purpose honing his attention to an edge. “What girl?”

“Ah, the one you were talking to just a little while ago.” It was a mistake to have said something, but now that it’s out there, she can’t possibly take it back. She just has to forge on, regretting every word that falls out of her mouth. “Just before you brought me that drink. You, er, looked like you were having a nice time.”

“Ah, right.” He rubs at his mouth, and she could swear there’s the barest hint of a smile peeking through. “Her. Of course.”

When he peels himself from his pillar, it’s with an aching slowness, the sort that makes time stretch with anticipation as his hips roll up and the rest of him follows. Even standing, his saunter is so slow the half expects dawn to come before he reaches her, the bustle of the university breaking this moment’s spell.

But it doesn’t; instead he comes close, enough that the wool of his jacket brushes the palms of her raised hands.

“You know...” His voice rumbles through the arcade, humming at that frequency that makes her question the density of her own bones. “If you’d asked...”

“M-mm?” It’s an effort to make even that much of a noise, at least as long as it isn’t a squeak.

He leans in, breath fanning over her face and he murmurs, “I would have said yes, Shirayuki.”

Her ears ring, so loud that she can’t possibly have heard him. Not when he said-- when she thought he said-- “W-what?”

“Ah...” With no warning at all, he steps away, cold air rushing between them. His smile stretches too tight across his face, every line of his body wrong as he tells her, “Don’t worry about it, Miss.”

He makes to retreat, eyes slipping away from hers as his body turns, the space between them ever increasing, gaping--

And she panics. Her fingers hook on the thick fabric of his sleeve, halting him as quick as a dropped anchor. “Miss...?”

“Say it again,” she breathes, clenching tight, wool balled against her palm. “Please.”

He blinks, lost. “What--?”

“My name.” She dares to glance up, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s stepped closer or she’s dragged him, but his eyes are impossibly close, searching her. “Say it again, please.”

His breath hitches. “Shirayuki--”

It’s strange how easy it is to vault that insurmountable space; all it takes is pulling him down as she rises up, and they meet as inexorably as the tide and the shore. His lips are cold against hers, but that’s hardly a hurdle, not when they open on a gasp, and she-- she isn’t sure if she’s doing it right or well, but for a moment she buzzes wherever they touch, a puzzle electrified to find it’s missing piece--

And then his hands are on her shoulders, settling her back on her heels. “Miss!” he yelps, voice cracking on the vowel. “I didn’t mean you needed to start right now!”

“I...” It rushes back to her, Yuzuri’s foolish pact and Obi’s rumbling. Her cheeks are already flushed, but they burn now, tongue tripping over itself to untangle, “That’s not what I meant! Or, er, that’s not what I’m doing. No, wait, I mean...that’s not why I...”

His chest heaves under her hands, and-- her hands. She’s no longer just gripping his sleeve, but pressing him back, forcing him against the pillar. And he--

He’s arched into the touch, not simply tolerating, not anymore. No, he might be trying to put space between them, but every muscle is strained to keep it. As if it was an effort to keep from melting into her, as if--

As if she were an option. “Then what--?”

It’s impossible to explain how much she’s come to abhor the space between them, how every inch mocks her with how long she’s left it open. When after all these years, she could have simply leaned into him and felt what it was to steal his breath, to make his eyes as dark and wild as they are now.

So she shows him instead. Slower this time, not yanking him down to her, but slowly unfurling up into him, her lips brushing his with a softness that makes her ache in places she’s only heard of in Yuzuri’s books. His chest trembles beneath her palms, but it’s the only movement he makes, the rest of him frozen under her touch. It’s enough to make her hesitate, to wonder if maybe she had wanted him to want her too much, and he--

He cups the back of her head, pulling her impossibly closer, until there seems to be no beginning or end to their bodies, just this unending warmth as his tongue curls behind her teeth. Now it’s her turn for her breath to catch, for her to sigh into his mouth when his fingers trace shivers down her spine. Her her to moan when his hand curves over her hip and--

And suddenly the space is back.

“Ah, Miss,” he laughs, breathless enough that she wants to leap across the gap, to swallow it down and feel it ring in her own chest. But he’s already moving away, slipping out from between her fingers like smoke. “I think you’ve had a few too many tonight.”

She blinks. “What do you mean?”

What happened to Shirayuki? she means to say, but he’s already shaking his head, chagrined. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just...late.”

She can’t argue that point, not when it was already late when he arrived, and now it’s only gotten later still.

“We should...” He lets out a shuddering sigh, body twisted like she may not notice if he doesn’t face her while he does it. “You should really get back to you room. Sleep some of this cider off. I’d hate to see the kind of morning you’re going to have if you don’t.”

Perhaps she really has had too much; to her there’s no earthly reason to stop, to put this space back between them. But she doesn’t know how to put those feelings to words, only, “Will you walk me back?”

His smile is strained when he replies, “Of course, Miss. What else am I here for?”

#obiyukiweek22 #day 1 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #and all my winding roads #future fic #my fic #ans #Shirayuki turns 30!#ever since i wrote part 1 in february for Viki i knew that part 2 would be for obiyukiweek #AND HERE IT IS FINALLY #this one too forever to write despite being already drafted #just because there was SO MANY PACING BITS to fix #from when i thought it would be a one shot #and now it is a two-shot #....i say now #but i have a feeling with this ending #i will not be allowed to rest

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queen-susans-revenge · 1 year

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Hi there, if you have time, could you please point me to the folktales where the elves are revolted by the English language?

So @hashkivenu , good question. In truth I was told that, by an Irish storyteller, and I also have a vague memory of reading something that backed it up...but I've been looking through my reference books and I can't seem to find the story I remember. (It was like a variant of "The Legend of Knockgrafton," except instead of being offended that the second singer sang the wrong days of the week, the fairies were offended that the second singer sang in English.)

I'm still going through my written sources trying to find this...I swear I remember it! But the more I comb through my reference material, the more I have to admit that my original claim was overstated, and incorrect in a few particulars.

Firstly, they aren't really elves, or fairies either. They're the people of the mounds, the Aes Sídhe, and to believers it's not actually considered safe to talk much about them at all: naming them may draw their attention, which is dangerous. So they are generally referred to with euphemisms, like the "good neighbors," the "other crowd," or simply them.

Belief in the other crowd continues in some parts of Ireland to this day, although it is dying out, but as recently as 2003 Eddie Lenihan—a folklorist and a believer who has launched successful campaigns to preserve places sacred to Them from highways and other urban expansion—was able to collect (with Carolyn Eve Green) a book's worth of material titled Meeting the Other Crowd: The Fairy Stories of Hidden Ireland. Some of these are stories handed down through the oral tradition, and some are first-hand accounts. It's the most modern work I know on what's sometimes called "the fairy faith".

And in Lenihan's work, the Good People are not automatically hostile to English speakers. He still notes in multiple places that their native language is Irish, for instance on pages 64 and 299 ("In the second story above, note that the changeling speaks Irish. This was commonly believed of the fairies, that Irish was—and is—their native language.") For an older attestation to the idea that fairies only speak Irish, see Lady Augusta Gregory (1920) in the second series of her Visions and Beliefs in the West of Ireland:

As to the book she told me of that had come from the unseen and was written in Irish, I think of Mrs. Sheridan's answer when I asked in what language the strange unearthly people she had been among had talked: "Irish of course—what else would they talk?"

But it would seem that there has been a softening in the fairy tradition, and they are no longer believed to react to English speech with hostility or outright violence.

But you have to understand that language was a real battleground in Ireland. The Irish language was brutally repressed by the English. During the Penal Laws it was completely outlawed. Irish manuscripts were burned. Children in school had to wear a stick on a piece of string around their necks: each time they used Irish during the day, a notch would be cut into the stick. And at the end of the day they would be beaten as many times as there were notches on the stick.

So the language itself was a locus of resistance, and the legends of the Fair Folk, being deeply tied to the language and the land, were part of that resistance.

Because like I said in the earlier post, Irish is a magic language. The satirists of legend were known to place terrible curses on their enemies. There were seven grades of poets (the bards, so familiar to us now from D&D, were actually a lower order of entertainer) and the filí at the top outranked even druids in social hierarchy and magical power according to some sources (e.g. the Uraichech Becc). These elite poet-storyteller-magicians were believed to be able to prophesy the future or even speak a new reality into being.

There is a sense in which mythic Irish history begins with an act of magical speech: The Song of Amergin. There are figures that come before Amergin in various histories (and about them more in just a second), but he is the one who named Ériu/Ireland and invoked its spirit with a powerful incantation that quelled storms and established his right to sovereignty over the land:

Am gaeth i m-muir, Am tond trethan, Am fuaim mara, Am dam secht ndirend Am séig i n-aill Am dér gréne, Am cain lubai, Am torc ar gail, Am he i l-lind, Am loch i m-maig, Am brí a ndai, Am bri danae, Am bri i fodb fras feochtu, Am dé delbas do chind codnu, Coiche nod gleith clochur slébe Cia on co tagair aesa éscai Cia du i l-laig fuiniud gréne

I am the wind on the sea; I am the wave of the sea; I am the bull of seven battles; I am the eagle on the rock I am a flash from the sun; I am the most beautiful of plants; I am a strong wild boar; I am a salmon in the water; I am a lake in the plain; I am the word of knowledge; I am the head of the spear in battle; I am the god that puts fire in the head; Who spreads light in the gathering on the hills Who can tell the ages of the moon Who can tell the place where the sun rests

So. With "the word of knowledge," with the blessing of "the god that puts fire in the head"—with speech, with poetry, with language—Amergin and his people took possession of Ireland. (When exactly this was supposed to have happened is hard to say. There's different versions of the Song of Amergin in different medieval texts, but it's obviously from an older, possibly much older, oral tradition.)

And who, according to the stories, did Amergin and his people claim the land from? From the Tuatha Dé Danann, the folk of the goddess Danu. And partly with their consent: three kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann had to be defeated in single combat, but three queens gave Amergin their permission.

And it is possible to draw a direct line from the Tuatha Dé Danann to the Aes Sídhe. Because after they lost the right to rule Ireland, they were said to retreat under the hills and to the Otherworld. So from the beginning the Fair Folk represented a kind of dispossessed grandeur, a lost heritage...an undying legacy. And a dual nature, some of them hostile and some benevolent.

I think it makes sense that They have softened toward English speakers as the English have stepped back from their oppression of the Irish. Children obviously no longer need to wear the bata scoir, the tally stick, in school. (In fact now they tend to complain about being forced to study Irish, rather than being disallowed from speaking it!)

I personally am not a believer in the fairy faith, but I try to be respectful. To the best of my understanding, should you ever meet one of the Aes Sidhe, it is not really respectful to speak to them in English. And to be perfectly clear, it is not safe to speak to Them, or even of them, under any circumstances, whatever language you choose. We are testing our luck right now, dear Reader, you and I together.

#it helps that it's winter and nighttime #it was always more acceptable to tell stories of Them in the dark #happy holidays everyone #beannacht ar na daoine mhaithe #multiple stories say that should you suspect the presence of the others nearby #perhaps because of a sudden chill wind #you should throw yourself face-first to the ground to avoid any possibility of interacting and giving offense #just wait for it to be over #if you think maybe they're messing with you on purpose perhaps because you're lost and every path goes in circles #turn your clothes inside out #and say: a blessing to all the good neighbors and may all my ill luck go with the wind #if you're religious try invoking God or Jesus or whoever sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't but do it politely #like say God bless all travelers here or something like that #don't say God save me from the fairies say God save all of us on this road they like that better #but yeah if you think you see one LOOK AWAY IMMEDIATELY and pretend you didn't #it's the only sane thing to do honestly don't talk to them at all #but if you must it would better be in Irish #gaeilge

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