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xyliane · 4 years

Text

wild blue yonder

summary: killua had plenty of better ideas for how to spend his eighteenth birthday. a cake a mile high, a day on the town with alluka, maybe even some peace and quiet for once. instead, he’s doing what all zoldycks do: assassination, murder, the works, all at the ass end of the ocean, all because it will tilt the scales of trade just enough in their favor to make a move. he doesn’t have to worry about a blood curse, no matter what his sister says.

notes: think of this less like a fic and more a...preview? I’ve written about 10,000 words of this off and on over the last year or so, and I would love to write more, but [gestures at the world] [pokes at the smoldering remnants of my dissertation]. yeah. so, as special thanks to @trashsketch and @thehuntyhunties, here’s a first draft of the first bit of cursed prince (which, knowing me, will get a wholesale rewrite of the first section at least cuz lol worldbuilding). T (blood and killua’s mouth), pre-killugon; ft: mito, the zoldycks, ikalgo, and did I mention the blood. 4900 words. (title is not the final title, but swiped hastily from the third track of “the horror and the wild”)

notes pt 2: @trashsketch DREW THIS FOR THIS AU aaaaaaa

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Alluka’s eyes turn black over dinner three weeks before Killua’s eighteenth birthday, and he has to shove half a bread roll into his mouth to avoid making any noise. If he’s lucky, no one else will notice. If Alluka’s lucky, Nanika won’t say anything, will stare at Killua for a few minutes before slipping back into the recesses of his sister’s mind. If they’re both lucky, they can return to their meals and continue ignoring whatever Mom and Illumi are discussing about the southern trade routes, in tones just barely not argumentative. If Killua’s lucky, he won’t have to kill anyone in the next month.

Of course, the Zoldyck family has never owed its success to luck. They have skill, and intelligence, and a massive fortune. They have a town full of merchants and spies at the base of Kukuroo Mountain, centuries of debts of money and life tying the people to the family. They have, Silva Zoldyck is fond of noting, family. And family is paramount.

Even more than that, though, they have Nanika. They have information, dropped right into their minds. All it costs is a bit of death, the risk of death or curse or worse if they don’t do what she suggests. Just that, and Killua’s little sister.

The family thinks it’s worth the price, so they have to deal with it for now. Killua’s his father’s successor to their mountains of gold and death. He’ll change it. He’s promised Alluka.

“Mom, look,” Milluki says. Killua swallows a curse.

A smile stretches across Kikyo Zoldyck’s face, as full of empty pleasure as the black visor stretched over her eyes. “Well. This is convenient.” She turns to Illumi. “Shall we see what to do about our mercantile issues in the South Sea?”

Illumi frowns. “If you must,” he says, and looks expectantly at Killua. “Kil? Take care of it.”

“Alluka’s not an it. And it’s not my turn.”

Mom sighs melodramatically. “Kil,” she says.

“Mom,” he says in the exact same tone.

Father, who’s spent most of dinner silent, snorts a chuckle. When Killua turns to him, he gets a firm nod, bright glimmer in his pale blue eyes. “Go on, Kil,” he says, voice rumbling. “Ask after the block in trade. Best do it now, before the thing in your sibling chooses otherwise.”

Killua nods once, and turns to his sister. She is still staring at him—Nanika is still staring, black eyes blank and a strange little smile on her face.

“Nanika,” he says, voice steady.

Her smile widens. Killua, she says, her voice an echo between his ears. No one else hears. I love Killua.

I love you too, he thinks back, and hopes that she can hear. “Nanika, how do we open up trade in the South Seas to benefit the Kingdom of Padokea?”

“And the Zoldycks,” Milluki says, a sneer in his voice.

“We are Padokea,” Mom says, and sneers right back.

Nevertheless, Killua grits his teeth and adds, “And the Zoldyck family.”

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll give them a corporation, or an abandoned island full of pirates. Pirates would be fun. Or maybe nothing will happen, and Killua will be able to turn eighteen without being halfway across the world burying a sword into someone’s back. He can take Alluka to town, sneak her out the back while the butlers aren’t looking. It’ll only be for a day, and he’ll be with her.

Nanika opens Alluka’s mouth.

Dammit, is all Killua manages to think, before the vision slams into him.

red

is all he gets at first, and he thinks that maybe this time, he won’t be the center of this vision. Maybe Milluki will get one and have to get off the mountain for the first time all year. Maybe even Illumi will stop hovering, conspicuously leaving profiles of eligible bachelorettes for Mom to coo over and Killua to ignore. But the table turns red and Killua sees

red ocean

red hair green (brown) eyes

red lips

red stains on pale skin

red flower in black (white) hair

red scars on dark stars

red waters overflowing

red death under red sails

red blood

red

red red

red red red red red reD RED

The vision releases him, and Killua barely manages to catch himself before he pitches face-first into the soup. Even after the fact, his senses are swimming in blood, enough that he can practically taste it. One of these days, he’s going to learn how to live with it. The rest of his family does.

“Kil, where are you going?” Illumi asks.

So much for his birthday plans. “Where do you think,” he says.

“Kil,” Mom says again, and he rolls his eyes.

“The ass end of the ocean, I think,” Killua says, and ignores his mother’s affronted gasp as he starts in on the rest of his dinner. It tastes chalky under the blood. “I’ve got a month to kill the queen of Whale Island.”

“Isn’t that the place with the magic storms and the cursed pirates?” Milluki says.

“You can’t use magic to control storms, idiot,” Kalluto mutters, just loud enough for Killua to hear.

“The cost?” Illumi asks.

Killua shrugs. “Blood curse. Nothing new.”

Nanika always exchanges her information for curses. Illumi and Kalluto have messed up before and come back with numb limbs or empty eyes, consequences for having failed within the time limit. But those curses are simpler things. Killua gets the blood curse, every single time.

He loves his sister, and he’s grown to love Nanika, in her own way. But he doesn’t need the extra pressure.

Father claps a hand on Killua’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kil. We will celebrate your birthday when you get home from the ass end of the ocean.”

Mom makes a scandalized noise and Killua smiles, pride radiating out from where Father’s hand rests against his shoulder. It makes him stand taller, almost as tall as Illumi. Never as tall as Silva Zoldyck. No one is that tall.

Behind him, Alluka stirs listlessly, blue eyes foggy. Once Father’s grip lifts from him, Killua reaches over to grab her hand, squeezing in whatever comfort he can. She tries to smile back. No one else notices. “Be careful, Brother,” she mutters. “Blood stains.”

————————————

It takes the better part of three weeks to get to Whale Island. Killua could have taken a cabin in one of the spice merchant’s galleon and been there in half a month. But that would be easy. Zoldycks do their job well, and well doesn’t mean easy. The first ship out of Dentora was only a week, but from there it was a schooner to a sailboat to three days on a blasted fishing dinghy for the last few islands. The sailors had laughed at him when he’d said where he was going. At least the food’s been good, because he’s going to turn eighteen out here in the gods-forgotten nowhere. He’d hate to come home and tell Alluka there had been nothing good out here.

For all that they’re in the middle of nowhere, the Whale Island port is almost impressive. If a place could be valued solely on the number of colors, Whale Island would be the richest port on earth. The ships alone are every shade imaginable, the height of summer trade filling each dock to overflowing. Purple sails from Kakin, greens and yellows from Lukso, the ostentatiously huge gilded galleons out of Yorknew. Even austere blacks and whites from Padokea, sticking out of the rainbow forest like snow-blistered icebergs. It makes him feel like home, almost. He’ll catch one of them off the island as soon as he’s done. Father will make sure they’re fairly compensated for leaving ahead of schedule. And sprinkled throughout are the collection of Whale Island’s mercantile armada, with no set color or design other than a bright circle of orange-gold, open at one end.

The port itself bustles with life, as diverse as the ships in harbor. It lacks the size or height of trade centers on the mainland, or even other islands like Balsa’s landmass-spanning city. But it makes up for it in smells, and shapes, and the honest smiles on merchants’ faces even as they fleece their customers for every extra cent. Out here, there’s no option but the port. They smile at Killua all the same.

Killua’s assassinations usually take a little more finesse—a Zoldyck is a threat, and he’s dyed his hair more than once to vanish into a crowd. But here, Killua’s pale skin and travel-stained dark clothing doesn’t even stick out, so long as he keeps his white hair tucked under a thin hood. No one even looks twice at the sword on his hip or the knives weighing down his boots, not with how everyone else seems to be armed. It’s almost relaxing. He can drift into the forest, kill the queen, and drift back out again, catching a ship out of port before anyone is the wiser.

Maybe this is a pirate nest, and no one thought to tell Killua…?

“Hey, traveler! You come in recently?”

Killua turns and is blasted in the face with the smell of fried fish. Behind a grill covered in pans and fish, a short round man with reddish skin and beady eyes waggles his thick eyebrows, a shock of black beneath a bald head. As he does, his arms dart back and forth between tasks, juggling fire and vegetables and pots as though he has extra arms. It’s kind of hilarious, and Killua doesn’t restrain a laugh.

The man grins back, obviously pleased. “Yeah, not exactly the easiest, getting all the way out here,” he says. “Sit down, look over the grill, tell me what you want.”

“That’s okay, I don’t—” Killua starts to protest, when another man reaches around the cook and drops an assortment of things off the grill and onto a plate. Well, a young man, not much older than Killua, with thick black hair woven back into a single braid trailing halfway down his back. Freckled brown skin is clearly visible beneath an open green vest woven through with gold thread. It would look almost princely, if it weren’t covered in oil and fish guts, and worn almost to the point of being transparent.

The young man hands the plate to Killua with a conspiratorial light in his bright brown eyes. “You should eat,” he says, and his voice is tinged with Whale Island’s rich accent—thick vowels, rolling syllables. It’s musical, in a way Killua wouldn’t have expected.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until the man pushes the plate more insistently at him. Killua shakes his head. He doesn’t want to stay any longer than he has to. He can’t get too close. “I’m not—”

“It’s on the house.”

“It is not!” the chef says, and thwaps the young man across the back of his head with a stack of napkins. “I have a business to run, and the shipping season don’t last all year.”

“Sorry, Ikalgo,” the young man says, an apologetic grin on his face. It doesn’t stop the chef’s rant, loud enough that it attracts the attention of the bread maker next door, who begins to cackle in amusement. The young man does his best to weather the shouting, only occasionally interjecting that he’s been working here for only a few days, that he’ll pay the difference, he promises. But when he catches Killua’s eye, he winks, as though this is all some great game and no one else has caught on yet.

Killua feels his cheeks heat up. Rather than worry about that, he shoves a skewer of fish into his mouth, and then he forgets about the rest because blessed gods that’s good. There’s spice in here he’s never even smelled before, mixed with something sweet that makes it even hotter than it should be.

The chef’s winding down by the time Killua’s finished, his assistant as apologetic as ever. They both notice Killua’s empty plate at the same time. The chef even seems impressed. “This ain’t your first time on the Islands, eh?”

Killua shrugs rather than answer. No wonder Mom is so invested in taking control of this route, if the spices pack this much of a punch. The investors in Padokea are probably salivating at the possibility of owning even a fraction of the trade. “The food’s really good,” he says instead, and the chef lights up.

“Ikalgo’s got the best seafood on Whale Island,” the young man says. “How long are you here for? Palm’s got great pastries, and she’s right next door.”

If the pastries are even close to as good as the fish, Killua might be convinced to stay here forever. But he can’t. This is why Illumi always tells him to never talk to anyone, not more than he needs to. It’s too easy to fall into conversation, to get attached. When his only job is to destroy the lodestone of a city, or a kingdom, or an island, he can’t afford any distractions. Not even cute boys offering him pastries with big brown eyes.

The assistant seems to sense Killua’s hesitation, and his grin dims a little. But before either of them can say anything else, the chef yanks on his thick black braid and snaps, “You still have another three hours here!”

“But Ikalgo—”

“After last time, you owe me!”

“Even Palm didn’t ask,” the young man whines.

“Palm didn’t lose her entire storefront to a flashflood.”

Killua can’t stick around. He grabs his bag, heavy with travel supplies, and turns to face the edges of the market. The trail leads up and away into the jungle. Theoretically, the queen’s mansion should be somewhere up there. But where…

Well, maybe it can’t hurt to ask one more question.

“Do you know who might know where the queen of Whale Island lives?” he asks, not expecting commoners to know the answer.

But the chef and his assistant shrug. “Ask anyone,” the young man says. “Anyone knows.”

“Anyone from the Island knows,” Ikalgo clarifies. “Her house is up at the end of the path, bout forty-five minutes into the jungle. Can’t miss it.”

Killua blinks. “Can anyone…go?”

The young man shrugs again. “Sure. If you wait a bit, I can—”

“What part of three hours do you not understand?”

“But he—”

“I’ll be fine,” Killua says, and nods politely. The chef and his assistant wave goodbye, and go back to bickering. Out of the corner of his eye, Killua can see the chef getting back to food prep, even as the young man grabs plates and napkins for other customers. He should feel bad that this is all going to ruin. Not immediately, sure. But without a ruler, most places fall apart. And if it falls apart, even for a little while, it’s long enough for Padokeans to set up shop, to reclaim the trade routes and caches of power that they want.

Maybe Whale Island will do okay in the end. Or maybe not. It’s not Killua’s problem.

Too bad, though. The food was good.

The queen’s house is indeed right up the road. Killua makes it within sight of the low walls outside the complex before ducking into the trees, not willing to risk a frontal assault on his own. As friendly as the Islanders seem to be, especially the assistant, the amount of armed fighters and sailors could be a problem. Once Killua finds a good rock, too heavy for a normal person to lift, he swaps his traveling clothes for proper Zoldyck gear: black trousers, an armored black jacket, silver-grey gloves. His sword is sheathed against his hip, and his boot knives are supplemented by another blade at the small of his back. He stashes all of his earrings but one, a sapphire stud Alluka had given him for his sixteenth birthday. She’d said it was for luck. But Zoldycks don’t have luck.

Killua keeps it anyways. Maybe he’ll be lucky this time.

Killua wants to finish this quick and quiet, on the small chance that the young man from the fish grill gets off work and comes up the path. By the time the chaos sets, he should be on the ship and halfway out to sea. Even the fastest ships won’t be able to catch him.

He climbs up the back wall, peering into what looks like a vegetable garden behind a modest two-story building. Killua recognizes about half of the herbs—most of them are useful as poisons, and a few are normally grown in the middle of a forest. None of them have any business being behind a queen’s home. Then again, the building would barely qualify as a merchant’s house in many kingdoms, well-constructed as it is. It’s the color of the sky and thatched neatly, signs of old storms and hard winter winds in the occasional cracked paint. The back door is a solid dark wood, and the window on the second floor is open to the sky. There’s no sign of any caretakers or guards, not even footsteps. The only sound is a quiet hum of a woman’s voice, wafting gently down from the open window.

It can’t be this easy. But part of Killua doesn’t mind. At least this time, the only person he’ll have to kill is the one he has to. No lying, no backstabbing.

And he can go home without risking a blood curse, and celebrate his birthday in peace.

He still takes his time sneaking across the garden, boots falling silently as he steps through the shadows of the house. Taking a chance that nothing in this building is locked, he carefully presses open a window on the ground floor and drops into what looks like a large kitchen. A massive slab of wood serves as a table down the center of the room, with a collection of beautifully carved chairs arranged around it. The smell of herbs permeates the whole room, sinking into the wood and floors.

There’s still no one in sight.

There’s still only the woman’s humming filling the air with gentle wordless noise.

It’s too easy. It has to be.

Killua draws his sword as he creeps up the stairs, following the sound of the woman’s voice. He’ll know the queen when he sees her—Nanika’s visions have a habit of sticking, permanently, or at least until the job is done. Like how he knows the humming is the queen, even though he’s never heard her voice before today. How when he peers around the corner, he knows that the queen is the woman humming over a pile of papers. Her bright orange hair is swept back from her forehead, a simple braid circling her head where a ring made of silver and onyx rests on Silva Zoldyck’s.

The humming stops. “You can stop creeping around my house and tell me why you’re here,” the queen says without looking up from her work. “If you want to petition for the Padokean spice merchants to stay another week, you’ll need to take it up with the portmaster.”

Killua doesn’t say anything. His grip on his hilt tightens for a moment, before relaxing.

The queen flips over the page and starts on the next. “Also, no, I am not interested in selling port space, either. Tell your king he can rent like everyone else.”

Killua takes a final step into the doorway, and lunges, his sword lightning fast.

But the queen whirls, nearly as fast as Killua, and catches his strike on a short wavy blade of her own. Her snarl sparks with furious challenge. “And if you’re here to kill me,” she says, “you’d better try harder than that.”

Killua bounces back, narrowly avoiding the sweep of her knife. The queen is unarmored, but holds the blade at her side, other arm lifted in well-practiced defense. Rather than wait for Killua to strike again, she darts forward, bare fist blurring in a fury as she tries to strike Killua’s solar plexus. But Killua is faster, and he catches her strike on his forearm, brushing it aside. She snarls even as she stumbles back, leaving herself open for Killua to strike again. This time, when she catches his blade on her knife, she almost doesn’t make it, only barely managing to slide out from beneath Killua’s strike. But her bare foot lashes out, catching him on the knee, and he feels the joint crumple.

She scoffs. “You’re not the first person to try to assassinate me,” she says. “Tell me who sent you, and I’ll send you home.”

Killua responds by punching her in the stomach with his hilted fist.

To the queen’s credit, she keeps her knife up, enough that she manages to slash him across his forearm. The wavy blade cuts deep and sharp right through his jacket, leaving behind a wide erratic slice. Killua ignores the pain and raises his blade.

She glares up at him furiously, bright brown eyes wide and not scared at all. They look familiar. In fact, they look like—

They look like the young man from the market.

The chef, his assistant, everyone else, is going to lose their queen.

Don’t get attached, Illumi commands in the back of his head, and Killua shakes the hesitation out of his limbs just in time to block the queen’s jab right at his heart. He catches her wrist with his bare hand, wrenching it out of place until she can’t hold on anymore. The wavy knife goes clattering away across the floorboards, out of sight and out of reach.

She kicks him in the side again, shit, and Killua throws her to the ground. The back of her head thuds against the wood floor, and she crumples with a pained noise, trying and failing to get back up again.

If Killua moves now, he’ll kill her.

This time, he won’t miss.

The queen starts to move, and Killua brings the blade down in a single brutal strike.

Blood always smells the same—metallic and warm, life draining out in flows of red. Killua hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes when he struck, but he feels the splash of blood across his face, sinking through the open slice on his sleeve and through the skin of his gloves. Messy. Father would be disappointed. It’s better if it’s quick, and clean, and no one fights back, and no one is gasping shakily on the floor—

He opens his eyes.

The queen lies at his feet, still alive. She has a hazy, almost drunken grin on her face, and her arm is still raised from where it connected with Killua’s sword, blood flowing freely from its stump. Her dismembered hand lies just out of reach. And she’s laughing.

“You should have killed me,” she says. A gust of wind blows up from the ocean, curling around her, almost as wild as her eyes. Outside, a massive storm darkens the sky, clouds near-black and crackling with energy. The air tastes of lightning, and thunder, and danger, and sudden fear jolts down Killua’s spine.

What had Milluki said? Cursed storms and magic pirates?

Killua’s eyes widen. “What—”

“I said,” the queen says, and her voice reverberates in the stormwall. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

She lifts her hand and spits a word, and a wind like a hand bellows up the stairs and throws Killua out the window.

He lands heavily in the garden, nostrils filling with herbs, bouncing once and hitting the building’s wall. At least the ground’s soft. But he dropped his sword somewhere between the second story and the dirt, and he does not have time to look for it before the storm hits. It whirls around the sky, a cyclone of pitch-black clouds centered right over the house. If Killua didn’t know any better, he’d say that it was only on the house, dropping almost to the ground as though trapping him in the eye of a storm.

He clamors over the wall, bad knee jolting with pain and a little voice screaming at him to run, just in time for a wall of rain to come crashing down between him and the jungle.

Stepping out of the rain, as though made from stormclouds and landslides, is the young man from the seafood shop. But instead of a stack of plates, he holds a brutally sharp sabre, blade short and thick and slightly curved up from its guard.

He takes in Killua, waterlogged and covered in blood, and his bright brown eyes go wide. “You’re—” he starts, and then his expression narrows with fury. “It would have been easier if you’d tried to kill me in town.”

“Why would I do that?” Killua says. “I’m only here for the queen, not an assistant fish fry.”

The young man grins with all of his teeth, any amusement from earlier washed away by unrestrained anger. “I’m Gon Freecss,” he says. “You tried to kill my mom.”

He’s the prince. In about the stupidest response Killua could have, he tries to rub some of the queen’s blood out of his eyes. But it doesn’t budge. If anything, the rain is making it worse, seeping into his face and clothes in a bright red tattoo, making his skin crawl.

Blood curse, Nanika had promised. It was always a blood curse.

Shit shit shit gods fucking shit. For all Killua knew, the blood was going to kill him from the inside out.

“I don’t care about who’s next in line,” he says, and takes half a step towards the storm wall. He had to get out, had to get home, or else—

“You should care,” the prince of Whale Island says. “Because if you’d killed me first, the storm wouldn’t have come for you.”

Killua barely has time to draw his knives before Freecss is on him.

Maybe it’s the panic worming its way out of Killua’s stomach, or the sharp pain in his knee, or the blood curse scratching at his face. Maybe it’s the resolute fury in Freecss’s eyes. Either way, the prince moves nearly as fast as Killua, hacking at the assassin with brutal short slashes. Killua manages to block all of them, barely, boots slipping in the torrential mud. The prince is good enough to make Killua work if he was in good condition, and between the rain and the blood and the knee, they’re all but equally matched.

Killua finally blocks a blow and shoves Freecss back, the prince leaving himself open. Killua presses his advantage in height and speed by kneeing the other man in the chest. Freecss coughs out a pained curse, and he tumbles back, mud covering his skin and his long braid. Killua follows, slashing out half-blind with his knives, and he feels his blades connect as the prince bounces away. Another splash of blood, this time on a bare hand. This time, Killua feels it sink in, painting his pale skin the color of rust.

Freecss has a slash on his cheek and shoulder, Killua’s wild strike having gotten him on bare skin. The weight of the blade also caught the prince’s braid, which droops tangled and waterlogged across his brown face, half-covering his eyes. Freecss curses again, something foul, and simply slices his sword through his hair. The rest of his braid lands in the mud with a heavy thump.

The prince wipes a streak of blood off his face, not seeming to care that the wound continues to flow freely. “I’m going to kill you,” he says, voice low as thunder.

Killua has fought soldiers and mercenaries and assassins, from the weakest to the most skilled. He’s been tired, fought for hours in the snow and sleet, wherever Father has asked. He’s fought with half the bones in his hand broken, with his legs immobilized by ice. But then, he’d been ready. He’d known what to expect. He hadn’t been fighting a storm at the same time he was fighting a prince. Freecss presses ceaselessly, forcing Killua back until his foot hits the wall around the queen’s home. The prince’s home. He can’t go any further back.

The prince’s eyes glint in the storm, and he slashes the sabre across Killua’s front.

And Killua’s leg slips out from under him.

The mud carries him stumbling out of range of the prince’s slash, but also costs him one of his knives. Killua staggers to his feet, trying in vain to rub the blood off his face. All he gets is mud, and rain, and more blood. A callous on his hand must have ripped in the fight.

Oh. And his jacket is cut open across his front. Distantly, he can feel blood dribbling down his chest, starting at the shoulder and cutting towards his side. That should hurt more than it does. Even his leg doesn’t hurt so much anymore, a dull throb beneath the rain.

He’s tired.

Freecss snarls—just like his aunt, a small part of Killua notices—and slices the sabre straight down through the air.

Static gathers in the air, bright and sharp, and Killua realizes he’s going to die.

“Sorry, Alluka,” he says. The words are lost under the wind and rain.

Then Killua is struck by lightning.

And everything is white.

86 notes · View notes

seokiloquy · 4 years

Text

I’m Your Baby, Right? - Bokuto Koutarou

AU: Magic

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN Reader, Witches/Wizards (and so on) are not gendered terms they are descriptors of specific magic practice, also the reader gets called ‘mama’ but it really doesn’t have anything to do with their gender.

Word Count: 5.5+

Your hands worked gently into the shoulders of the older woman as she slowly knocked back a steaming cup of tea. The dainty container was painted with intricate yellow patterns along the edge but was hidden by the woman’s swollen fingers. Similarly, her feet were lifted on a footrest as she waited for the swelling to go down.

A fluttery breath escaped her as you lifted your hands off the warm skin of her exposed shoulders. “You’re an angel, (L/N). This tea is lovely.” Taking a hand off the cup, the older woman rubbed her swollen belly with gentle strokes, shifting the silk fabric with every swipe.

“I’m not an angel, Mrs. Hooper. But thank you.” You reach for your supplies, placing the dried herbs and flower petals back into their respective jars before dropping them into your satchel.

“Oh pshh, you are nothing short of magic.”

Swinging the leather bag onto your shoulder, you smiled at the pregnant woman. “I wouldn’t be a witch without magic, now would I?” You padded your matching leather shoes toward the house’s main entrance, eager to get out of the pristine home filled with golden antiques that you could never dream of having in your little cottage. “Tell your husband to walk over with the money when he gets home, you need to stay sitting or you’ll pop!”

Mrs. Hooper let out a light laugh while waving you out from her reclined seat in the middle of the main room. The beautifully carved door closed behind you gently behind you as you walked down the concrete stairs to the main road. People rushed past you quickly, eager to get onto the train cart before it rolled it’s way to another part of town, apologizing as they knocked you into the fancy home’s metal stair rail.

Heading in the opposite direction of the pedestrian traffic, you took calm steady steps toward the town’s south edge where the houses gradually became smaller before hitting a grassy field followed by a wall of tall pine trees. The town was filled with ringing bells and stomping feet as people ran to their jobs.

At the edge of the town’s centre, the concrete roads turned to stone paths and houses became sparse. Looking across the grassy field, past the scurrying children that dirtied their clothes with pesky grass stains and dirt, you saw your little house peeking out behind the first row of trees, surrounded by wild flora.

The kids and their parents waved to you as you walked past.

The wooden door creaked in agony as you pushed it open, croaking again as it swung shut. You kicked off your shoes, leaving them by the door as you stepped toward your kitchen table. A raspy purr emitted from the previously empty flower basket on the table, vibrating like an old man puffing out his last breath of cigar smoke. You peaked your head over the woven basket rim.

“Hi there, Mika. Are you tired?” Small coos bubbled out of your chest as you scooped the scruffy black cat into your arms. She twisted lazily, clawing at your cotton sleeves in an attempt to escape back into the basket. “No you don’t, you old geezer. It’s time for your medicine.”

The elderly familiar yowled as you cradled her in your arms, still trying to claw her way out as you reached for a needless syringe to place in the crook of her maw. “Don’t fight me now, you runt. You know I’ll win, you’re old, and a cat!”

Medicine safely down the short-haired cat’s throat, you set her free to wander around with hunched shoulders. You slumped into the chair that sat at the desk of all your jarred herbs and candles, watching the cat slowly crawl her way back to her favourite pillow and blanket. She struggled to jump up onto the couch. The sight made your stomach hurt.

As you climbed up the ornate astronomy tower attached to a large home near the center of town, you could hear voices echo into the stairwell. You took careful steps, listening to the stairs creak and keeping your hand gripped tightly to the railing.

“Akaashi, please. You got to tell me! This is important life info I need to hear.”

You pushed the wooden door at the top of the stairs open, leading you to a large circular room with shelves lining the walls filled with books, star maps, and questionable ingredients. Colourful silk scarves hung from the ceiling along with a spherical chair that suspended itself above the opening to the balcony, on the desk in the center of the room was a large black pot with a bubbling purple liquid over a heat source.

“Mr. Hoops, though I do specialize in magic of many forms, including fortunes, predicting the colour of your child’s hair does not require magic. They will be brunette, just like you and your wife.” Next to the bubbling pot was the town’s magic masterer, holding the titles of magic expertise as a warlock, enchanter, alchemist, and wizard, giving him the responsibility to respond to most of the towns inexplicable problems and often getting involved with predicting someone’s most likely future.

Flicking his hand over the top of the pot, the fire beneath it stopped and began to settle down, turning into a deep blue colour. He brushed the side of his blue and gold robes out of his way as he came to stand beside you, nodding in thanks as he took a small pastry from your hand.

“Now, Mr. Hoops, I have to work with (L/N) here, magic stuff, so if you could be so kind to escort yourself out and give your wife some company back home?”

The balding man nodded with a huff, wobbling past you to the door as he adjusted the black vest on his shoulders. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment as he adjusted the ribbon that was pinned over the heart of his chest, reading ‘Mayor’. Brushing a few thin hairs on his head, the door shut behind him with a gentle click.

“Akaashi, I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“Don’t worry, little witch, that man has been coming here every day for the past week hoping I could give him a fortune about his unborn child.”

You followed the enchanter to his center table, taking a seat on the round wooden stool he magicked out from under the table for you to recline on. You watched his flicking hand with an exasperated laugh before settling onto the seat. A little pygmy owl flew onto his shoulder, ruffling its feathers when it landed.

“So, what can I help you out with?”

You played with the baggy sleeves of your shirt, following Akaashi with your eyes as he pulled an empty glass container off his shelf and scooped a large amount of the blue liquid with a metal ladle. Slowly, he poured the smooth liquid into the glass jar. You gulped, suddenly feeling the need to drink some water. “I was wondering if you had any reverse ageing potions? Or something along those lines. Mika is getting old and you know a witch is nothing without their familiars. She even had trouble getting to her bed yesterday.”

Akaashi closed the jar with a pop of its lid. “That poor thing,” he said. “I have a few things that might work. But you should talk to Bokuto about familiars, it’s his area of primary study.”

Feeling heat crawl up your neck you shook your head rapidly, to the point of making the stool wobble beneath you. Thin wooden legs slamming into the floor. “Ah, no-no. That’s alright. I wouldn’t want to interrupt his studies.”

Akaashi scoffed as he reached for one of his many leather-bound books on his shelf as well as a few odd ingredients. “That man, for a want-to-be wizard, doesn’t put much effort into his more magic-based studies. But he is good with animals.”

A small whisper of ‘I know’ came meekly out of you, as Akaashi placed all the items on the table before you.

“This is probably all you need, read the instructions carefully. And just so you know, the potion probably won’t work for the long term.”

You nodded thankfully, standing from your seat. “While I’m here, do you want me to check on that wrist of yours?”

Akaashi gave you a small grin before waving his dominant hand in rapid flicking motions. “Thank you, but your tea and spell did just the trick.”

As you gathered your gifted supplies into your satchel Akaashi slowly made his way to the room’s exit, kindly gesturing you out. A snort escaped him as you suspiciously looked at a vial of red liquid before dropping it into the leather bag as well.

“Would you like me to escort you out, I can call Bokuto if you’d like.” A cunning grin cut into his cheek.

“No no, it’s okay. I can manage.” You walked through the doorway, looking up at the circular curve of the frame, before rushing down the steps. Akaashi’s laughter bubbled through the cold stairway.

Reaching the ground floor, where the main living space was, you sneezed as a bit of fluff tickled your nose.

“Sorry, little witch. Molly was shedding a bit more than normal.”

Even with your eyes squinted shut from your sudden sneeze, you could recognize the other person in the room. Your shoulders scrunched up to your eyes, fighting the heat that tried to crawl up your neck at the sound of the familiar loving wizard’s rough voice. An embarrassed laugh and cheeky grin nearly escaped you before you managed to school your expression into one of mild interest.

“A bit more?”

On the other side of your closed lids was a sight that desperately made you want to fall to your knees in a fit of adoring giggles.

Bokuto, from the tips of his raised hair to the bottom of leather boots, was covered in horsehair. The white stuck to him like glue, flying back as he brushed them away. He gave you a lopsided grin while picking fluff off of his shoulders. Your eyes followed the flexing of his upper torso underneath his white stable boy shirt. Across the width of his chest and along the length of his shoulder before trailing down his bicep, they grew in size as he reached for the opposite shoulder.

You gulped.

“So what’re you doing here anyway? Ooh, I like your outfit! It looks good.”

His eyes were very golden when you actually chose to look at them instead of the floor, they were sparkling. You adjusted the armholes of your ribbed vest, letting you large sleeves puff out a bit.

“Just grabbing a potion from Akaashi.”

“Oh Really?” his neck extended as stretched up in excitement. “I’m working on my curses and potions. Can I show you when I perfect them?!”

You responded with a happy grin. “You can show me at any time.”

“Yes!” In the corner of the pair’s kitchen, a squeak was heard. Bokuto gasped suddenly before shuffling through the cupboards with wild hands, knocking spices, jars and small bags out in haste. The muscles in his back seemed to threaten to rip through the seams of his shirt. “Peanut, no! You rat, get out of there!” He spun his head around to give you a big shiny smile, hand still tucked in the shelving. A small bird flew through the kitchen window, landing on his head with a satisfied chirp. “I’ll see you (L/N)!”

You left the warlock’s and his apprentice wizard’s home grabbing the strap of your old bag. Keeping the mental picture of bird nest Bokuto fresh in your mind

“Virgin blood.” Your brow furrowed as you looked from the leather spellbook that was laid out on your wooden table to the small vial that sat delicately between your fingers. “Where does he get this stuff?”

On the same table, between your cast iron pot and a large bouquet of dying flowers, Mika lazily played with a young mouse that was none-the-wiser about the harm that could come it’s way. Her claws never stretched out to hurt the small rodent though.

“One drop of virgin blood,” you read the line aloud as you followed. “Pinch of salt. Stir for 5 and settle for 24 hours.”

You twisted your body as you read the last line on the sheet, blindly reaching out for a wooden spoon. A hum built in your throat as you finished the line and began stirring. The puke green colour quickly turned into a delectable fruity pink. The smell even shifted into something nostalgic and sweet.

For five minutes you stood there staring into the enticing liquid.

The mouse on the table squeaked.

“(Y/N)!”

The spoon you were just pulling out of the black pot, fell back in with a small splash.

“Bo— what happened to your ears?”

The tall muscle made man stood in the centre of your doorway, shoulders slumped in as he tried to collapse in on himself and hide in his colourfully stained work clothes. An unflattering frown pulled at the corner of his lips. He looked down toward your socked feet before staring at the pot in question. His eyes met yours quickly.

“One of my curses went wrong.” One of his large ears twitched at the sound of the mouse squeaking. He looked at the small rodent with wide eyes and twitching fingers.

“You’re on your way to being a donkey.”

He whined, spiked white and black hair drooping at the ends. “Do you have a curse reverser or something? I really want my ears back to normal. Everything’s really loud.”

The tension between your brows was painful. “I have a few things. Stay here.”

As you ran toward your spell cupboard, Bokuto made his way to your kitchen counter, where your pot was left forgotten, tempting him with the smell of freshly cooked meat off of a grill. His tongue poked out, wetting the seam of his lip as he took a silent step toward the liquid-filled pot. As he reached the table’s side, Mika and her friendly mouse scattered, knocking into the vase as they jumped off. It wobbled slightly, but enticed by the pink stew in the small black pot, Bokuto didn’t notice.

He reached for the forgotten wooden spoon, scooping up the soup in the scooped head before lifting it to his mouth. The smell alone, wafting up into his nose from its position under his upper lip, made him salivate. He took an eager gulp, throwing his head back to swallow it all in one go.

“Bo?”

Dropping the wooden spoon back into the pink liquid, Bokuto looked over his shoulder to give you a wide-eyed look, lips pursed together in a surprised pout. The donkey ears on his head twitched slightly before morphing back to normal.

“Bo, did you drink my potion?” You rushed, setting down a collection of small jars on your couch’s side table.

His golden eyes followed your hurried movements as you came to stand before him, peeking into the content of the pot before gripping his cheeks tightly in the palm of your hands. He could feel the heat build-up in his cheeks underneath your hands and his stomach stir happily. You stared straight into his eyes, desperately trying to keep your attention on the situation at hand and not drown in the golden colour of his irises.

“Did you?”

Completely distracted by having your warm breath warm over his face, Bokuto grinned between his smushed cheeks. With a delighted hum, he slumped, melting into your hands. Just as he began to lift his hands to cover yours, you were blinded away from the flustering view.

Within a fraction of a second, a puff of glittering pink smoke appeared, making you hold back a cough as you shut your eyes tightly. The smoke felt warm and soft as it flew gently across your skin. The weight in your hands increased slightly.

Sighing, you turned your head back straight, hoping to be given the sight of Bokuto gently cradling your hands against his cheek with a dopey smile and relaxed eyelids.

“Dumbass,” you spat.

In your hands, balancing in the open space between your thumb and index fingers, was a child. A chubby child with plump round cheeks that set his lips into a permanent pout with a bit of drool dripping out and eyebrows that were absolutely too large for his face. Short two-toned hair sprouted out of his scalp like new feathers.

You let out a loud groan, bringing the naked toddler into your arms as you run to your bedroom to fish out a small blanket to snuggly wrap him in. Bokuto’s tiny hands gripped the edge of the small quilt that you messily warped around his shoulders, lifting it to his mouth to slobber against it. With gentle fingers, you pulled the cotton cloth away from his wet mouth and tucked him as close to you as possible so he couldn’t squirm.

Your socked feet padded loudly as you ran back to the kitchen. With your left hand free from carrying baby Bokuto’s weight, you dragged your finger over the worn page of akaashi’s book, searching. The toddler gargled behind you, spouting out gibberish words.

Taking your finger off the page, you carded them through his soft hair. The words that were neatly printed on the page in liquid ink gave you no answers, making thoughts run madly through your head, nearly blocking out the sound of a knock coming from your front door.

Cursing lightly under your breath, you bounced the baby in your arms and ran to the door.

“(L/N), Mr. Hooper sent me to pick up a— is that a baby?” The woman, who you recognized to be the mayor’s assistant, pointed to the young boy that giggled in your arms. “Is that a child of Bokuto? How—?”

You were quick to cut her off, flinging your left arm in the air and shaking your open farm furiously. “No-no-no. I don’t have a baby.”

“Mama.”

The professionally dressed woman gave you a confused look, almost disbelieving, as her thin eyebrow raised.

“Ignore that.” You gestured for her to enter your abode, closing the door as she stood quietly. “Inflammation and pain I presume?” You asked.

The woman nodded, following you into the kitchen where your pot still sat. Bouncing Bokuto in your arm, you opened a cupboard where all your medicinal tea mixtures and salves sat patiently.

“Is that dyed potato soup?” she asked curiously.

Spinning on your heel you reached out to hand her the medicine before gilding her shoulder towards the door.

“Nope, and you don’t want to drink it either. Mrs. Hoops knows the rules but please remind her; 3 times a day, breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

The old wooden door shut with a creek behind her.

You smacked the air blindly with a clawed hand as the extra weight of the baby wizard rested in your other arm. Bokuto giggled happily, trying to reach for the small birds that flew frantically around. You bounced, adjusting his place on your hip bone as a sparrow landed on your shoulder.

“What do you mean there’s no reverse spell?”

Akaashi groaned, arms darting out from his side as he tried to grab hold of a tiny rat that sprinted across his kitchen counter. Sprinting around the island and head down, the Warlock fair to notice a loyal steed poke head through the kitchen window.

“Molly!” He stumbled back, letting the rat run free and becoming a tree for birds. A chickadee chirped from the top of his head as he dug his fingers into his eyelids. “There’s no reverse spell because it’s meant to permanently give you a better life, letting you be youthful while continuing to age until death.”

Bokuto’s grubby fingers played with the feathers of the sparrow on your shoulder, massaging into the pleased bird’s head. You let out a long sigh, tapping your toe into the wood floor. “So Bokuto is going to be stuck like this until he dies?”

Swatting away the birds, Akaashi made his way around the kitchen’s island table to lift himself onto in front of you. Molly, seeing a golden opportunity, stuck her head in a little further to nibble on the black hair at the back of Akaashi’s head. A tired sigh escaped him.

“Was the potion finished when he decided to drink it?”

The baby of your hip gurgled, suddenly finding the collar of your shirt to be an interesting snack. “No, I had just finished mixing it.”

Leaning back against the horse's muzzle, Akaashi let his shoulder slump in relief. “Thank the gods. This should only be temporary then, maybe last a day.”

One of your brows raised as you watched the wizard get jostled around by Molly nodded her head. Akaashi leaned forward again, grabbing the edges of his gold-trimmed robe and wrapping them around his torso a bit tighter. His eyes shut for a moment as the rat scurried into his lap and curled into a ball.

“Tired?”

“Very, I can’t handle all these familiars. That’s Bokuto’s Job. I have my own work to do but now I have to deal with his two?” He glared at the mini Bokuto on your hip, who only giggled in response and made grabby hands at his mentor. “You just had to turn into a kid didn’t you, didn't even clean up after your curses, just ran off to go see (L/N) with those ridiculous ears on your head.” He paused for a moment. “Those are gone at least.”

You chuckled lightly as Bokuto whined on your hip, clenching his tiny first around the fabric of your shirt, occasionally hitting your side in anger. “So just a day? I can handle that.”

You peeked into your pot, looking at the slightly more purple liquid that waited inside of it as you cut up a few dried herbs. They split easily under your knife, crinkling loudly as you cut them down the smaller, more easily crunched.

Bokuto sat on your couch, tiny hands squeezing and playing with the paws of your old cat Mika as her tiny mouse friend curled into the fur on her back. He giggled, swaying on his bottom with his legs kicked spread out on Mika's sides.

Dropped the last few herbs into their respected jars, you wiped your hands with a beige cloth and made your way into the living room.

Bokuto immediately caught sight of you, drooping the feline's arms and raising his own towards you, hoping to be picked up. As you were about to comply, the two-toned haired baby cheered, “Mama!”

You grimaced, pausing your torso’s descent to pick him up for a moment. Eyes narrowed, you stared into his wide happy eyes and grinning mouth. “Why did you have to turn into a baby? Don’t call me ‘mama’.”

Scooping him into your arms, you brought the transformed Bokuto into your chest, rubbing his back as he gave you pleased gurgles in response. He smushed his mouth into your clothed collarbone, slobbering as he nuzzled into the spot, making his spit soak into your shirt.

“You’re lucky you're cute.”

As you were about to relax into the couch next to your beloved cat there was a knock at your door.

You sat Bokuto back down on the couch, ignoring his hands that tucked desperately at your shirt. He pouted, whining as he hit the cushions.

“Ah, hello. What can I help you with?”

On the other side of the door’s threshold was a young boy. His hands held onto the top of his satchel and swayed from side to side, a nervous smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Hi, witch (L/N). My grandpa’s got a cold.”

You furrowed your brow momentarily, looking over your shoulder at the sound of shuffling, you faced the young boy again. “Sweats, cough, runny nose?”

“All of the above.”

Something crashed behind you. You snapped your torso around to see your once beautiful vase spread across your floor in pieces. Bokuto sat in the center of the watery mess, a large pout pulling at his chubby cheeks as he glared at you, open palms smacking into the clear liquid.

“Damn it, Bokuto.”

He smacked his hands into the floor again, nearly hitting a shard of porcelain. Giving the boy in the doorway an exasperated look. “Let me get you what you need.”

You walked by the toddler, stepping over the mess, mentality promising to deal with it as soon as you gave the boy his medicine.

Bokuto smacked the floor again, whining.

“Bo, stop it please,” you begged, shuffling through your cabinets before pulling out a couple of jars. Carrying them in your hand to give them to the young boy that stood patiently outside.

With a loud whine, Bokuto continued to smack the wet floor repeatedly.

Handing off the jars, the boy gave you a quiet thanks and dropped a collection of coins in your palm before scurrying off toward town. Bokuto, wrapped in what now was a damp towel continued to tantrum. “Bo, please stop.”

Instead, he rolled onto his back and began to kick and punch the water.

You waited for his cries to stop while you picked up all of the vase’s pieces, putting them on your couch's side table for later. Bokuto’s cries slowed.

“Okay. Bo—”

He wailed for a second. You got up from your knees and searched for a towel. Once one was in your hand, you started to pat your floor dry.

“Bo.”

Another cry.

“Bo.”

And again.

“Koutarou please stop.”

Bokuto’s chubby arms and legs fell limp at his side. The light of the setting sun glowed through your window, painting the last few drops he laid in with a golden glow and making the white hairs on his head appear more akin to the colour of the yellow wildflowers outside your window.

He gave you an expecting look, arms held out towards you with wide eyes and a jutted out lip. Complying, you picked the man-child up and cradled him in your arm as you wiped the last bit of water up.

“Really. ‘Kou’. That’s all it took.”

He giggled into your chest, nuzzling his nose against your sternum.

The rest of the evening was spent with a happy child burrowing his way into your stomach as you lazed back across the length of your couch, rubbing his back as Mika snoozed off on your window sill, trying to soak in the last bit of heat the sun gave off. You gently trailed your nails along the center of Bokuto’s spine before brushing your fingers through his soft, spiky hair. He shivered a bit.

Mika, now cold from the outdoor breeze, jumped onto the couch by your feet, nudging them as a sign to go to bed.

Picking your legs up, you carried Bokuto toward the blanket filled basket that Mika had made a home in only a day prior. Carefully, you lowered Bokuto’s child form into the warm cocoon, ignoring his fussy cries as you swaddled him in the sheets.

“Mama! Papa!”

“Stop that, I’m not your parent.” You stared at his pout for a moment, before letting out a frustrated groan. “Why do you have to be a cute baby too? Wasn’t having you around as an adult enough?”

Bokuto huffed, thick eyebrows pulling upwards in the center.

“I give up, time for bed.”

You set the basket down on the couch next to Mika before heading into your room empty-handed, ready to crack the window open and sleep.

It must have been around 2 am when the cries started, startling you awake. You yawned as you made your way into the main room of your house, hobbling with each step until you were looking over the armrest of your couch.

Bokuto, with his eyes shut tightly, swung his arms wildly as he scratched into the darkness of your home. You sighed, suddenly thankful for the distance between your home and the edge of town. Any neighbours would have come knocking at your door because of the noise.

Tucking your hands underneath the boy’s arms, you lifted him into your chest, bouncing him as he cried into your shoulder. His small fingers dug into your shoulder, trying his best to hold you back as snot began to stain the loose fabric of your shirt. You let out quiet shushing noises and trailed your knuckles across his back as you tiredly carried him back to your room.

Sitting down on the soft mattress, you dug your feet underneath your blankets, still warm from your forgotten body heat. A yawn tore it’s way out of you as you pulled the blankets up to your shoulder, sure to cover Bokuto’s tiny body in the process.

“All right you big baby, time to sleep.”

He was quick to get comfortable, taking slow breathes through his nose as he sucked in all the warmth you had to offer.

“Night, Kou.”

Typically, the sound of birds chirping outside your window at the break of dawn was something you enjoyed. Waking up to the fluttery tunes they sang in the trees that surrounded your little cottage. Today though, today they were loud. Screeching like sharp whistles into your ear at the earliest hour of the morning.

Groaning, you pulled your hand out from the warm cave that your blankets created around you, shivering as soon as you felt the drastically colder air on the outside. You rubbed your eye and turned your head toward the window. A small flock sat along your window sill, including one that perched itself on your bedside lamp, chirping about something you didn’t understand.

You huffed through your nose, closing your eyes and tucking your hand back under the blanket as you turned back to your original position. Your cold nose hit something incredibly warm.

“Get back here or you’ll get cold little witch.”

Feeling a large hand followed by familiar well-built muscles that radiated extreme heat wrap around your back before thick, calloused fingers dug into the fleshy crook of your shoulder. Warm built up at the top of your head with every exhale he let out. Your own breath hit his chest, spreading throughout the tight space and making your cheeks feel even hotter. You scrunched your nose against the defined centerline between Bokuto’s pecks, desperately trying to avert your gaze despite the limited view.

Even with the protective layer of your loose sleep shirt, nothing was left to the imagination as he held you tightly against his best.

You lifted your head, nose bumping against his. Within your peripherals, you could see his naturally spiky two-toned hair bend against your pillows, his cheek squish slightly as his head sunk into the fluffy object, and his thick grey eyebrows rise in surprise at your quick movement. The rising sun, though dim, made his golden eyes glow brightly in the shadowed room. Despite not being able to see it, you could tell his mouth parted as his lips brushed against yours ever so slightly before breathing out hot air like a dragon guarding a rare treasure.

You breathed slowly, eyelids fluttering. “If you want me to stay, get rid of those birds of yours. Or I will, I could use a few feathers for some spells.”

His following chuckle sent deep vibrations down your spine. You could feel his lips pull apart along your hairline, grinning widely. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Don’t make me feed you my cat’s potion again. You were much cuter as a baby.”

Another laugh made you want to sink into your mattress and hide. You dug your face into his chest, feeling his muscles flex against your skin.

“I recall you thinking I was cute already.”

“Just shut your birds up, please. I don’t need to be embarrassed anymore.”

He complied, slowly pulling away to roll off the other side of the bed and walk around to the window where the birds continued to sing happily. The blanket fell from his waist and you covered your head with the blanket.

“Put some clothes on!”

“I don’t know where you put them!”

You cried into the blankets dramatically, self-deprecating laughs escaping you as you tried to choke on the tick sheets. Following the sound of your window shutting, a weight slowly began to press you deeper into the mattress, increasing the heat all around your body by melting into the sheets. You could feel his hands rub at your back and stomach through the blanket as his knees dug into the mattress on either side of you. His voice, sharp and ruff from sleep, cut its way through your blanket before meeting your ear on the other side and you tried no to melt on the spot.

“Come on little witch, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I’m your baby, right?”

...I may have gone just a little bit far at the ending there….. Well, uh… happy early Halloween. - Bacon

Posted: 25/10/2020

#bokuto koutarou #bokuto x reader #bokuto #Haikyuu x reader #Haikyuu #x reader #oneshot #oneshots #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu reader insert #reader insert #aus #haikyuu aus #fluff #haikyu #anime x reader #anime #manga x reader #manga

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 40: A Completely Unrelated Chill

Keith wakes to a third party.

TRIGGER WARNING:

-Violence

-Blood

-Magical Violence/Torment

First Previous Next

Keith stirs, gelid air dragging over his cheek. He sighs, settles back into his pillow. His head hurts, his throat burns, and his mind is too slow for thought. The cold can-

Wait. A completely unrelated chill rakes down his dorsal fur like icy claws. Lance closed the doors. He’s sure he remembers Lance closing the garden doors.

It’s probably nothing, but that line of fur down his back is still stiff. His ears catch the slightest rustle, a sound so unlike Lance’s.

Instincts nagging at the edge of his consciousness, Keith drags his eyes open.

In the future, Keith will blame the alcohol. It pacified him, sedated him, weighed down his brain. He’ll say he could have moved faster, that it wouldn’t have been quite so close if only he’d behaved himself.

But right now, a six-limbed, cowled intruder leans over Lance’s sleeping figure, hovering on legs, one pair of arms while a second pair hangs above his spouse's chest, prepares to plunge a wicked knife into the young prince’s chest. They’re dressed only in dark clothes, silent, movements unimpeded, but body vulnerable.

The cold. The garden doors. Someone came in through the garden- This person is here to kill his chosen mate.

It only occurs to Keith after he’s coiled himself tight, launched himself at the assassin with a feline yowl, that he is unarmed and the intruder is decidedly not. What the intruder does not have are claws, and Keith willfully, vindictively digs them into their soft flesh. He feels a warm wetness welling wherever he claws at his foe.

Lance jolts awake at Keith’s alarm, eyes wide as his spouse hits the floor on his side of the bed. The kit’s grappling with an assailant, rolling across the floor.

Instinctively, Lance floods the castle with his quintessence. The desperate cry for help rings in every occupant’s mind until it finds its target: his father, the most effective warrior Lance has ever known. The man he knows would do anything to keep him safe.

The moment he registers a flash of alarm, a familiar presence in his mind, Lance comes back to himself. Throwing himself from the bed, he runs for a panel in the wall, pulls out his bow just in time for Keith to reach his knife on the end table by their sofa.

He strings his bow in ticks, knocks an arrow in another, draws it back to his cheek, but Keith’s already won. The Galra kit shoves the would-be assassin away only to throw his knife, lodging it high in the intruder’s chest.

Blood gurgles from their mouth, dribbling blue down their chin. More of the same blossoms dark on dark fabric. The assassin falls to the floor. They lay there, choking, gasping. The spark in their eyes leaks from their wounds. Reaching out, Lance feels their life draining away. He wouldn’t try to save them even if he thought he could do it.

Lance carefully relaxes his bowstring, rushes forward. “Are you alright?!”

“I- I think so,” Keith pants. “Th- They were-”

“Nevermind! Allura!” Tugging urgently at Keith’s arm, the Altean drags him to his feet.

Keith ignores a sudden ache in his side, darts forward to retrieve his knife, runs with his spouse out of the room and down the hall before their enemy is even dead.

Keith collides with his littermate, a disheveled Adam pulling up alongside. Both are in nightclothes. Shiro’s eyes are wide, pupils fully dilated. His ears flit this way and that in search of an enemy. “What happened?! I- I felt a scream-”

“Your Majesty, what do you need?” Adam asks, jamming his glasses on his face. His eyes are blazing as he takes in the princes.

“I need you both to go to Romelle. Keep her safe, bring her to the clinic. We'll all meet up there.”

Adam bows, sprints down a hall, Shiro hot on his heels. Lance takes Keith in the opposite direction. As they run, he keeps his arrow still knocked. He’s never killed a person before, but for his sister, brother-in-law, and their unborn child, he’ll do it in a tick. Less than that. It takes less than a tick to draw his bow, less than half a tick to fire an arrow.

---

Shiro stares, wide-eyed and shocked at the image before him. Romelle, blonde hair loose, wild as it frames even wilder eyes. Her hands shine with white light as she forces a six-limbed intruder to their knees with what seems to be her mind.

The intruder starts to scream, eyes bald and unseeing. They claw at their skin, trying to rip themselves apart. The veins pulsing beneath their skin begins to glow brighter and brighter. Back arching, their body spasms as their neurons shriek.

Romelle is screaming, her soft, unused voice breaking. Shiro takes a step back toward the hallway. His eyes are wide with horror.

“Oh, gods.” It’s horrible. Disturbing, watching someone try to claw their way out of their own body. Shiro’s not sure what to do. He’s terrified. Never in his fifteen decaphoebs of service, of war has he seen such a thing. Not from an Altean, not from anyone else.

He shrinks back, hissing, hair standing up straight all down his back. It’s Adam that steps forward as the intruder ceases their screams. The coarse, olive-toned fur covering their body begins to burn away under their clothes.

“Romelle.” The Altean’s gaze is steady even as unsteady fingers reach out, brush the very tips of his fingers against her pale blue scales. “Romelle. Come with me. Let’s- Let’s find a new sky.”

“A new sky,” the girl whispers, breaths small and trembling. “Yes, let’s find a new sky for all of us.”

“That’s right.” Adam steps just behind her, cradles her left hand in his left, puts his right on her waist to steady her. “Come on. Let’s go find the others.”

As he walks by, Shiro can’t help but wonder at the strange glint in Adam’s eyes. He can’t begin to decipher all the thoughts hidden there.

Lance reaches Allura’s and Lotor’s room first, practically throwing himself through the doors. Keith is still rounding the corner. Allura has an assassin on the ropes, her whip wrapped around their neck. She reels them in, face vicious as she pulls a dagger from her clothes. The desperate intruder scrabbles fruitlessly at the floor even as they choke on the white cable around their throat.

Lotor is having a more difficult time. His assailant is clinging to the walls, firing at him from a crossbow. Lance draws his bow, lets his arrow fly. The arrow hits its mark, severing their spinal cord, either killing them or at least incapacitating them. Either way, Lotor slashes his sword through them, making the difference a moot one.

“Lancel!” Lance knocks, draws another arrow, fletching rubbing at his scales as his father enters the room. He lowers his weapon as Alfor runs over, pulls him into a quick, tight embrace. The king pushes him back, inspects him at arms’ length. "Are you alright?! Are you hurt?! What happened?!"

“Father, I’m fine.”

Alfor stares at the weapon in his hands, the arrow still knocked. He shakes his head, surveys the room. His hands are bruising into Lance’s shoulders. “Is everyone alright?”

“Everyone’s-” A clatter cuts off Lance’s words.

Keith leans against Allura’s old vanity, chest heaving, blood dripping heavy and red from his side. His arms are shaking, legs trembling as they struggle to bear his weight.

“Keith!” Lance tosses his bow aside, running to his spouse as red puddles on the floor. “Easy, beloved. Can you walk?”

Keith takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. He’s in a lot of pain, fire pulsing through his neurons with every beat of his hearts. Lance peels off his own shirt, presses it into Keith’s side. He takes a scarf from the vanity and ties it tight to apply some pressure. “I- I think I can walk. For a little while.”

“Okay. We’re all going to meet up at the clinic anyway. I assumed someone would need care. Come on.” Lance slings Keith’s arm over his shoulder, puts the other arm around his waist. The kit hisses when his hand finds the slicked-up wound. “Alright, beloved. We’ll be there before you know it. I can carry you if you want, so just tell me.”

“Okay.”

By the time they reach the darkly lit clinic, Keith’s starting to feel cold, is definitely dizzy, and Lance is supporting most of his weight. Coran is already there, crying out in alarm as Lance lifts his spouse onto a pullout bed, pressing down on the wound with both hands.

“Dad, can you calibrate a pod please? Quickly?”

“I’m already on it, son.”

The others stay quiet, giving them space. Keith curls his fingers around Lance’s wrist. “What- What’s a pod?”

“A healing chamber. You go inside and it closes around you. Then you’ll go to sleep-”

“Lance, it’s ready! Keith, kindly strip off your clothes. We might as well give you a checkup while you’re in there.”

“-and you’ll wake up all healed. It’ll only take a few vargas.” Lance carefully scoops Keith up, not trusting him to walk any further.

“But-” Keith breaks himself off with a chirp, eyeing the pod with wide eyes, fur stiffening under his clothes. “Lance, please. Don’t put me in there.”

Lance takes a deep breath, sets the fearful kit down in the chamber, carefully removes his clothes, eyes averted. A lavender tail wraps around his ankle, all the fur raised. He looks up at his spouse, the height of the chamber reversing the height difference between them.

He brushes Keith’s bangs out of his eyes, rises up to kiss his forehead. “You need to, so you can heal. But I promise I won’t leave this room until you’re okay. I’ll have some fresh clothes and a blanket ready and waiting for you when you wake up.”

Keith gulps, nods, presses their foreheads together. He knows the other Galra in the room will understand what it means, doesn’t care. He trusts Lance not to leave him in this tube forever in the same way Lance trusts him to have his back in a fight. Wholly and completely.

Settling back in the chamber, Keith watches anxiously as the glass rises from the floor, encasing him. He spots Romelle’s lips moving: The glass. Water. The glass. Water.

Icy mist curls up from the base, slithers into his lungs with every breath. Even as he begins to panic, his already fogging mind feels heavy in his skull, eyelids too weighed down for him to open.

The last thing he sees before cold and sleep take over and he sinks into his dreams is Lance’s reassuring smile.

See you soon, beloved.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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dancedelion · 4 years

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Be Good to Me (part 2 / 3)

Genre: angst with a happy ending, Beauty and the Beast AU Summary: Jaskier has just been broken up with (again), he has nowhere to stay (again) and people are booing his songs (again). He overhears the villagers talk about a beast in a castle in the woods. Then they mention it's supposed to be dangerous. Well, now he's got no other choice. That beast won't even know what's coming for it. (Geralt doesn't.) ao3: Be Good to Me part 1 Jaskier blearily blinks his eyes open, trying to find his bearings. Has he managed to charm his way into someone's bed again? Sneaked into someone's stables?

He turns his head and flinches back immediately – Geralt is standing next to the dining table and staring at him. Right, that's what happened. Forest walk, weird castle, incredibly handsome and vaguely threatening witcher.

“Have you just been watching me this whole time?” Jaskier says and sits up. “Don't know if that's more flattering or creepy.”

Geralt doesn't react to his flirting, but he doesn't rip Jaskier's throat out for it either, so Jaskier assumes that means he's free to go wild with it.

“Oh, hey, did you – did you put a blanket on me?” Jaskier says startled. “And didn't I fall asleep at the table?” “No, you didn't,” Geralt says – the filthy liar - and turns his head away – but Jaskier has decided he likes him, now. There is no more escape.

“You should leave as long as the sun is still up,” Geralt says.

“Leave? There is no way I'm leaving now. You should have thought about that before you let me eat cake and carried me to the sofa – you big softhearted brute, you. Yeah, pretty sure that's one of the most basic rules in the book called 'How to Come Across like a Monster' – if you want me to be scared of you, don't put a blanket on me while I'm sleeping. That's just not working out.”

Geralt turns to look at him with one of the old favorites, Menacing Glare.

“Oh, come on, don't make that face. Here's the good news – I'm going to stick around.”

“You're leaving tomorrow.” Clear step up from leaving before sun down. Jaskier hides his smile.

“Next week?” Jaskier tries to bargain.

“Tonight,” Geralt snarls.

“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow it is,” Jaskier quickly concedes. “Wanna give me a tour of the place?”

“It's a place.”

“Yeah, I gathered, but what about the rooms? How many are there? What are they like?” “Don't know. Haven't looked.” “You haven't looked? Well, you do seem more like an ourdoors-y kind of guy. Is that it? You roam the monster-infested forest for fun?”

“No. I'm just. Here.”

“Ah, that sounds... depressing. I'm going to take a look around, if you don't mind.”

Geralt starts to open his mouth, but Jaskier quickly lifts a finger. “And also if you do.”

Jaskier goes up the stairs again and walks down the hallway. He starts counting the doors, but stops at a lot. One door is a little bigger and framed with gold, so Jaskier opens it and finds – a library. A giant one, shelves up to the ceiling. Jaskier coughs, because there seems to be even more dust in this room.

He starts walking between the shelves. Oh, the educators at Oxenfurt would be so jealous if they knew about this place. The books seem to be about all kinds of topics, scientific and fictional alike. Jaskier turns to go back downstairs but stops – Geralt is leaning in the doorway.

“Gee, Geralt, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Jaskier says. “You're so sneaky, like a – a – an assassin? A spy? No, like a -”

Geralt does that almost-smirk-thing again.

“A witcher?” he asks.

“Nah, that's not it,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “A cuttlefish!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, they're sneaky,” Jaskier scowls. “How would you know? Have you ever met one?”

“Have you?” “I – no, but – only because they're so good at sneaking away. I'm just gonna put it out there – a witcher is genetically probably at least ten percent cuttlefish.”

“Well, you don't choose your mutations. They choose you.”

Jaskier shakes his head a little, smiling, and steps closer.

“Did you know about this library?” Jaskier says. “I can't believe this is just in the middle of nowhere. I mean – this is incredible!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, “I've never been in this room.”

“A travesty. Look at this stuff! It's just got everything.”

Jaskier starts wandering again. Behind one of the shelves, he finds a cushioned armchair and gasps. “Okay, that does it. I'm living here now.”

Geralt looks like he's going to say something, so Jaskier shushes him. “No objections!” And it's working, because Geralt doesn't object.

So Jaskier picks one of the novels and sits down in the armchair, thinking to himself that he's not going to get up again in the next twelve years at least. Curled up in the armchair, Jaskier can forget about the loneliness that always seems to be just a step behind, about his songs that are really just as stale as the bread people throw at him. When he looks up again, Geralt is gone, so Jaskier turns to his book again. A while later, Jaskier sees him sitting by the window, carving something into wood. Jaskier smiles and pretends he read something funny. They sit there morning, midday, afternoon.

Jaskier asks the dinner table for warm bread like his mother used to make it. Apples like from the tree in front of his old house. He'd nearly forgotten what they tasted like.

Jaskier doesn't try to get close to Geralt. (He does wish he knew how to build a bridge.)

When evening breaks, Jaskier tries to find out which room Geralt lives in, but Geralt never seems to sleep. Instead, Jaskier goes into the room next to the library and falls onto the bed. His mind won't stop churning. The library, the magic dinner table, the strange but strangely kind witcher. Jaskier has to keep this somehow, he has to convince Geralt to let him stay. He falls asleep trying to think of something to say - please, I can offer you – free view of my gorgeous good looks, an abundance of annoying comments, accidental insults intended as compliments, songs no one wants to hear... a smile an ear a hand

*** “It's raining.”

Deep sigh.

“Do you want me to get wet, Geralt? Cold and wet, Geralt, that's just one step away from pneumonia, and that's just a step away from death.” “Fine. You're leaving tomorrow.”

*** “I heard a noise outside.”

Moderate sigh.

“I think there might be a monster just out the door just waiting for me. Do you want me to get killed, Geralt? Killed!”

“Fine. But tomorrow.”

*** “You know, I've really made friends with the bald guy in the painting over the fireplace and I feel like he might cry if I were leaving, maybe commit suicide -” “Jaskier.” “Yeah?” “Just stay.”

***

He does.

*** “No, I don't like him,” Geralt tells Roach. Roach huffs. “I don't! What, you think I like his chatter or his stupid questions or his pretty smile? Don't be ridiculous.”

He continues brushing down her side. “I don't even like his singing. I just like... that it's not quiet.”

Roach flicks her ear and tilts her head. Geralt pets her throat.

“He's not charming. He's annoying. Today, he found a chest with old clothes in them and decided to try them all on. And show me, too. It was very annoying.”

Roach neighs softly.

“No, I didn't like it,” Geralt says, “I don't even know why I bother talking to you. If you keep this up, I'm not going to give you another carrot.”

At that, she snubs her nose against his hand. He is already feeding her another carrot.

“You're supposed to be on my side, you know. Did he sneak down here to give you these snacks he remembered form Skellige? He did, didn't he?”

Geralt is going to say something else about Jaskier when he suddenly hears the front gate closing. His heart lodges in his throat immediately. Only one person could be at that gate – is Jaskier leaving? Why would he not say something?

(Afraid he'll get violent? Afraid he'll keep him here, forever, forever, forever? Or just so done with him – with his grunts, with his stilted responses, with his beastly eyes – that all he wants is to get away?)

And Geralt still doesn't know how to catch a ray of light, but he rushes out of the stables anyway. It's been weeks since Jaskier first came here – and Geralt is just – he's used to him now.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the figure on the courtyard – not Jaskier. Someone new. If his head hadn't been so clouded, he'd have noticed the smell earlier. Different.

She is rushing towards the castle. She hasn't seen him, but she's not looking left or right. He can hear her heavy breathing, her pained gasp. She trips and scrambles hurriedly to her feet again. Geralt quickly skims his surroundings, something must be following her. He can't sense anything in immediate proximity, so he goes after the girl instead.

He slips into the castle after her. She flinches at his grunt and spins around. A veil of relief lays itself over the deeper fear. He's a stranger and he knows how he looks – if she's relieved to see him, that means something scarier is after her.

“Please,” she says and he skims her slim figure, the ragged pale blue dress. Not appropriate for the colder temperatures. “Please, you have to help me hide.” “What's after you?” Geralt asks, already drawing his sword. “Species, size, state?”

“He's -”

She cuts herself off, too panicked to keep speaking, but she has already answered his first question. Human. The worst kind to get involved with.

“Come here,” someone says from the side. Jaskier is in the door of the dining room, beckoning her closer. “You're safe here.” She shuffles over to him and Jaskier quickly shuts the door behind them. Not a second later, a loud knock on the door rips through the air. Geralt swiftly moves behind the door, just as it opens.

“Hello?”

A stocky man walks through. Geralt presses his back to the door and lifts his sword quietly. Geralt takes in the plain clothes, the sweaty skin of his neck, the slow movements. Not a threat. Carefully, he sheathes his sword again and steps forward.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks. The man startles at his deep voice and turns.

“Oh, sir, I'm sorry to intrude. Did you happen to see that misbehaved girl somewhere around?”

“Why are you asking?”

“That miserable wench was promised to me by her father. We had... a slight disagreement.”

“I see,” Geralt says slowly. The man steps a little closer.

“You look strange,” he says, “oh Melitele, you're a freak, aren't you?” Geralt slams him against the door open door. The man clutches at his throat, but Geralt presses down harder.

“You're going to forget about this girl,” Geralt says, his voice deeper than usual. “You're going to walk out of this castle. You are never going to return to this place.” The man nods frantically. Geralt fixes him with a particularly vicious gaze and growls deeply. He snarls once, then punches the door right next to the man's head. The punch breaks the wood, but not Geralt's skin. When Geralt finally lets go of him, the man slumps. He keeps standing there a little frozen, shaking. Geralt barks. That's enough to get the man running. Geralt stands and waits until he sees that the man is gone, then he closes the door softly.

Behind him, the dining room door opens slowly. Geralt tries to relax his fist and get his breathing under control.

Jaskier and the girl are both staring at him wide-eyed.

“You heard that,” Geralt says quietly, knowing they did. He drops his shoulders, trying to appear as non-threateningly as he can. It's not a lot.

He knows how this goes. The girl was desperate before, didn't really get a good look at him when she asked for his help. Now it'll be different. She stares at him out of brown eyes, blown wide. She sees him. Jaskier does, too. They have seen the deranged look in his animal eyes, the hot anger he hides in his fists. Any minute now, she'll run from this place, from him, as far as she can. She looks so small next to Jaskier, a sheep in front of a wolf.

This is where Jaskier knows that the depictions of the townspeople may not reflect his appearance, but they paint a perfect portrait of his soul.

This is the monster living a mockery of human day-by-day.

This is escape into the biting cold, into the arms of kikimoras, ghouls, men with booming voices.

Let me try again, I think there is something human somewhere deep inside of me -

This is Geralt without a weapon, with his neck exposed.

This is -

“Wow. That was impressive,” Jaskier says. “Your hand went straight through and you didn't even take a swing. Phew, you scared the living daylights out of that guy. I reckon we won't be seeing him again for a while. We should have pie. Anyone else in the mood for pie? Yeah, we should definitely have pie. That was stressful.”

Geralt lets out a breath through his nose. His jaw slowly slacks. The girl finally takes her eyes off him.

Jaskier is already wandering back into the living room. With heavy steps, Geralt goes after him. The girl goes a little tense when he gets close, but she doesn't flinch.

She is shivering a little. Geralt quickly strides over to the sofa and grabs the blanket that's still lying there. He approaches her with it slowly – draping it over her might not go over too well. He holds it in her direction from a safe distance.

Jaskier is at the table, conjuring three different kinds of pie. The girl sits down on shaky legs.

“So,” Jaskier says, sliding into the seat next to hers. “What's your name?” “Zofia,” she says in a small voice. “I – Oh gods. Oh – thank you.” She turns to Geralt, who is standing awkwardly behind the seat across from Jaskier. “Thank you for saving me.” Geralt is too startled to answer.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Jaskier says, gentle in a way that Geralt could never manage.

“I – Gods, I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. My father -” she stops and clams her fingers across her mouth. She keeps speaking through her fingers. “He wanted me to marry that – that beast. I just had to – I ran. I don't -”

“You can stay here,” Jaskier says, giving her a reassuring smile. Geralt wants to curse the stupidity of it, of course she doesn't-

“Can I?” she asks him, a little shy, a little insecure.

Confused, Geralt hms.

“That means 'yes', don't worry about it,” Jaskier says, “now, may I offer you some pie?” Zofia is not very talkative, but Jaskier fills the silence for them. Geralt makes another fire, but his mind still goes over the encounter again and again. It's hard to make sense of. Why would she let him near her? Why would she eat in his presence? The only thing different than any time before is – Jaskier. He acts the way he always has – foolish, reckless, like Geralt doesn't scare him. Is he skilled at being an actor or skilled at being a fool?

After lighting the fire, Geralt stays on guard. Peace never lasts. That strange warm feeling in his chest never lasts. But just for tonight, when the sun sets, Geralt is still here, in front of the fire, listening to two voices.

*** A few days later, Jaskier finds the flowers. Geralt hadn't really tried to hide them, but he had almost forgotten about them, placed in one of the many rooms of the castle.

“Geralt, why are you letting these poor flowers die? These ones are fine, but there were petals all around them.”

Geralt stares at the flowers. There's only a handful of them left. Bright yellow buttercups. Flowers need tending to. But these ones have been cut off at the stem – they're doomed to die.

“Don't touch them,” Geralt grinds out. He's still staring at them, counting them, again and again. Five buttercups. Five weeks. He'd thought there were still more of them.

“Fuck,” he says.

“What's wrong?” Jaskier asks softly, eyebrows drawn together.

Five buttercups, forlorn in the big vase. There had been a bouquet of them once. Weeks, months, years even, once. Sunsets and sunrises.

(It is easy to lose track of the flowers in your garden.)

“Nothing,” Geralt lies. He snatches the vase and clutches it in his fingers. He's already thinking of another hiding spot.

(Can flowers grow eyes?) (How long before Jaskier finds the wooden statue of her?) (How many questions can Geralt evade?)

Jaskier accepts his lie, but Geralt can't that easily. Sunrises have become precious again.

*** The next time it happens, it's a scream, so much closer than usual. Geralt runs outside immediately. The days have been getting colder, snow has settled on the ground. This time, no one is in the court yard, but he rushes to the gate and there is another woman, in a blue cloak. Geralt's eyes dart around through the bars of the gate and it takes him only a moment to spot the kikimora, eight-legged and disgusting.

He knows the gate won't open for him, can feel the magic holding him in. Instead, he makes a grab for the dagger in his boot. The kikimora roars, looming over the white-haired woman. The dagger lodges itself in its jaw, and it gurgles, sways.

“Get over here,” Geralt calls.

The woman looks up at him helplessly. While she hurries to the gate, Geralt throws another knife, this time hitting its throat. The monster is still quick and after her. Geralt brandishes his sword, standing alert. He's out of daggers, out of options. There's nothing he can do.

(And he curses his curse -) Her hair, her pale skin, it would be barely visible in the snow, she would be nothing but a bloodstain on the ground.

Geralt would shake the iron bars, trying to rip them off with brute strength, if he didn't know how futile it was.

Do you want me to live in that moment forever, witch? How many times do I have to lose her?

The forest has become a stage for Geralt's worst mistakes and he is trapped in the audience. (Every corpse in this forest has died by Geralt's hand, has died by a footstep not taken.)

The woman reaches the gate fast, she slips in and as soon as the kikimora is here, has rushed after her, Geralt stabs it with his sword, easily. He hasn't unlearned how to take lives, monsters never do -

He is standing over its body, his fingers tightening around the handle of the sword. Breaths come out heavy. Here is another dead body, another one he didn't save. He looks into its eyes and wonders what it must be like.

Children lay down in snow sometimes. Joyfully laughing. Is snow soft to lay down in? Is snow a kinder coffin? Is it comfortable to be forgotten under the cold blanket of it?

(Are four yellow buttercups drowning in that too big vase?)

His teeth press together hard, like he's trying to bite through stone.

“I'm armed,” someone says. “So don't try anything.”

Geralt abruptly shakes his head and steps back, sheathing his sword again.

“Why didn't you use your weapon against him?” Geralt nods to the body.

He turns his head. The girl – the woman – old girl, young woman – clutches a pointy rock in her fingers. She didn't have it before, must have picked it up while he was distracted. Smart.

“I didn't have it before,” she says, “but don't think I'll hesitate to use it.” “Good on the improvisation,” Geralt says. “Don't think that'd be a fair fight.” He lifts his weaponless hands.

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” he continues.

“And why would I believe you, Mister Stranger?”

“I mean,” he says, tilting his head, “I did just save your life.”

She scrutinizes him a little and lowers the hand holding the rock.

“Okay. That's fair,” she says. Her shoulders relax, too. Then her head snaps up again. “But I'm keeping my eyes on you!”

Immediately, she turns her eyes away from him and starts walking towards the castle. Smiling quietly, Geralt follows behind.

“You wouldn't happen to have any food, would you?” she asks.

***

“So what's your name?” Jaskier asks, sliding a bowl of soup across the table. When Geralt had come in with the white haired girl, he hadn't even blinked, just led her to the dining room with easy touches, easy smiles.

The girl's gaze is guarded and she hesitates. “Fiona,” she says. Geralt can tell she has learned to be weary of strangers, but she has not yet learned how to lie. “I just got lost in the woods. I'm a peasant's daughter.”

Geralt watches her quietly, the way she looks down on the table and takes a sip from the soup. She's too thin, even considering that winter has started. She's running from something, and it's not just a kikimora.

“Shouldn't have gone through the swamp,” Geralt says.

He can't believe a word out of her mouth, but Geralt isn't too concerned. How do you trust someone who has nothing to hide?

“Yes, well, I was...” the girl says, still trying to find a place to look that's not Geralt's face, “I was in a hurry.”

She presses her lips together, like she's already said too much, and Geralt doesn't ask. In dimmed light, the face of a friend is indistinguishable from that of a foe. Sometimes closed lip smiles hide razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes someone will offer you a hand to get you to show yours.

“You can always stay here, if you want,” Jaskier says, not asking for permission because he knows Geralt's answer, “there's plenty of room everywhere. Too much, certainly. Lots of space unused, you'd really be doing us a favor.”

The girl stay silent for a long while. She's understood she's better off on her own, but not used to it. (Would you sleep in a monster's den if you had nowhere else to go?)

“You're good with a sword,” she says to Geralt eventually.

“I am.”

“Would you teach me?” she says, starts rambling, “I'm not completely useless, I can help around the house. I'll help clean, I'll dust, not to be rude, but that floor could really use a scrubbing -” “See, Geralt, she understands,” Jaskier says triumphantly. “Come on. You could use a real sparring opponent, I'm sure that tree you always hack away at has had enough of you by now.”

It's two against one. Geralt never really stood a chance.

*** Three voices. Heartbeats. Laughter, sometimes. Shuffling. Footsteps. The occasional crash. The occasional giggle.

Is this how to be human?

Is this how a house is lived in?

The girl – Fiona – the girl – has little fighting skill, but she learns quickly. They're in the entrance hall because it's big and bright. Jaskier is lounging on the stairs, Zofia next to him sewing.

Jaskier's quiet tune floats over to them. Geralt steps carefully, the girl imitates him. Are these ballroom dances, like stepping into footprints in the snow?

She still has an uncertain grip on her sword, even thought Geralt has showed her before. But she is quick, he'll giver her that, has good reflexes.

They spar every day now. Geralt picks up the wood to carve less and less.

He gets used to humans scarily quickly, barely looks at the paintings anymore.

She's a little better today and Geralt lets her knock the sword out of his hand. She smirks proudly, but Geralt's gaze skitters over to Jaskier.

“You're getting slower, old man,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Geralt holds his gaze.

Is this how to be human, with sweaty palms and an unsettling feeling in your stomach? With your throat dry? With your heart too quick?

Jaskier's smile is always a challenge and Geralt always loses against it.

These people are staying, for a little while. Like light in a bottle. Like something not to be kept.

Sometimes Geralt is alone, but from somewhere in the castle, he can always hear singing.

#geraskier fic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher fic #geralt x jaskier

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moderndaybard · 5 years

Text

CR Inktober, Day 3

POTION: ROADSIDE DIVERSIONS

(Please be kind—I’m only 8 episodes in to C2)

The excitement of being on the road again faded quickly as Alfield vanished from sight, and Jester found herself quickly and unsurprisingly bored. As the cart jounced and bounced slowly along the road, the tiefling girl reached into her bag of pastries more for a distraction than out of true hunger.

To her surprise, she found a vial she didn’t remember putting in her pouch. Drawing it out, Jester saw the scrawled note, ‘For the little green one’s birthday,’ just as she heard or felt the echo of a familiar laugh in her mind.

“Nott!” she squealed with glee, turning to the startled goblin, “it must really be your birthday: the Traveler sent you a gift!” She presented the vial with a flourish, the somewhat thick liquid within shimmering with an iridescent variety of colors.

Nott swallowed, eyes darting around. “What—what is it?”

“I don’t know,” Jester admitted, studying the potion in her hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. Have any of you?”

Molly peered over her shoulder, interest obviously piqued. “Not that I can remember.”

Caleb, too, was looking at the mysterious liquid within, already pulling out the pearl from the night before. “Neither have I. Though, if you give me a minute—or ten…”

“You sure that’s really from the Traveler?” Beau asked while the group waited.

“Of course!” Jester chirped.

“But how do you know?”

“Because I know the Traveler—he’s my best friend! …And I heard him laugh.”

For some reason, that only made Beau frown more.

Finally, Caleb looked up, the barest hint of a smile just barely visible on his dirt-covered face. “It is harmless—mostly. Almost positively. It’s meant as a joke, of sorts.”

The handful of glances directed Jester’s way all more or less said, ‘yeah, that makes sense.’

“There is enough for a triple dose, or three people to have a single use.”

Beau folded her arms. “But what does it do?”

Caleb glanced at Nott, Jester, scanned the group, then looked back down at the potion. “I don’t think I’m supposed to spoil the joke. But it’s not dangerous, really, and the effect wears off very quickly—one minute.”

“Nu-uh.” Beau leaned away, shaking her head. “I’ve seen what this one thinks is funny—I’m not going anywhere near that stuff.”

Nott shifted in her seat. “I don’t know about this, Caleb. That smiley wand last night was supposed to be a joke, but it hurt.” Yellow eyes wide, she turned to the human she’d quickly come to trust.

“That is alright, the wizard assured her, ruffling her hair a little. “You can decide what you want to do with your own present. Maybe you would want someone else to drink it.”

Jester was practically bouncing in place. “But what does it do, Caleb?”

Fjord, who was currently at the reigns, glance dover his shoulder. “Jester, you really have no idea? I thought you and the Traveler were really close, or somethin’.” (Apparently, the half-orc had been listening the whole time.)

“I totally am—we’re, like, super-duper close besties. But he’s really good at surprises!”

Mollymauk glanced around the group, then shrugged. “Ah, what the hell. If you say it’s harmless, I’m willing to give it a shot.” The lavender tiefling reached out for the vial.

“Ooh! Ooh! Can I try it, too?”

Caleb looked form the two tieflings to his goblin friend. “this was your present, Nott. What do you say?”

“Now, hold on,” Fjord broke in again, “Caleb, if you say that’s not dangerous, then I reckon you’re right. But shouldn’t we save it, in case it comes in handy for somethin’?”

“Fjord, I promise you that this potion is not useful for anything but a laugh,” the Zemnian wizard insisted, which only made Jester reach out for it more.

Nott glanced around, still looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, if they really want to, and you promise it’s not going to hurt them or anything…”

“Then, one mouthful each. And-uh- there may be a variety of reactions, co—for sake of the horse—you may want to walk beside the cart until it’s worn off.”

Jester and Molly met each other’s eyes, shrugged, then vaulted over the side of the cart simultaneously.

Caleb passed Molly the vial, and Beau, for all of her ‘I want none of this’ attitude earlier, leaned forward, watching eagerly. Nott held on to Caleb’s arm, already seeming to regret her choice, while Fjord slowed the cart, keeping a close eye on the two tieflings.

“Bottom’s up!” Molly knocked back his portion as if it were a shot, then passed the potion to Jester, who did the same before handing the vial back to Caleb.

For a second, the Mighty Nein stared at the two, waiting for something to happen…anything.

Abruptly, the two sneezed in unison.

At once, Molly was surrounded by three other Molly’s, all mimicking his every move (meaning, at the moment, they were peering at each other intently). Meanwhile Jester turned into a sheep.

There were more than a few yelps from the cart—and an oath form all four Molly’s simultaneously—but roughly six seconds later, the four tieflings and one sheep sneezed again.

The three extra Molly’s vanished, and Jester returned to her normal form—but glowing so brightly, they almost couldn’t see Molly cowering away from her.

Six seconds later, both sneezed again.

Molly stood straight again—but not so tall, having apparently somehow, lost seven inches in height, while source-less ethereal music could just barely be heard around Jester, who decided to dance to it, thankfully no longer glowing.

Another six seconds, another (two) sneeze(s).

Jester had no idea what all the commotion was about—to her perspective, everything looked normal once again now that the music was gone and Molly was back to his original height—as she was unaware that everyone but Molly (including her) was currently invisible, except, apparently, to her.

*Achoo!*

Jester again felt disappointed that nothing seemed to have changed about her, unaware of a temporary vulnerability of her and her allies, thankfully not in danger of a combat encounter at the moment. Meanwhile, Molly disappeared from beside her and abruptly appeared on the other side of the cart.

“Halfway there,” Caleb called, just as the two sneezed again.

This time, it was Molly’s turn to think nothing had happened (as he’d not been injured that day), but Jester caused enough excitement when her hand brushed against the cartwheel—which spontaneously caught fire.

By the time the others had doused the flames, Jester and Molly had sneezed again.

Once again, Jester felt unaffected (since she managed not to die in the interval between sneezes), and the only thing that seemed to change about Molly was perhaps a visible ageing of a handful of years? (It was honestly hard to tell with him.)

*Achoo!*

Jester was suddenly surrounded by flower petals and butterflies dancing in the air about her—but her attempt to grab them revealed them to be merely illusory and she sulked, disappointed. Molly, once again his proper age, found that he’d somehow turned a shade of blue even more vibrant than Jester, and he took the opportunity to silently asses how the color matched with his look.

*Achoo!*

A cloud of fog similar to the one Shakäste had cast the day before suddenly enveloped the area around Molly, hiding the fact that he was back to his usual shade of lavender. Truthfully, most attention was on a shrieking, inexplicably and unexpectedly bald Jester.

*Eeee-achoo!*

The fog disappeared, and Molly abruptly vanished from view (form that plane even, though they didn’t know that. When a (no longer bald) Jester attempted to point this out, pink bubbles floated form her mouth instead of sound, and the blue tiefling spent the next six seconds entertained by this phenomenon before the final sneeze came.

Molly reappeared, then, right where he had been, eyes wide and grin unsettlingly wide. Jester, meanwhile, flopped, laughing, onto her back in the road, kicking up her legs in glee.

“Are you both alright?” Nott called, peering around Caleb’s arm.

“Never better,” Molly replied immediately, still grinning. “And richer for the experience, to be sure.”

Jester sprang to her feet. “That was so much fun! Can we do it again, Nott? Can we? Can we? Can we?”

“Are you shitting me?” Beau snorted. “We’ve got one use left of the best fucking distraction we could ask for, and you want to blow it now? Fuck that, let’s save it.”

“At the very least, Jester, we could put it in the drink of the next rich, important asshole that pisses us off,” Molly offered as he helped Jester back into the cart, then took her offered hand up.

“Okay, fine,” the other tiefling conceded before catching a startled Nott into a giant hug. “Any way, happy birthday, Nott! The Traveler really is with you!”

Nott swallowed at that thought, given the recent demonstration. “Oh, boy.”

(AN: Yes, I basically made the wild magic table into a potion, then rolled for effects.)

#crinktober #crinktober 2019 #my post #critical role #critter #daily writing #crinktober day 3 #cr campaign 2 #mighty nein #nott the brave #jestercriticalrole #mollymauk tealeaf

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quentinsquill · 5 years

Text

Fic “Once More, With Fairies” (The Magicians)

Once More, With Fairies

Author: Lexalicious70

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: Teen and up

Word Count: 3,726

Warnings: Mild show spoilers S1-3

Summary: A group of hedges cast a spell over Brakebills with stolen fairy magic, turning it into a fairytale land. Can our hero, Quentin Coldwater, (along with a familiar cast of characters,) decipher all the musical clues given to him as he quests across campus to save Prince Eliot, who has been spirited away and locked up in the bell tower?

Author’s Notes: This is for @whitespiresarmory’s Armory, Round 8, “Music.” I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic, dear readers and, as always, enjoy!

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20694734

Once More, With Fairies

By Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

Once Upon a Time . . .

There was a magical place called Brakebills, where young people from all over the world came to practice magic. It was a wonderous place full of Poppers and potions, of daunting deeds and personal discoveries. Those who called it home protected its secrets ands guarded its borders. But alas, Brakebills was not impenetrable: a group of hedge witches, jealous of the magic given to the students of Brakebills, stole fairy magic and placed a curse on the land and on those who lived there.

Thus it was that Quentin Coldwater, magician, awoke from slumber and found himself at the center of a land that was no longer a place of learning, but a fairytale land of danger and mystery. As he rose from his bed and pulled back the curtain to reveal an expanse of land occupied by thick forests, a rambling hedge maze and, in the far distance, a lofty stone tower, its peak obscured by low clouds, he wished to understand his purpose in this place that seemed familiar yet was no longer his home. Music swelled from a place he couldn’t pinpoint and he began to sing:

O what is this, o’er my land there’s a curtain,

O yes of this, I’m quite certain,

But tell me, what can it be?

My magic, it seems, is still with me, Quentin sang as he raised his hands at chest level and created a mini sun, which revolved around his head as he continued his song, an expression of mild confusion in his dark eyes. But tell me, o Gods, I prithee, am I a hero or fool?

“You’ll be a flipping fool!” Margo broke in as she pushed his door open. She was dressed in a simple white homespun shirt, a brown leather vest, breeches, and leather boots. Her long hair streamed over her petite shoulders. “A flipping—a freakin’—oh Gods, don’t tell me I’m not allowed to swear? What the heavens—” She scowled and crossed the room and Quentin turned to her.

Margo can it be,

that everything we see, is not truly what is meant to be?

Margo’s scowl deepened even as she sang back to him.

Oh, something isn’t right,

We have to stand and fight!

It will do no good to flee . . .

She took Quentin’s hand and began to tug him out of the room, and Quentin blinked as he saw himself in the mirror. He wore a blue jerkin over a white cotton shirt, a long dark green cloak, knee-length trousers tucked into brown leather boots. His tawny hair was tied up in a cockernonnie at the base of his neck. More song bubbled up his throat and he swallowed them back down as Margo led him down the cottage stairs and out the door.

“Wait, where are we going?” He asked, and Margo motioned to two horses she had waiting there.

“Where do you think? To the Wizard Fogg! He may know a way to free Prince Eliot!” She swung up onto her horse, a prancing palomino, and Quentin felt compelled to follow. He climbed up onto his mount, a bay with four white stockings, and glanced back at the foreboding tower in the distance.

“Prince Eliot . . .”

“Yes! Prince Eliot the Forlorn, formerly the Prince of the Land of Brakebills!” Margo kneed her horse into a brisk walk. “We have to find a way to free him before the sun sets on the third day of his imprisonment, or we’ll all become slaves of the one who took him!”

Quentin settled himself in the saddle, experienced the unpleasant sensation of being strangled by his own cloak, then rose up long enough to pull it out from under himself as he adjusted its ties. His horse blew out in what almost sounded like amusement. Margo glanced over her shoulder.

“Come on! We don’t have much time!”

***

The Wizard Fogg lived in a cavern made of obsidian. Because he rarely saw the light, he wore dark glasses that shielded his eyes from all angles, the posts made of thin, curved metal. He stood inside the mouth of his glossy cavern, frowning as he watched Quentin and Margo approach.

“I knew you’d come,” he said to them as they left their horses in a nearby copse of trees. Quentin gave the stocky dark-skinned man a respectful bow.

“You know about the curse?”

“Any fool can see that things are not as they were.” Fogg led them into the cavern, where he consulted a large book that laid open on a glittering table. As he turned a page, Quentin saw the pages were made from thin sheets of obsidian. “Even a fool such as you.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Quentin muttered to Margo, who lifted a shoulder in weak solidarity. Fogg flipped another page and adjusted the leather hat he wore. The pointed tip sagged one way, then another, as he shifted it around on his bald pate.

“Sometimes a fool can be an unlikely hero!” Fogg looked up from the book as musical notes began to swirl from the pages. Margo groaned.

“Oh, bull dung, not again,” she said as a rather jaunty tune formed and Fogg began an impromptu dance, his hat nodding from side to side as he began to sing.

If you listen closely to my story,

You’re sure to find an allegory,

Cos that’s what fairy tales are all about!

Where a fool or a clumsy zero

Can transform into a shining hero! Fogg interrupted himself long enough to touch a willow wand to a lump of obsidian, which forms itself into a statue of Quentin in a heroic pose. Quentin reached out to touch it, only to have Fogg whack his wrist with the wand.

But this not be as easy as it seems . . . He led Quentin and Margo to the mouth of the cave and pointed toward the distant tower, where the low clouds began to flicker with blue light.

Mark that glow around the tower,

It comes from a terrible magic power!

Tis no dragon or hellhound sniffin’—no!

What guards the fair prince is a Niffin!

Be brave, young Fool, and face her icy stare . . .

“Wait what—me?” Quentin asked as Fogg pointed at him with one long finger. “It can’t be me! I’m a fool, not a hero! You said so yourself!”

The Wizard Fogg sighed and glanced over at Margo.

“Did I sing-stutter?” He asked before grasping a handful of Quentin’s hair and turning him back toward the obsidian statue. “This is what you can become, if you are brave enough to pursue it! Now go, across the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze beyond. Seek out the Wise Woman, for only she can tell you how to defeat the Niffin!”

“Why can’t you tell me?” Quentin asked, and Fogg ushered them out of the cave.

“Sorry Quentin, only one expositional song per minor character.” A seal slammed shut behind him and Margo, and she scowled over her shoulder.

“I’m guessing that’s a fourth wall.” She put her hands on her hips. “So now what?”

“You heard Fogg. We have to ride through the Verdant Sea and into the hedge maze to find the wise woman.”

“How in a frog’s rear are we supposed to even know what she looks like?”

“Maybe we’ll just know.” Quentin brought their horses and he swung up into the saddle. “Sometimes even a fool like me gets lucky.”

***

“This isn’t much of a way to make a living.”

Penny the Thief glanced up as partner spoke. Kady the Highwayman was scowling over a small pot of gruel, a long, thin blade tucked into her belt catching the light as she added an anemic carrot to the mix. Penny scoffed.

“Course it’s not. No one ever comes through here. But since we’re as lost as anyone else here, might as well lay claim to it.”

Kady stood and stretched. Her linen breeches, leather boots and homespun shirt and vest did nothing to detract from her beauty. Wild, brunette curls broke over her shoulders like ocean waves on jagged rocks.

“There’s—” She paused and cocked her head. “Listen! Someone’s coming!” She leapt into the nearest hedge, dragging Penny with her. He made an indignant sound of protest but went silent as two riders came around the corner of the passageway.

“Look!” Quentin reined his horse to a stop. Margo frowned at the tiny soup pot bubbling away.

“It’s a little late to be introducing leprechauns into the story, isn’t it?”

“Halt!” Penny called as he emerged from the hedge with Kady, who drew her knife. Quentin’s horse tossed its head in offense and nearly knocked him senseless from his saddle with the arch of its neck. Quentin felt his forehead for signs of blood and blinked at the two thieves.

“We’re halted. Who are you?”

“We’re highwaymen! Hand over all your valuables!” Penny snapped. Margo scoffed.

“Do we look like we have any valuables? We’re not exactly traveling royalty.”

“Then we’ll take those horses,” Kady countered, and Quentin shook his head.

“I can’t let you do that. We’re on our way to the Stone Tower to free Prince Eliot and believe me, if you don’t let us go, you’re going to regret it. We’ll all be slaves of the Niffin who guards him if I don’t face her!”

“You?” Penny asked, his dark eyes narrowing before he snorted a laugh. “You look like you couldn’t find your chamber pot in broad daylight!”

“At least I’m not some thief cooking dirt soup in a hedge maze.”

“Wait, hold up,” Kady interrupted. “Are you serious? Will everyone in Brakebills become slaves if you don’t defeat the Niffin and free Prince Eliot?”

“We’re searching for the Wise Woman right now,” Quentin nodded. “Only she knows the Niffin’s weakness.”

“Better a thief than a slave,” Kady said to Penny, who rolled his eyes but nodded as she threw both arms in the air and then brought them down to point at Quentin and Margo as a hard-driving musical beat rose from the hedges around them and she began to sing:

The life of a thief, well it’s filled with pain!

Waiting on a score in the snow and the rain!

Scrabblin’ for a meal when your coppers are low,

And runnin’ from the law, the noose and the bow!

But let me tell you, boy, the price that we pay,

Means runnin’ our own lives and finding our way,

Free from the hoe, the axe and the plow,

Livin for the here, the day and the now!

So let’s make a trade, I swear I’ll be true!

I don’t wanna be slave, and neither do you.

The Wise Woman lives nearby, and I’ll take you there,

For the price of a pie, a roast or a hare!

Bring us some food and I’ll show you the way,

Cos we can’t live on this gruel another day!

Kady kicked over the pot as she sang the last word and it went spiraling off into the hedge. She looked up at Quentin, her green eyes flashing.

“Deal?” She asked, and Quentin hesitated.

“Do I have to sing my answer, or . . .”

“We’re all gonna be slaves,” Penny muttered, and Kady shook her head.

“Just yes or no.”

“Deal, yes,” Quentin replied. “We only have another day or so before all of this becomes permanent. Margo, will you go hunting while Kady takes me to the wise woman? Penny can catch you up after you bring them a deer or some hare.”

“Fine,” Margo replied as she unslung her crossbow and eyed Penny from her saddle. “You’re not going to sing at me, are you?”

“If I break out in song, just use that bow on me, please,” Penny replied as she pulled him up behind her and they trotted off in search of game. Quentin offered Kady his hand and she sprung up with almost no assistance. As they headed west, toward the setting sun, the blue lights at the crest of the Stone Tower grew brighter.

***

Julia the Wise was a petite, freckled woman with knowing, sad eyes that made Quentin homesick for a place he couldn’t recall or perhaps had only visited. She lived in a neat, two-room cottage on the far side of the hedge maze. A natural pond the size of a large wagon wheel occupied one corner of the main room of the cottage and, to Quentin’s bemusement, was occupied by a bespectacled talking koi fish that interrupted constantly until Julia tossed it chunks of fresh bread.

“The Niffin is all powerful and wishes to rule all of Brakebills,” Julia told Quentin and Kady as she sat cups of herbal tea in front of each of them. “But under that is a deeper spell, I fear. One I cannot quite touch.”

“The Wizard Fogg said you would know how to defeat the Niffin,” Quentin said, sipping his tea.

“Yes. There is an amulet that will make her human again.” Julia went to the cottage window and gazed across the land at the tower.

True love lies trapped on high, she sang,

Alone and frightened in the tower

And only you, Fool, have the power to set it free.

“True—what?” Quentin asked, but Julia continued her song.

“Prince Eliot is dreaming,

Bound in the Niffin’s spell,

Forlorn, his magic teeming

With hexes and dark magic rare . . .

As she sang, Julia crossed the room with measured, almost dancing steps and opened a cupboard that was well warded. She then withdrew a silver amulet from its depths, the edge gilded with blue crystal.

“This will bring the Niffin back to her human state. Inside is magic that she will not be able to resist. You must see that she touches it, Quentin. Only then will the spell come to life.” She touched his face.

“Do not deny what you feel,

For without it we are lost,

Bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,

Or our freedom is the cost.”

“And she doesn’t mean a kiss like you’re greeting your grannie!” The bespectacled koi chimed in. “Really lay one on him, taste him like you mean it—ooh!” The koi interrupted itself to nip at a few fresh chunks of bread Julia tossed it from her apron pocket. Quentin put the amulet around his neck and bowed to the wise woman even as his head spun with her revelation.

***

Penny and Margo rejoined Quentin and Kady outside the exit of the hedge maze, about half a day’s ride from the Stone Tower.

“I have to go alone from here,” Quentin told them. “The rest of the quest is mine to complete alone—only I can awaken Prince Eliot and turn the Niffin human.”

“You really are a fool,” Penny scoffed, but then his expression softened. “I hope you make it.”

Margo kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck—and please, fix this before I end marrying some tinker out of sheer boredom!”

“I’ll do my best.” Quentin swung up onto his horse and headed toward the tower. The unlikely trio watched him ride off, Margo’s horse loaded with fresh game for the thieves, and Margo sighed.

“We’ll all be bound to make the beast with two backs if that’s not good enough.”

***

The Stone Tower crackled with blue light that made the hair on Quentin’s arms stand at attention. His horse planted its feet as they reached the gates and Quentin swung down, frowning.

“Some hero’s horse you are! Fine . . . stay out here then!” He crossed the open gate’s threshold and a furious screech went up all around him. “Oh, dung balls,” Quentin muttered, touching the amulet as he ventured into the tower and began to climb the steps. The moaning and angry noises grew louder with each turn of the winding staircase, and then the blue light was all around him, twisting and curling like a furious snake. Quentin teetered on the edge of the narrow stone step he occupied as a face rose out of the light—a beautiful face framed with crackling blonde hair and furious eyes filled with a malignant topaz light. The mouth dropped open in a fierce shriek and Quentin willed himself not to cringe as he fumbled the amulet out from under his shirt.

“Niffin!” He called. “It is I, Quentin the Fool! I bring you a gift!”

“Pathetic worm!” The Niffin hissed, curling around him until Quentin could feel the untamed magic sparking against his skin. “I accept no gifts! I take what I want, when it pleases me!” The coil tightened. “I will crack your bones open and drink the magic from them as easily as you drain a cup of water!”

She’s going to kill me, Quentin thought as he lost half his air. I don’t have a chance, unless . . .

“It’s—just as well!” Quentin wheezed out. “The gift is a puzzle that I doubt you even have the skill to open!”

The Niffin paused and brought Quentin up to her eye level, her beautiful, awful visage filling his vision.

“What did you say, worm?”

“The gift!” He managed to get one hand free to hold up the amulet. “Only the wisest of creatures can reap its rewards. None yet have been able to open it, but if you don’t think you can either . . .” He began to drop the amulet back under his shirt when the Niffin ripped it free and dropped him on the stone steps.

“There is no magic I cannot control, Fool!” She snarled, closing her hands around the amulet. It lit up from the blue edges inward, light spiraling down toward the center until it broke open and showered the Niffin with a copious shower of hot, crispy bacon.

“The cured meat of the hog!” She cried even as she scooped sizzling pieces of it into her mouth. “No, I cannot resist . . . NOOOO!”

Quentin watched, his eyes wide, as the blue light faded from her form and she shrunk down into a pale blonde human. She blinked at him as she sagged down onto the tower’s steps.

“Where am I?” She murmured, and Quentin got to his feet.

“I’m not sure how to answer that. But, uhm—just stay here and—” Quentin gave a vague gesture as he bolted up the tower steps, leaving the girl to lick bacon grease off her fingers.

Quentin climbed three more floors before he found Prince Eliot laying on a plush couch, his dark, curly hair spread out across a white pillow embroidered with purple flowers. His chest rose and fell in even breaths, causing the gauzy aubergine shift he wore to give a mild flutter every few moments. Quentin’s heart answered that flutter.

“Do not deny what you feel . . . bring Prince Eliot to life with your kiss,” Quentin sang the line softly as he went to one knee and touched Eliot’s smooth cheek. His lips were parted just enough to make Quentin want to meet them with his own, as he’d wanted to—when? Another lifetime? Yes, one he could barely remember, yet the desire was still there. He lowered his head and claimed Eliot’s lips, kissing him with a firm, coaxing pressure until Eliot’s eyes fluttered open. Quentin pulled back, their lips parting with a soft pop, and light filled Eliot’s amber eyes as the fairytale spell collapsed all around them.

***

Two Days Later

“I still can’t believe we all had to sing to get out of that mess.”

Eliot looked up from the bar that ran along one side of the Physical Kids cottage as Margo spoke.

“You all got to sing!” He pouted as he mixed her a drink. “I was just the damsel in distress!”

“And a fine damsel you were.” Margo got to her feet and accepted her drink as Quentin came down the steps. She winked at Eliot. “Here comes your fool.” She vanished down the hall with her glass, and Quentin paused at the bottom of the stairs.

“Uhm . . . hey, El.”

“Hi. Want a drink?”

“Yeah—wine, I guess.” He sat down on the couch and watched Eliot fill two glasses, which he brought over.

“So . . .” he handed a glass of pink merlot to Quentin. “That whole spell issue. Fogg said it was cast by a group of hedges that had gotten hold of a chunk of fairy magic.” He sipped his wine. “Jealousy is such an ugly thing.”

“Well, we managed to work it out,” Quentin replied. Eliot nodded and swirled his wine around a moment.

“Q . . . you said Alice was a Niffin?”

“Yeah. She was the thing that guarded you in what I guess is the campus bell tower.”

“Why do you figure she was the guardian and not your damsel? Why . . . do you think it was me?”

Quentin considered this and then slid over until there was little space left between them. Eliot watched, his expression surprised but delighted underneath.

“That’s the thing about magic, El. Even when it turns reality upside down, there’s just some truths it can’t change.” He leaned in and touched his lip’s to Eliot’s, and Eliot’s sable eyelashes swept closed at the kiss. When Quentin pulled back, Eliot opened his eyes to find the younger magician smiling at him.

“What truth?” He asked, and Quentin kissed him again, his lips sticky sweet and delicious.

“That even curses understand ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

FIN

#my fic #whitespiresarmory

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ofskillandwill · 5 years

Text

Too Good to be True

Sparrow opened her eyes, momentarily surprised to see herself within her home behind the demon door. Her mind was a haze, but she was certain she hadn’t visited Oakfield in a long time.

“Wake up little Sparrow!”

that voice was familiar...too familiar. Sparrow scrunched her brows and buried her head under her pillow to avoid it, to hide away from any painful memories.

“Little Sparrow! It’s time to wake up!” the owner of the voice yanked away her pillows and hit her over the back with them. Looking up Sparrow abruptly met two brown eyes, so much like her own yet darker...and framed by pale pink eyeshadow. Backing up Sparrow blinked rapidly, realizing that Rose was indeed there. Her sister was next to her.

With a cry of joy and victory she leaped at her elder sister, wrapping Rose in a bear hug and making her shriek as the two of them fell back, sparrow burying her face in the crook of Rose’s neck.

“Geeze, wha’d ya have to do that for?” Rose drawled, yet a chuckle escaped her as she rubbed Sparrows back just as she had back when they were children. Back before...Sparrow suddenly couldn’t remember. “You should be savin’ that for the boys, Logan’s got a surprise for ya.”

Her children? Oh yes, her boys. She got off of Rose, unsurprised to see her wearing a similar outfit to Sparrows own, except instead of black and red she was wearing more neutral brown pants and soft pinks in her corset and coat offset by white and brown. Somehow she knew that this was a daily outfit for her.

Standing she brushed off her nightdress, stretching and wincing as an ache in her back reminded her of the twins she’d birthed only a week ago. Looking to the railings she spotted two wooden cribs lined with white cotton and lace, mobiles with bright and colorful objects turning lazily above them as pairs of small hands reached for them from the tiny confines. When Sparrow approached the cribs she found two tiny beings staring back at her with identical brown eyes, their bald heads covered with scarlet and purple to differentiate them. Little William and little...Rose...yes...she was certain that was her name.

“In honor of your auntie,” she cooed at the gurgling baby in a flouncy deep scarlet nightdress, picking her up before picking up her brother in shiny purple silk just as flouncy as his sisters. She chuckled as the babies fought for equal rights to resting on her chest, Rose coming to take and hold as William he cried indignantly.

The sisters laughed at the babies before going downstairs, Sparrow using her now empty hand to hold up the end of her nightdress to avoid tripping. Odd, she was sure there was a ladder previously. When she saw Theresa at the table, calmly eating her breakfast as her seven year old, Adam her heart warmed at the sight of him, babbled on about the new swords in the weapons shop out in Oakfield.

“Maybe if I show mom she’ll buy me one. Or maybe Aunt Rose will!”

“Do you not already have a wooden one?” the seer asked, the disapproval barely hidden under the surface of her voice.

“Yeah, wood. Not steel! I’m ready to train and be a hero! The best hero in the world!” He had stood, knocking over his porridge as he did so, which was narrowly saved by Theresa as if she’d seen it happen already. She probably did. Sparrow laughed, the sound odd in her ears yet so welcome. Adam jumped again, turning deep red as he blushed, hiding his face under his long brown hair and kicking his chair sheepishly. “Well...maybe as good as my mama...”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be a far greater Hero,” she walked up to her boy and wrapped him in a hug, placing his sister between them to keep her both protected but involved all the same. “But no steel until you turn 13, and only if you can meet the other boys in combat with wood.”

Before Adam could answer her a five year old burst through the door, his dark brown locks wild as his eyes and an excitement beaming through his adorable chubby face. Logan her heart cried. My little King.

“Mama!” he yelled. “Come! Come look! Aunt Rose taught me to shoot!” He proudly held up a sling shot and waved it about before running back outside and to the farm, the sound of alarmed chickens following his wake.

Sparrow laughed in joy, “Is this his surprise?” she turned to talk to Rose, only to find her gone. William gone with her. Confused she turned back to the table only to find Adam and Theresa mysteriously gone as well. She’d never heard steps.

Fear welled up within her, rising her hackles enough that she had to fight every instinct within her. Her flight responses screamed that she fight instead, to shock and light fire to the room. But she did have her infant daughter...if she used her magic she might hurt her little one. Blue glowed beneath her as the candles blew out one by one, alerting her that her will lines were back as a constriction in her ribs caused her to look down. She was dressed in black and scarlet again...prepared for a fight...She still had her daughter though, so she took her sword from its sheathe and brandished it before her, clutching the infant protectively as she began to sniffle and clutch at the collar of Sparrows jacket.

Walking pensively to the door Sparrow kept her eyes peeled. “ Logan,” she called out, her anxieties rising as he did not respond. “Logan!” she called again, more alarmed as her little Rose began to cry. Suddenly something ran past her and she jerked to turn around, finding Theresa standing at the other end of the dark room, Logan in front of her and her hands on his shoulders. While the blind woman had no eyes to speak of, Sparrow still recognized the look in her face.

“Did you truly believe this life could be yours little Sparrow?”

“No,” she muttered, taking a step back before her fear turned to anger. Her once beloved nickname now felt like a bullet in her heart. Her pain and fear began to morph though as she saw Theresa’s hand begin to pet Logan’s head. “No!” she began to march forward, only for her feet to sink into the floorboards. “You can’t have him! He is mine! I won’t let you hurt my boy!” she screeched, Rose’s wails growing stronger as Logan reached out for her, calling “mama” as Sparrow felt herself sinking further, her legs refusing to listen to her as she tried to move.

“You think I would harm him? Not while his destiny is unfulfilled.” The easy calm in her voice just angered Sparrow further, both from guilt at raising her voice at her would-be mother and at being spoken to like a child. She couldn’t do this! Children were not to be molded for destiny they were to be children!

“You’ll hurt him!”

“No. I will give him a push.” with that she tapped at Logan’s arm, making the child move to the side as Theresa folded her arms, a familiar scarlet bundle appearing within them. Shock and horror filled Sparrows system as she glanced to her own arm, finding no more than a single long-stemmed rose within it. Sparrow’s eyes widened and she looked back at Theresa as she sunk further into the floorboards, the word “no” barely escaping her mouth as her throat constricted painfully.

The Queen jolted up in bed, almost shocked back to full wakeness by the cold air from the window and the dreaded softness of the mattress. Next to her, her husband stirred, mumbling something about blue silk and dresses and “abhorrent” tattoos. Shaking Sparrow left the bed, finding a shawl on the table near her and pulling it around her shoulders to fight the chill. And perhaps in a feeble attempt to pull herself together. Walking to the window she shut and locked it tightly, the sharp click assuring her that Ther-no, she mustn’t even think the name of that witch, would remain locked out of the palace and away from her children. Breathing in shaky breaths Sparrow leaned her forehead against the glass, trying to calm and assure herself that it was just a dream. A horrific dream.

A small cry sounded behind her, shortly followed by another.

She turned quickly, clutching her shawl closer to herself as she slowly approached a pair of cribs and finding them filled with two near identical babes. only near as they were of different genders, but otherwise they looked the same. Her husband snored louder, turning over in the bed and taking up most of the king sized, plush monstrosity. She sighed heavily before picking up both babes, trying to sooth them back into sleep, guilt washing over her as she feared she’d woken them. But the beating of their hearts and sniffling cries assured her they were real, they were here, and they were hers.

The door to the room opened slightly and Sparrow turned to find a slight man her own age entering, jolting as he spotted her awake. Jasper, she realized as the candle lit his face. She couldn’t help a small relieved grin from gracing her features as the comfort that it was him who’d come. He’d helped her more than she could count with getting used to being royalty.

“My Queen,” he began, bowing quickly yet careful not to drop the candle he’d brought nor loose the nightcap upon his head. “I did not know you were awake. I heard cries and wished to sooth the twins before they woke you. I shall-”

“No,” Sparrow called softly. Perhaps softer than she’d spoken since she was a babe herself. “No, I could use some help, if you don’t mind. I’ve only so many arms to bounce with.”

Jasper gave a polite yet happy seeming smile as he nodded, walking forward and taking her little girl when offered. Sparrow feared William disappearing again if she gave him away.

“It occurs to me,” Jasper whispered, “that they are a week old yet only Prince William has his name. Is there anything I should call our little Princess until she receives her own?”

“Yes,” Sparrow whispered back as she walked to a rocking chair on the other side of the butler and rocked her son. “Her name is Rose...after my sister.”

Jasper rose a brow at the mention of a sister, a fact that Sparrow had never made public before.

“I do believe it suits her,” was all he said before he softly cooed at the babe. Sparrow held back a laugh, not wanting to ruin the moment between them. Instead she simply sat and rocked her son while her butler, no...her dear friend...rocked her daughter. Soon enough the fear from her nightmare shrank away, and instead contentedness filled her. Not quite the happiness she wished for, but she was happy she got as much as she did nonetheless.

#sparrow #fable 2 #fable imagines #jasper #rose #theresa

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lizzy-c807fanfics · 5 years

Text

That Old Black Magic Ch.8

Find the whole story here:

FF AO3

New to the Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire Universe? Read the first story here! - FF AO3

Killian Jones and Emma Swan didn’t meet under the usual circumstances but they had an immediate spark that ignited into a fiery relationship. Their complimentary life styles create the perfect partnership at both home and work. Can she and Killian keep up their lucky streak while navigating through the dangerous lives they lead? Find out in this Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire Mystery: That old black magic.

In this story two sorority girls have gone missing. Emma is on the case to try to track them down. Along the way she manages to piss off some of the wrong people adding complexity to her case.

Ch. 8

Graham was talking the whole ride to Bachelor Party Arms. She’d have to admit if he asked her about what he’d said, she’d have to admit that she hadn’t been listening to a single thing. She’d been thinking about the threat she’d received from the scots and her poor bug. Nobody messes with her bug. Once she figured out who dared touch her baby she had a special kind of pain in mind for them. It wasn’t until the car stopped moving that she realized they’d arrived. She snapped back to reality and focused on what Humbert was saying.

“Listen, I’m going to take lead on this. You just follow behind and wait for my signal.” said Humbert.

Emma cocked her eyebrow. “Are you expecting trouble from these guys? I thought you said it was a bunch of college kids that lived here?”

Graham shrugged his shoulders. “I never said they were all college kids, just that a bunch of college kids lived here. Look around Emma, this isn’t exactly the safest neighborhood.”

She was suddenly aware of her surroundings. She pursed her lips.” I see.”

“Not to mention, you are female. So you should let me lead.” Said Humbert.

She could feel herself getting annoyed. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to protect me. Can we just get this over with please?”

“Fine, have it your way.”

She got out of the car and slammed the door. She forgot he was a sexist pig for a moment. She’d have to make sure to remind herself in the future, even if he was being nice. He was halfway up the walkway by the time she caught up to him. He wasn’t wrong about the smell coming from the building. It was a combination of body odor and hot garbage. What looked like a normal unassuming apartment building on the outside was anything but normal once you stepped inside the beast. The smell outside wasn’t even the half of it, once you entered the threshold it was like walking inside a sticky, smelly sweat sock. The dark blue carpet was a combination of damp and sticky, she could swear she was leaving footprints as she walked. It was just gross. This must be what ants experience when they go into those traps.” Said Emma as she continued down the hall behind him.

He turned to face her. “You hear that? Sounds like there’s a party upstairs. Maybe the 4th floor. That’s usually where the parties will be.”

“I take it you’ve been here before?” asked Emma.

He hesitated.” I may have lived here for a while, you know back when I was in college.”

“Ah, no wonder you know so much about the place.” Her opinion of him just got better and better as she learned more about him.

“It was once home. I know it looks bad now, but it wasn’t this bad back then.” He explained.

She didn’t believe that for a second, but an inside man is helpful. “Ok, I feel better knowing you’re knowledgeable about the place. Is there another way out of here or just that front door?” she asked.

“Yeah, there’s a fire escape staircase down the backside of the building. You can get access to it at the end of the hall on each floor.” Said Graham.

“Ok, Good to know. I’m ready. Lead the way.”

Graham smiled and quickly bolted up the staircase to the next floor. The second floor was brightly lit and had a carpet that was slightly less sticky. She looked down the end of the hall and there was a big window. She could see the fire escape through the window. She could never be too careful. The music was getting louder. She kept moving up the staircase towards the source of the music. The third floor was like the first, sticky and dark. Same big window at the end of the hall.

“It’s just upstairs. I was right, probably the penthouse.” Said Humbert.

“This place has a penthouse?” asked Emma.

“Yes, It’s one of Gold’s properties. He has a penthouse in all of his buildings.” Said Humbert.

“I should have guessed. That man will do anything for a buck.” Said Emma.

“Let’s go see if we can find our guys.” Said Humbert.

She looked down the hall and then back at Humbert. “Hold on. Maybe you should wait here.” Suggested Emma.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a cop. I’m not. Those kids see a cop coming to the door they might get spooked and start running.” Said Emma.

“I see your point. Alright. I’ll give you 15 minutes. Then I’m coming in.”

She smiled.” Deal. It’s just a bunch of kids having a party right? How bad could it be? “

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Killian walked up towards Wally’s he noticed Emma’s car off to the side. His blood started to boil again at the thought of those punks threatening her. He walked into the garage door and the chimes went off. “Be right there.” Called a scruffy voice.

Killian looked around the small room. It was dingy and dimly lit. The sounds of banging and machines buzzing could be heard from the other room. Sounded like they were busy.

“Hey, there. Sorry about the wait. What can I do for you?”

Killian turned around to see a round older man, with a balding head and two tufts of white curly hair on the side. “You Wally?” asked Killian.

He laughed.” Nah, I’m Doc. Wally’s been gone for a while now, just kept the name for sentiment. What can I do you for?”

“I’m here to find out about the yellow bug out front.” He said.

“Oh, yeah. Poor girl. Punks out there need to be put in check. It won’t take me long to get the tires changed out. I can have it back later tonight.” Said Doc.

“Yeah, about that. Any chance you rent cars?” asked Killian.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got one loaner. It’s a the blue Charger, parked by the door.” Said Doc.

He looked out to see the muscle car in the front. “I’d like to rent that from you if you don’t mind.”

Doc scratched his gritty forehead. “Ok, I can do that. You want me to hold onto the bug?”

“Do you think you can keep the car concealed? It might be good to keep her off the streets for a few days.” Explained Killian.

“Okie Dokie. Let’s get you the keys and you can take Old Blue out there.”

“Great, Thanks.” Said Killian.

He hoped that the fact that it was a supped-up muscle car would soften the blow when he told Emma that he’d borrowed it and asked them to hold her car. She had to understand. A yellow bug would stick out like a sore thumb and those punks knew her car. If he couldn’t be with her, he could at least do this.

~~~~~~~~~

Oh, it was bad. She entered the darkened apartment to find half naked college kids, drenched in foam and glitter, dancing all over the place. It was a huge room, probably three times the size of their whole apartment. A DJ was setup at the corner of the room playing loud booming music. The only lights in the room were coming from the huge set of speakers to the right and left of his platform and a big rainbow-colored light ball spinning on the ceiling.

She navigated her way through the sea of bodies looking at the faces she passed trying to find someone coherent to question. Finally, she found a group of kids sitting on funky chairs around a coffee table on the side of the room. As she approached she noticed they weren’t just sitting there, they were taking turns hitting a Hookah. She grabbed an empty red solo cup and pretended to stumble towards an open chair in the circle. One of the boys looked towards her. “Sup Babe? Want a hit?”

She kept her drunken persona up and smiled. “Sup. Anyone seen Al?”

A boy with red hair braided into dred locks spoke out. “Damn, Al always gets the babes.”

The guy holding the hookah pipe slowly blew out smoke. “He’s in the back room with the prince.”

She pretended to stumble again as she stood from the chair. “Thanks.” She said as she walked away. When she was out of sight she dropped her solo cup on the ledge as and moved down the hall towards the back room.

The door was cracked so she peeked in to see what she was dealing with. She scanned the room cautiously looking for danger. The room was virtually quiet in comparison to the wild party happening in the front room. The décor concentrated on purple, gold and black colors. Purple drapes adorned the windows. There were black leather couches around the room with glass and metal end tables between. There was also a very wild pattern of gold, purple and black in the end to end carpet. It was definitely a bachelor pad in her opinion. A brief look around drew her attention to the center of the room. There was a large ornate chandelier over a poker table. There appeared to be a heavy game going on. There was a small group of people sitting around the table and one guy to the side of the game standing behind a small bar making a drink.

“Damn Nav, you win again.” Grumbled one of the guys.

Her ears perked up at the mention of his name. She focused her eyes towards the handsome man collecting the chips. “Must be my lucky day.” He said as stacked the chips in front of him.

This was her guy. She needed to get into this game.

One of the guys at the table stood and pushed in his chair. “This game is too rich for my blood.”

She thought to herself must be my lucky day. She relaxed her body and slowly walked into the room. “Got room for one more?”

All eyes at in the room quickly turned to her and scanned her up and down. The guy from the bar moved forward. “Depends, how’d you get in here?”

“I heard about a hot game from some guys out front. They said to come back to the prince’s room to get in. Are you the prince?” she asked.

His eyebrow raised. “Maybe.” He rubbed his chin. “You got cash?”

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “This enough?”

He laughed. ” For openers. This is a serious game girl.”

Naveen looked her up and down. “Come on Al, let her play. I’m happy to take her money.”

So that was Al. Both of them were in the same room. Al looked at her again. “Alright, have a seat.”

Naveen collected the cards from the table and began to shuffle them. He had quite a routine with his shuffle. Sliding the cards back and forth on the table, mixing them up and sliding them side to side in his hand. He turned to her as he kept up the shuffle. “You new around here? I’ve never seen you before.”

“Um, yeah. I just started taking classes over at the University.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be taking classes?” asked the jerk to her right.

She didn’t dignify him with an answer.

Naveen started dealing the cards around the table. She watched him carefully with each card. She noticed Al standing back at the bar where she’d first seen him. She noticed Al watching the cards as closely as she was. The others at the table were talking and drinking. The guy to her left was in the middle of a heavy make out session with the girl on his lap.

These guys had stacks of cash sitting in front of them and they weren’t even watching the cards. Clearly, they were some kind of trust fund babies or making cash in nefarious ways. Either way they didn’t care about the money they were about to lose.

It didn’t take her long to notice that Al and Naveen had a scam going. These other poor suckers didn’t stand a chance. She sat back quietly watching until he completed the deal. “So, What’s your name?” asked Al who suddenly came back to life.

“Ellie.” She said flatly.

“Ellie, can I get you a drink?” he asked?

She picked up her cards and began thinking of combinations. “Um, sure. You got any scotch?” she asked.

“That’s impressive. Neat or on the rocks?” he asked.

“Neat.” She slid the cards she didn’t want across the table. “3 please.”

She watched him deal her the cards. The others around the table began doing the same. She quickly glanced at her watch. Humbert should be coming in any time now. As jumpy as he was, she was surprised he hadn’t shown his face yet. She’d have to stay in the game until Humbert crashed the party.

Al came up behind her with the drink. “Here you go.”

She held up the drink. “Thanks.”

He smiled. “No problem.” He quickly moved back to his position.

She looked at her cards, she had nothing. She wondered if they dealt her these cards to quickly get rid of her. Given that she clearly didn’t have the funds to keep up. She was going to have to bluff if she was staying in this game. Tweedle dee to her left and Tweedled um to her right wouldn’t be an issue but Naveen, since she knew he was cheating, he was going to make things tough. If she could get rid of those two she could handle Al and Naveen on her own. Where the heck was Humbert already? A thought she never believed would cross her mind.

She continued to play and was doing great. She managed to make it through two quick rounds. Tweedle dum dropped out when his girl started to pass out on his lap. She also managed to pretend she was drinking that scotch one sip at a time, all the while spilling it a little as she went to sit it back on the table. No way she was going to drink anything from this petri dish of an apartment.

She focused on the cards, keeping one eye on Naveen. She had one more guy to get rid of and then she could start questioning these two about the missing girls. Naveen was about to deal again when she heard voices coming from the back of the room. “You lads got room for more?”

She felt a sudden rush go through her body. She turned around and there were two young men standing in the back and her fears were warranted. She recognized one of the guys as part of group who watched her bust Seamus.

“Hey, what’s this bitch doing here?” he shouted.

“Whoa whoa whoa. What’s this about?” said Al.

His eyes went wild as he moved towards her. “She’s the one that got Seamus nabbed by the fuzz yesterday. You’re going to pay for that. ”

She stood slowly and backed up from the table.

“Are you a cop?” asked Naveen.

“She ain’t no cop. She’s just some bounty hunter.” Said the other guy.

The slimy jerk pulled out a switch blade. “What’s say we have some fun with this lass?”

Al was quick to react. “Guys, Guys not in here. You know he doesn’t like his room messed up.”

Naveen stood. “Yeah, you don’t want to do this. You know what happened last time.”

“I’ll pay for the cleaning.” Said Switchblade as he continued towards her.

Her adrenaline was pumping. She slipped her hand around her back to grip the handle of her gun. She hated having to pull it but if it came down to them or her, it was her every time.

“What’s going on in here boys?” asked Humbert.

Switchblade quickly stashed his blade back into his pants, slipping to his friend’s side.

“Ah, nothing officer. Just playing a friendly game of poker.” Said Al.

Humbert looked towards her. She raised her eyebrow and glanced back at the scots in the room.

“Doesn’t look so friendly to me. Is everything alright in here miss?” he asked.

She looked around at the men in the room. “Yeah, we were just finished. These guys were too late.” She moved to the table, grabbed her cash and slipped it into her pocket.

Naveen took her lead and did the same, gathering his money. “Yeah, sorry guys. You should leave. We are done for the night.”

Humbert sat back on his heels, thumb in his belt loop as he watched the Scots. Switchblade grit his teeth and turned on his heels as he pulled on his friend’s coat. “Let’s go. We don’t want any trouble.”

Humbert nodded and watched as they left. He turned and missed seeing the jerk sign that he was going to cut her throat as he left. She let out a deep breath and took her hand off her gun. “Where were you?” she asked.

He smiled. “So you did need me?”

She huffed. “Are you serious? You’re going to rub it in now?” She could feel her phone vibrating in her back pocket. She pulled it to see that it was Killian calling. She could swear he always knew when she was in trouble. “Hey.” She answered.

“Love, I just wanted to let you know I had your car taken care of.”

She let out a soft sigh. “Thank you. Listen I’ve got to take care of something. Can I call you back?”

“You don’t sound well, is everything alright?” He asked.

“Yes, I’m alright. I’ll explain when I see you. I’ll call you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“If you’re done checking in can we get started?” teased Humbert.

She rolled her eyes at his comment.

“Are these the guys?”

She slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Yes.”

Naveen held up his hands. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, what did we do?” asked Al.

“We need to ask you both a few questions about the disappearance of Charlotte and Tiana.” Said Emma.

#cs ff #captain swan #emma swan #killian jones

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amarauder · 5 years

Text

0.10 madame pamplemousse and her incredible edibles

sincerely, the blue and silver gryffindor

a princess of magic novel

draco malfoy x reader

When the news went out that the restaurant was opening again, the phone never stopped ringing. By now, only the wealthiest citizens of Paris were able to afford a table, but even so, the tables were by invitation only. The head of FOOD Corporation had ordered his private jet to spin around in mid-flight when he got the news. The President of France had a special body double take over the engagements so that he might attend.

But eight o'clock that morning, all of Lard's cooking staff had been despatched to buy the necessary ingredients. Lard was amazed by the recipe's simplicity.

"You mean that's it? There's nothing else to it?"

"Just what's on the list, Uncle," said Y/N.

"But surely some extra butter, a drizzle of double cream?"

"Just what's on the list," she repeated.

"Well, I never!" said Lard. "And there it was all this time, right under my very nose!" And he went off muttering to himself, occasionally lashing out to punch a wall or smash a piece of furniture.

By midday all of the ingredients had been bought, chopped, filleted, sliced, crushed, and blended as dictated, to the letter, in the recipe. Smiling practice began soon after and work had to stop for a good two hours. Seeing her chance, Y/N slipped away.

As quickly as she could, she took a saucepan and began to prepare the stock, just as she had done the night before in Madame Pamplemousse's kitchen. But the freedom she had felt there now abandoned her and in its place came a little, creeping fear. A fear that her recipe was no good-that it would backfire horribly and her uncle would be triumphant after all. But then the first delicate threads of steam rose up from the cooking pot to curl about her nostrils, and in that instant she forgot her fear. A new, coolly detached part of herself took hold, no longer rushing, but allowing the recipe to take shape at its own pace and natural rhythm.

Then, when it was done, she removed the saucepan from the heat and let it cook in a special hiding place in one of the store cupboards. This she managed just in time before a great stampede of chefs, forced to stop work during smiling practice, came charging through the kitchen doors.

By seven o'clock huge crowds had formed outside the restaurant and were screaming and shouting to be let in. Lard had the full assistance of the military and the police, and great steel barriers had been set up around the restaurant, patrolled by armed guards. Television crews were filming all the commotion and the crowd became hysterical when a helicopter appeared overhead, hovered above the restaurant, and a rope ladder dropped down. A bald, faceless man in a grey suit, who was the President of France, climbed out of the helicopter, closely followed by a small, withered-looking man, who was the head of the FOOD Corporation.

It was more than Monsieur Lard could ever have dreamed of and he stepped out to meet the crowd, resplendent in his new pink and diamond-spangled suit.

"Ladies and gentlement," he said in a voice like warm margarine. Then he paused to grin at everyone. "It is my immense honor to welcome you tonight to the Grand Re-Opening of the Squealing Pig. So far the world has only had a taste, a first taste of what is, by all accounts, the most delectable, the most delicious, the most extraordinary, the most incredible tasting edible in all the world!"

There were huge cheers and applause.

"Who wants some more?"

There were shouts of "Me! I do! Me! Me!"

Lard raised his hands to silence them. "Well, I've news for you, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you shall have as much as you can eat!"

And the crowd went wild.

In the kitchens the cooks were rushing about frantically. They had made vast quantities of the recipe and were spooning it at the double on to plates which had been polished up to a sparkle by Y/N. The waiters were waiting anxiously, shouting for the cooks to hurry up.

A fight nearly broke out between one of the waiters and the Head Chef. It was the whippet-thin waiter who also acted as Lard's spy.

"If he shots one more time," whispered the Head Chef, "I'll chuck him in the deep-fat fryer!"

"Don't bother," Y/N whispered back. "Listen, I've got a plan." And she told him about the secret recipe she had prepared and how they were to serve it for the second course.

Next door, Paris's richest and most powerful were banging their cultery on the tables, and when they saw the waiters marching out of the kitchen they began to whoop like monkeys. They pounced on the food, saliva dribbling from their chins, and for a while there was no sound but for the busy scraping of metal on china plates.

Monsieur Lard first knew there was something wrong when he saw that people had stopped eating-not the way they had done when they first tasted the delicacy from Madame Pamplemousse's shop. Then they had stopped eating out of awe and wonder. This time they were frowning.

Lard's beady little eyes darted about the tables and he saw the President of France chewing slowly with a terrible furrowed brow and a man at another table with a napkin over his mouth. A woman was puckering her lips as if she was about to be sick, and then he saw the President stop chewing and suddenly he spit violently on to the table. All at one, everyone was coughing, spitting, spluttering, as if they had been poisoned.

Lard leapt up, waving his arms around. "Wait!" he cried. "Stop! There must be some mistake. Everyone stop spitting this instant!"

And so they did, not because he told them to but because just then the restaurant doors flew open and out came a solemn procession of cooks, all dressed in their aprons and white hats. And at the front there was the Head Chef, bearing in his hand a tiny plate. This he delivered to the President. "Monsieur," he said, "please accept this from the kitchen, with our apologies."

The President grunted and, as the crowd watched, he lifted ip a tiny spoonful of the food to his mouth. Then he ate another spoonful, and then another. The cooks delivered plates to other tables and soon everyone was doing the same, for Y/N's recipe had the most incredible effect. It was so deliciously light, so fresh and zingy that people quite forgot their sickness and were soon calling out for more.

On seeing this extraordinary turn of events, Lard got out from under the tablecloth where he had been hiding and dusted himself down. He had no idea what was going on but assumed the cooks had made a mistake with the first batch of the recipe. He was going to flambé whoever was responsible but, meanwhile, he improvised.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he grinned broadly, "as you have probably guessed, that first course you received was really a test! A test to see whether you are truly the finest gourmets in Paris!"

A small murmur of approval went round the tables. "And you have passed that test! Admirably! You are not only the finest gourmets but also Paris's best and most beautiful people!"

There was an even bigger murmur of approval. But while he was speaking, a black limousine had slid silently up to the pavement in front of the restaurant. A chauffeur got out to open the passenger door and out stepped the black-suited figure of Monsieur Langoustine. All eyes were on him as he walked up to Monsieur Lard.

"Well, well, nice of you to drop by, Monsieur Langoustine," said Lard coolly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur," said Langoustine. "For tonight I am here to celebrate Paris's new gastronomic star." From out of his long black coat he produced a large bouquet of flowers. "May I present my compliments to the chef?"

"Really, Monsieur Langoustine," said Lard, softening like rancid butter, "you shouldn't have. Though, of course, I accept. For it is an honor and a privilege to be at last recognised as the greatest chef the world has ever-"

Monsieur Langoustine loudly cleared his throat. This was a disturbingly high-pitched, barely human kind of sound, which had the effect of immediately silencing Monsieur Lard. "Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly, Monsieur," said Langoustine icily, "I said I was here to pay my compliments to the chef." He had raised voice so that all might hear it, although this was unnecessary, since everyone was listening intently. And then he pointed his black-gloved hand in Y/N's direction. She had been standing in a huddle with the other chefs but, receiving his summons, she stepped out from among them and Monsieur Langoustine presented her with flowers.

Attatched to them was a note, written in exquisite purple script, which read:

To Y/N, from he friend and colleague, Madame Pamplemousse

Next to her name there was what appeared to be a smudge of ink, but when Y/N looked closer she saw it was the tiny imprint of a paw.

"Congratulations, Mademoiselle," said Langoustine in his soft, piping voice. "People like us should stick together," And then he raised her hand to his thin red lips.

A camera flash went off. A photographer had caught the moment and the next day the picture would appear on the cover of every national newspaper: Y/N in her chef's whites, holding a bunch of brilliantly colored flowers, beside a rather sinister-looking man in dark glasses. Above it the headlines would read:

LANGOUSTINE CONGRATULATES NEW GASTRONOMIC STAR

☛☚

RESTAURANT OWNER STEALS RECIPE FROM HIS OWN NIECE

☛☚

MONSIEUR LARD: THIEF!

And in the later editions:

THE MOST INCREDIBLE EDIBLE EVER

TASTED: WAS IT REALLY ALL

A HOAX?

The photographer had also managed to get Monsieur Lard in the picture, his face bright pink, dripping with sweat. As far as situations in which to be unmasked as a thief go, this was arguably the worst. He had personally seen to it that every exit was either fenced off or patrolled by men with guns. His every facial gesture was being broadcast on national television and he was surrounded by a large angry mob who might easily tear him pieces.

But what they actually did was applaud. No one jeered, no one heckled or booed or hissed. They stood up and clapped as if the whole thing had been a theatrical event, an entrainment and nothing more.

Then someone called out Y/N's name and a small tussle broke out among the press, trying to get the first interview. Paris's top children's clothing designer was there, trying to get her to model a new kind of pink fairy outfit with elasticated wings. But no one could find her.

During all the commotion, while everyone's attention had been diverted by the flashing lights of the cameras, Monsieur Langoustine and Y/N had discreetly made their way through the crowd. And when they reached the limousine, the chauffeur got out to open the door and together they slipped inside. And if anyone had been looking they might have been surprised to see the driver of the car was not even human, but a cat: a long white cat walking on its hind legs and wearing a peaked cap. But no one did notice and before they would have had the chance, the car had already started and was moving silently away.

master masterlist

sincerely, the blue and silver gryffindor

#sincerely the blue and silver gryffindor #draco malfoy x reader #the princess of magic #a princess of magic book

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redflowerwind · 6 years

Text

Brother, dear

Summary: MC gets lost and stumbles upon the mirror of erised. Slight Angst.

A/N: yikes I’m late. For hogwarts mystery event day 5. @hogwarts-mystery-event

This wasn’t how she intended her day to go. One moment she was minding her own business, happy to be over with the week. The next thing she knew, a flurry of Dungbombs flew overhead and landed squarely on a poor first year’s head just a few feet behind her. Almost immediately, the whole corridor erupted into unfounded panic, students pushing frantically to escape the next wave of dung bombs as Peeves flew merrily overhead.

“Allison!” Rowan shouted over the bobbing heads of students, several feet away, hands waving as she struggled to overcome the tirade of frightened students.

“Go back to the dorm, I’ll find you there!” Allison hollered back as she felt herself get crushed by the weight of what seemed like a hundred students all too eager to escape getting pelted by dung bombs. She hears Tulip cheer happily somewhere on her right as more Dungbombs came down.

“But-“ Rowan struggled feebly, trying to work her away past the crowd of students. Peeves whizzed past, his round belly grazing the top of her head as another stream of Dungbombs fell onto more heads.

“Just go! I’ll see you later!” Allison shouted, as they get separated even further. Rowan nodded and yelled something back but is drowned out by the screams of a couple girls as they slip and fell in the mess. She winced, sending the girls pitying looks despite feeling rather relieved that she did not have to spend the next few hours ridding herself of the smell of dung.

The next few minutes were a mess, as students tried to clamber out of Peeve’s line of sight, the crowd pushing Allison further and further along. Allison struggled to keep herself upright, her thin stature nothing compared to the burly Hufflepuffs beside her. She feels herself freezing up, heart going a mile a minute and her vision gets dangerously foggy. Her head is pounding and her breaths get quicker. She almost falls over her own robes, straightening up at the last minute thanks to the pushing crowd behind her. But then she spots it. A glimmer in a narrow hole catches her eye and she doesn’t hesitate to slide into it, eager to escape the horde of students. Surprisingly, the hole turns out to be connected to a neighboring corridor. An empty corridor, she notes. She hurries herself across the gap, scrapping her palms along the walls in the process, before finally squeezing herself out and doubles over. She pants, feeling her heartbeat return to a steady pace and looked around. She is not surprised to find herself in the middle of a dimly lit hallway. The mad race to escape the corridor also meant that she had been forced to follow the crowd into a part of castle she didn’t recognize.

Allison slowly rose to her feet, almost doubling over again but immediately caught herself and leaned against the wall. The smooth stone feels almost too cold against her clammy skin but serves as adequate support. She looked around, vision clearing significantly now. The hallway is brighter then she thought, the setting sun coloring the hall a brilliant shade of orange. The sound of chirping birds drift in through the small windows lining the top, a full length portrait of a snoozing middle aged man is the only thing decorating the bare walls. The windows are too high for her to figure out which part of the castle she was in, but she eyes a few stray tables and wonders if she could reach them if she stacked them upon one another.

Feelings slightly better, Allison gets up and heads towards the tables, getting out her wand. She points it at the tables and they go rushing to the windows, crashing into the walls before landing haphazardly on top of each other.

“Who goes there!” A strangely high pitched voice shouts. Allison jumps, raising her wand and turns towards around. Her wide eyes dart around, and the voice rings out again.

“Hey! You! Girl! What are you doing here!” She sees the portrait moving out of the corner of her eye and jogs towards it.

“Hello.” She greets it hesitantly. Up close, she sees that the man is significantly bald, with a wild bushy white beard and dressed in tattered purple robes. He eyes her up and down, before stretching into a big smile that made Allison shiver.

“A visitor are you? What’cha doing here alone in this part of the castle? Where are all your wee little friends?” He stretches out to take a closer look at her, “you shouldn’t go around crashing tables you know, that makes it angry-“

“I’m very sorry, sir”, Allison quickly butts in, “I’m lost, would you happen to know where we are now?”

He pulls out a monocle and smiles even wider, showing off his very white teeth. “Why, of course! Poor little students always get lost. And it will be my greatest delight and honour to help you of course, Allison Reed.”

Allison took a step back now, gripping her wand tighter. How did he know her name? A strange pit unfurled itself in her stomach and she feels it struggling inside her as the man bared his teeth. She did not like the wild look in his eyes, nor the way he twitched every few seconds or so.

“I must be going now. Thank you for your time.” She said, hoisting her bag up. The portrait continued to smile.

“Where to, Allison Reed? It’s just you and me here now. What’s there to be afraid?”

“Clearly you.” She frowns at it, and turns to the gap, but stops, shocked to find it gone. The surface of the wall that once housed the large crack was now smooth.

“Poor Allison Reed. Mad as a hatter. Seeing things again I see.” The portrait cackles loudly. She faces it and looks straight into those wild beady eyes. Her stomach now threatening to sink to the floor.

“What game are you playing at?” She asked, eyes searching the corridor. The portrait struggled to contain its laughter.

“No game, little Reed. No game at all. If anyone is playing any games, it’s you.” He giggles, “I hear things all over the castle. Your brother must be proud, even the dead talk about you. But then again, he was always a mad one. Yes he was, Jacob Reed.”

“Don’t you dare bring up my brother-“ Allison snarled, but at the sight of her anger, the portrait just explodes into laughter.

“I DARE! HAHAHAHA! They were all mad weren’t they, Allison Reed? Every single one of them! You can try all you like to hide it, but the madness is in you too!” He lunges forward, and Allison runs, heart pounding as she raced down the corridor that magically stretched itself, the cold cruel laughter haunting her. But no matter how far she ran, the ravings of the mad man followed her.

“Stop it!” She shouts, the portrait appearing suddenly in front of her again. This time, it felt like a hundred glowing eyes were all staring at her, pointing accusing at her as the laughter continued.

“What are you trying to hide from? Just accept it child. So stupid. Just like that Jacob. He thought he could find glory with those vaults, that fool. He should have just embraced the madness within him. But I guess now it’s too late, cause he’s dead isn’t h-“.

Bang!

He didn’t even get to finish his sentence. The portrait housing the man had a hole through it now. Allison stood there, trembling in pure fury but never putting her wand down as she walked up to it.

“Shut.” She brandished her wand threateningly. “Up!” She screamed, blasting another curse at the man. It hits the lower left corner with so much force it send the portrait tumbling down to the ground.

“Never talk about my brother, don’t you dare!” She snarled, but the man is already long gone. She was alone. The sun has long since set and the only light available came from a half moon.

She looked up from the frame and is surprised to see a door right where the portrait sat. She didn’t really like the looks of it, but the hall was otherwise empty. Feeling exhausted, she opens the door and drags herself through it.

Inside, the lighting doesn’t get any better but Allison can faintly see that she’s in a classroom. She felt her stomach drop, her hopes of finding a way out dashed. At the back of the room, something catches her eye and she walks towards it.

“Lumos.” She mumbled, carefully making her way to the back. There, stood a grand ornate mirror, with golden clawed feet. There were inscriptions surrounding the edges, and she squinted hard to read it. The words were jumbled up, seemingly ancient, but a few minutes later she has it all figured out.

"I show not your face but your heart's desire?” She says, looking back into the mirror again. She wonders what it means for just a moment before she lets out a strangled gasp.

Jacob.

She turns behind her, but the classroom is as empty as ever. A knock sounds and she faces the mirror again, and Jacob is now smiling at her, hand placed against the glass. He says something, but the glass muffles his voice.

“Jacob! Jacob, can you hear me? Where are you?” She is up against the mirror now staring at Jacob. He’s still smiling, his grin now brighter as 2 more figures step up behind him.

Allison backs away from the mirror, feeling all choked up as the 4 happy people enter the frame. And for the first time in years, she sees her family together.

But that couldn’t be.

Jacob is grinning, his face full and healthy. His eyes are bright blue, like hers, he’s happy. He easily towers over her, no longer hunched. Nothing compared to the shadow of a boy with a constantly haunted expression during his last few weeks with them. His silver hair shines, short and wild. He winks at her.

Her mother draws her attention. Here, the woman stands tall and straight in a pretty dress. She does not resemble the husk with constant bloodshot eyes that Allison had been living with. Years of mourning for her lost son do not show as her smile and eyes are just as wide as hers. Allison recognizes her smile, she sees it in the mirror everyday. Her mother waves, eyes twinkling mischievously.

Allison tears her eyes away to the man hugging both her mother and brother tightly. Her father is smiling here, not wide like her mother or Jacob, but just as happy. He hasn’t changed much, perhaps with a fuller face and less wrinkles. But that was the thing, she realizes, fingers almost daring to touch his face. She almost could not remember how her father looked when he smiled.

Allison sees herself being engulfed in Jacob’s arms, her parents standing right behind them. Her mother peppers both her children with kisses while her father chuckles and plants a kiss on her cheek.

She felt her throat tightened, and she wanted to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

It was everything she ever wanted. Her brother, alive and well. Her mother smiling and not mad with grief after suffering from years of a failed marriage and a missing son. Her father, present and clearly happy to be with his family.

Her family, complete.

She sees herself last, taller than she remembers being in the last family photo. Her short silver hair messy from being ruffled so much, but her blue eyes were just as bright as her brother’s. She should be happy, she had to be.

But even on that warm spring night, she feels so cold. Her chest wrenches as she sees her family, and it becomes so hard to breathe. And she hates herself for imagining this picture, for reminding her of what she could never have. She struggled to tear herself away from the mirror, for even as mad as she was, and no matter how hard she wished, she knew:

Her family would never be whole.

And she was a fool for wishing so.

She lets out a cry. Her feet finally obey her and she runs, the smiling faces of her father and mother fading as she ran, but Jacob stays on in the mirror, grinning widely until she disappears from the classroom.

She runs and runs, and doesn’t know for how long. The castle twisted into a monster at night, the suits of armor looking on with glinted eyes as she runs past them, feeling the whisper of a thousand ghosts follow her until she falls through the fat lady and into the Gryffindor common room.

“Allison! Where have you been?” Angelica exclaims, sounding relieved. The common room is fairly empty except for a few other students.

“We almost went to get Professor McGonagall!” Rowan says, “You’ve been gone for- Allison?”

Allison opened her mouth, ready to assure them, but no sound came out. Her cheeks felt wet, and next thing she knew Angelica was hugging her. It became harder to see once the tears started flowing. She faintly hears Angelica ordering Rowan to get a professor, and she wants to struggle against this suggestion. But her body doesn’t listen, and she curls into a tight ball, and cries.

#hogwarts mystery #Harry Potter #hogwarts mystery mc #rowan khanna #hogwarts mystery jacob #fanfic #hogwarts mystery event #slight angst #mirror of erised #my writings

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eirabach · 7 years

Text

Heathens [7/14]

Summary: After the events of Renegades, Emma finds herself the reluctant monarch of a struggling Kingdom, her only advisors a mish mash of those who’ve betrayed her in the past, and her only comfort one very uncomfortable pirate.

Believing her long lost parents could still be alive, Emma and Killian set out to find them and reunite them with both their daughter and their throne.

Easy.

Right?

Halfway!!!! Thank you so much to everyone who’s commented so far, I hope you continue to enjoy! All my thanks and love as ever to @phiralovesloki and @katie-dub for their beta work and general amazingness, and to @seastarved for her incredible artwork!

Rated: E. Warnings for violence and corporal/capital punishment later on too.

This chapter 4.8k

Other Pairings: Snowing

Catch up on tumblr: Prologue One Two Three Four Five or here on AO3

Chapter Six: Another Love

“Snow. White.” Eric lets the words roll over his tongue as he shakes his head slowly. “There's a name I never thought to hear again.”

“She's alive?” Ariel gasps out, her eyes sparkling, “We all believed - ”

“Everyone did,” Emma says sharply. “Or at least that's what they wanted to believe, but Regina swore she hadn't killed her.”

“And you believe her?”

“I held her heart in my hand,” snips Emma coldly. “She had no reason to lie.”

“She could have gone anywhere,” Eric says, frowning down at the map. “Your mother was a talented tracker herself and no mean shot. If she didn't wish to be found, I have no reason to believe she would be.”

Ariel appears bereft at this, wringing her hands together and biting on her lip.

“She could have come for help,” she says, a tremor in her tone, “for sanctuary. I thought we were friends.”

“You were,” says Eric gently. “She would never have dragged you into a war that was hers to fight, Ariel.”

“But she's been alone,” Ariel half sobs, “and for so long!”

Emma looks down at the polished tabletop, concentrating on the whorls and knots in the wood as she swallows back a sudden rush of tears.

“I know how she feels,” she mumbles, and then, looking up, fierce determination in the line of her jaw. “So will you help me?”

“Of course,” Ariel says, coming around the table and taking one of Emma's hands in both of hers. “Anything.”

“And,” Eric grins, “I may have an idea of where to start.”

“Are you quite sure about this?”

The royal coach judders and shakes its way along the pitted, mud-slick track that leads through the forest to such an extent that Emma finds herself flung violently against the door and clinging onto the window edge for dear life.

“Quite sure,” Eric assures her from where he's sitting, apparently comfortably, on the opposite seat. “Most of Snow White’s allies learned to keep their associations secret once Regina came to power, but this one - ”

He shakes his head, and Ariel smiles.

“He has a very loud mouth and an inversely low tolerance for mead.”

“Why wouldn't Regina just have killed him, then?”

“Why did Regina do anything?” Ariel asks, and shrugs a shoulder. “She never much cared for the little people, perhaps he was too far below her to notice.”

“Ariel!” Eric admonishes, and she turns to him, scandalised.

“What?”

“Don't be unkind,” he says.

Ariel huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I'm not being - ”

The coach shudders to a halt, the horses blowing in their traces, in front of a small stone cottage. There's someone at home, a thin stripe of grey smoke rising from the chimney and a lone white nanny goat tethered outside who maas balefully at them as they alight.

Emma steps ahead to hammer on the door, only for it to swing open and reveal a balding man with a grey beard, who is only as tall as her shoulders and wears an expression like thunder.

“Whadda ya want?” he barks out. “Coming around disturbing a man's peace! Do you know what time it is?”

Emma blinks and looks down at her shadow. It’s short, and the sun is warm on the back of her neck.

“Midday?”

“Midday!” howls the man. Eric steps forward and pats him on the shoulder, the man watches his hand with a faintly disgusted expression.

“I know it's… early, but I hope you will understand why our request couldn't wait.”

“You want something from me?” he laughs shortly. “Jog on, sisters, and you, whoever you think you are. Coming around demanding things like you're royalty or something.”

Eric and Ariel share a look, but before Eric can open his mouth to speak Emma half shoves him out the way, her patience wearing short.

“We’re looking for Snow White,” she snaps. “Can you tell us where she is?”

The man’s red tinged face drains to white, his eyes flashing with terror and something fiercer, as he attempts to slam the door in Emma’s face. Eric catches it, smiling, not unkindly, as he pushes both door and man back.

“I'll take that as a yes,” says Emma.

“Listen, I ain't telling you nothing. I didn't tell the Evil Queen when she ripped my brother's heart out in front of me, I ain't telling you now. Do your worst, sister. I'm ready.”

He draws himself up to his full height and glares up at her. Behind her, the goat let's out a maa of agreement.

Emma wonders what it must be like - what her mother must have been like - to engender such loyalty. What sort of queen she must have been, once, and her heart squeezes in her chest.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” she says softly. “I’m her daughter. The - ”

“Emma?” His eyes go wide. “You're alive?”

“More or less,” she says. “Will you help me?”

He opens the door.

His name is Grumpy, which surprises her less than it ought to, and he's lived here alone with only the goats for company for twenty-eight years, his only solace found in dark corners of quiet taverns as he nursed the wounds of the battle that had taken her parents from their throne and from her.

Emma settles as best she can in the rickety undersized chair the dwarf offers her, trying not to smile at the way Eric’s knees rise up somewhere around his ears as he follows her lead. Grumpy looks uncomfortable and unsteady in her presence, bouncing his leg as he, too, sits.

“There was meant to be a curse,” he tells her as they take cautious sips of a thick, black drink scooped from a cauldron that hangs over a dying fire. “Your parents had a plan for that. But then she changed her mind, or it didn't work, I don't know, and the battle…” He shudders, finishing his drink in a single gulp. “It was a bad time, sister.”

“So what happened? After - ” she swallows back the words they gave me away. “After Regina won?”

Grumpy looks up at the ceiling, his expression far away, and Emma remembers the destroyed throne room, the pile of bones beneath the wreckage.

“I'm sorry, I don't mean to upset you.”

“You got to understand,” he says slowly, “the whole place seemed to collapse in on itself. We didn't know who was alive or dead. Snow was - ” he shakes his head. “Your father was her True Love, do you know what that means?”

Emma thinks of blue, blue eyes, the flash of steel, and swallows hard.

“I might have an idea, yeah.”

“When she thought she'd lost him, and you, she was beside herself. We brought her out here, my brothers and I, but she was half wild - shouting about finding him, not sleeping, not eating. We thought it was for the best.”

Emma's blood runs cold.

“Thought what was for the best?”

Grumpy shuffles uncomfortably on his stool.

“It wasn’t supposed to be permanent!” he insists. “We just wanted to help!”

“What,” hisses Emma through clenched teeth, “did you do to her?”

“It was just a little spell, something Dopey brought off a peddler. It was nothing major - just enough to take the edge off, you know?”

Ariel gasps. “You drugged her?”

“No!” Grumpy squirms uncomfortably. “Well, only a bit. We thought it would help, and it - it did. She was better, after. In a way.”

Magic thrums through Emma’s veins, hot and sickening and turning her hands into fists.

“Better how.”

“Well, she forgot, didn’t she?” Grumpy shrugs. “Just a little forgetting spell, how were we supposed to know?”

“Supposed to know what?” Emma growls.

“She forgot it all,” he says, and the nervousness in his voice is replaced by something not unlike real regret. “She forgot your father, and you, and us. She forgot her kingdom, she forgot the Evil Queen, she forgot everything.”

“That makes things a little more awkward,” Eric admits, “but hardly impossible. There will be an antidote somewhere, we will just have to find it.”

“You’ll have to find her first,” counters Grumpy. “She ran away, not long after. None of us have seen her since.”

“Did you bother looking?” Emma spits with a scowl. “She could be anywhere, she could be dead.”

“We didn’t think she’d want us chasing after her,” says Grumpy, but she can hear the lie in his voice.

“Or you were too afraid to, more likely. You just gave up!”

“Wouldn’t you?” he practically shouts it. “All that fighting, all that effort, and we lost! We all lost! What was the point?”

She thinks of Killian again, of the fierce set of his jaw as he’d faced down the Dark One, of the softness in his eyes in the lamplight of their room, of this man who’d spent lifetimes sustained by nothing but bitterness only to teach her what it meant to hope, and swallows hard.

“There’s always a point,” Emma says, her voice low, her eyes fierce. “Even when things look hopeless you don’t give up, you can’t ever give up. That’s how they win.”

“You’re like her, you know,” Grumpy says softly, shaking his head. “Watching her lose her hope - ”

“I never had any to lose,” Emma admits, “not until recently.”

“I hope you never do,” he says sincerely. “I hope you never, ever do.”

He gives them vague directions to someone - a fairy by all accounts, and that rings a bell in Emma’s mind too loudly to be discounted - who may be able to help track Snow or the witch who’d cursed her, but he hardly seems certain and struggles to meet any of their eyes as he shuts the door firmly behind them, a finality in the slam of wood against wood.

“I didn’t even know the fae were active anymore,” says Eric, furrowing his brow as he looks over toward the carriage. “I’d heard they were all dead, killed by the Dark One for some slight or other.”

“That’s what they like people to think,” grumbles Emma mutinously. “They’re tricky alright.”

“So do you think she’s worth speaking to? This fairy?”

Emma shrugs, scratching at her neck as she considers her options.

“Kill - my captain, he spoke about a fairy, too. He thought she might be able to help us.”

“And you think it’s the same fairy?”

“I think it’s worth finding out.”

It wouldn’t be fair to sore thumbs to say that Eric and Ariel stand out like such in the grubby morass of the dockside marketplace, so incongruous are their fine clothes as a hundred fishwives hustle about their business, tarred ropes and tattered nets slung around leather brown necks while beady eyed men with nimble fingers watch from the shadows.

Emma, however, feels right at home. Almost.

It’s strange, the way she sees Killian behind every low wall, hears his voice, his old voice, that of the Feared Pirate Captain, booming above the shrill shriek of the fishwives hawking their wares. Her hand brushes leather and she stops in her tracks, her eyes screwed tight as she lets herself, just for one moment pretend, pretend, pretend.

But losing herself in wishes won’t find the fairy, and nor, by the look of it, will her royal companions.

“Uh, excuse - excuse me, good sir,” Eric calls after an old salt with a patch over one eye and a pronounced limp. “Have you by any chance seen any fairies?”

“Fairies? What the fuck you mean fairies?” the man grumbles before spitting at Eric’s feet. “We don’t hold with them sort here.”

“I say, there’s no need to be rude,” Eric says, rather aghast, as the man trundles on his way. Emma spares him a pitying sort of smile.

“People like these don’t have a lot of time for royalty, I’m afraid. Or magic, really. We might need to be a bit more… subtle.”

“Subtle how?” asks Ariel, her eyes tracking the movements of a dockside whore whose rouge would shame a circus performer. “Subtlety doesn’t look like it’s much in demand around here.”

“Maybe not,” agrees Emma, “but a fairy, out on her own and not under Blue’s purview? She won’t be willing to announce her presence to just anyone.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Emma watches the lady of the night as she primps her teased hair and throws a come hither wink at a passing fisherman, a gaudy necklace glinting in the sun and a large glass stoned ring on her finger.

“I’m not sure you’ll want to know.”

“I’m looking for a girl,” Emma whispers, shoving Eric in the back towards where the woman is still touting her wares. “Come on.”

“I can't,” Eric mumbles from between clenched teeth. “I'm a king!”

“Oh, and kings never pay for it? For goodness sake, she doesn't know who you are!”

“My face is on every coin she's ever… earned!”

“Ugh,” Emma mutters, pushing past him and adjusting her own dress to better expose her own assets. “Men. If you want a job doing…”

She sidles up to the other woman, her arms folded over her chest as she sucks air between her teeth.

“Slim pickings, is it?”

“Slim enough,” grumbles the woman as she turns to eye Emma up. “You trade or buying?”

“Just getting the lay of the land, is all,” Emma demures. The woman scoffs.

“Well, get the lay of your own patch. Life's hard enough without skinny little blonde things sticking their tits where they ain't wanted.”

“Charmed, I'm sure,” says Emma brightly, and turns back towards the crowd where Eric’s pallid face can be seen peeking over the heads of passers-by.

“What was the point of that?” he hisses when she rejoins them, taking Ariel by the elbow and encouraging both to follow her to a nearby sheltered spot.

“Look,” Emma says, opening her clenched fist to reveal the ring that had been on the woman’s finger moments earlier. “Does this strike you as the sort of thing they sell around here?”

“Did you steal it?” gasps Ariel, her hand going to her throat.

“You stick to what you’re good at and I’ll stick to what I am, yeah?” Emma huffs. “And I’m telling you, only a fairy would own something this…”

“Sparkly?”

“I was going for vile.”

“Alright,” Ariel says, “now what?”

Emma tucks the ring into the pocket of her cloak and risks a glance out into the main thoroughfare.

“If I know fairies like I think I know them, we won't have to wait long to find out.”

It’s hardly a raucous party that’s taking place in the dingy little corner tavern that Emma heads to, the single room filled with elderly men in various states of inebriation and one very bored looking barmaid, but it’s enough to send Eric chivvying Ariel ahead of him back to the coach with a muttered “We’ll wait” that Emma isn’t certain she should believe.

It serves its purpose, though.

She makes sure to tap the ring against the bar as she orders a flagon of watery ale, letting the light catch it when anyone enters or leaves, until, eventually -

“Where’d you get that?”

Emma pastes an innocent looking smile on her face as the barmaid bends low over the table to get a closer look at the ring, her face a little too close to comfort.

“Oh this?” she giggles. “I found it, isn’t it pretty?”

“Pretty enough, that’s Lou’s ring, the one what the fairy gave her. If she sees you with it…”

“Oh!” Emma pretends to clutch at her heart, “I never meant to! Where is this fairy? I can return it! I would hate to upset anyone!”

“You’d do better to give it to Lou,” grumbles the barmaid as she stands up straight, “but perhaps she’d have your eye for it. Fairy keeps a little workshop of sorts, down the road a while. Lou’s fond of her, maybe that’s your best bet. She’s odd, though, no doubt.” The barmaid wrinkles her nose. “All that sort are.”

“Yes, of course,” Emma murmurs, all false gratitude as she gathers her skirts and leaves a pile of small change behind her, “I’ll go at once. Thank you so much.”

She manages to keep her steps fairly even until she’s safely away from the barmaid’s slightly confused stare before she’s bolting for the carriage, tearing the door open with such force she’s fairly sure she causes Eric’s heart to skip a half dozen beats.

“Good gods, woman!” he cries, “What now?”

“Found the fairy,” Emma pants out. “Come on.”

“You know,” Eric calls as she barrels down the road ahead of them, “I’m a king! I have people who do this sort of thing for me!”

Emma throws a grin over her shoulder, feeling freer with the wind in her hair, the stolen jewel on her finger, than she has in weeks. Months.

(For a moment she thinks she sees Killian’s smile from the corner of her eye, feels his footsteps beside hers, and she feels happy.)

“How very boring.”

The fairy’s workshop is easy enough to find. If the piles of half-welded, half-destroyed scrap metal outside the door hadn’t given it away, the high pitched bitter swearing coming from within almost certainly would have.

Nothing, Emma knows, annoys a fairy more than things not going their own way.

“Problem?” she asks as she walks through the door, her arms folded to give the fairy a good view of the ring on her finger.

The fairy stops in her tracks, unbending from where she was stooped over some gently steaming contraption of copper and iron, and pushes her sweaty fringe out of her eyes with ink black fingers.

“Depends,” she spits in her delicate voice, “on who are you, and where,” she jabs one grubby finger at the ring Emma wears, “did you get that.”

“This?” Emma taps the ring with a nail. “From a very, very friendly lady down the docks. I hear you know her.”

“I know a lot of people,” the fairy spits, “I’m not going to fight you over her, if that’s what you want. Overpriced, for a start.”

“I didn’t think your sort were into that type of thing.”

“What sort?” The fairy raises a brow. “Girls?”

Emma smiles, sly and a little smug.

“Fairies.”

The fairy drops her hands to her hips and scowls.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Who sent you? Blue? Because I told her - ”

“No,” Emma cuts her off. “Nothing to do with her. I was told you could help me.”

“Oh really?” The fairy wrinkles her nose. “And why would I do a thing like that?”

Emma takes a deep breath.

“Did you ever know a man called Killian Jones?”

Her name’s Tinkerbell, but she has the sort of fierceness in her expression that stops any sniggers about it, and she has the sort of ethereal, ageless beauty of all her sort even under the layers of soot and grime from her workshop.

It doesn’t do much for Emma’s stinging jealousy when she throws back her head and laughs.

“So what’s the old dog gotten himself into now? Must be interesting if he’s going by his old moniker.”

“It’s his name,” Emma mutters, and the fairy shakes her head, still laughing.

“Was a time he’d run you through for using it, though - no matter the circumstances.” She looks up at Emma, suddenly shrewd. “Which you’d know, I suspect.”

“Don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” Emma sniffs.

“Oh.” Tinkerbell winks. “I think you do. Tell me, does he still - ”

Ariel, either taking mercy on Emma as her face drains of colour or fearing the shedding of blood, interrupts with a gentle but firm.

“I’m afraid the gentleman in question is dead.”

Tinkerbell’s mouth works wordlessly for a moment, but then she’s shaking her head again, her heel tapping on the floor. “Him? Never. Bring me his head on a platter and I’d still never believe it.”

“It’s true,” says Emma, her voice smaller than she’d like it to be. “We were shipwrecked.”

Tinkerbell’s eyebrows raise up toward her hairline.

“Together?”

Emma shrugs.

“You must have been… close,” says Tinkerbell. “He hadn’t sailed with a woman since - ”

“Milah,” finishes Emma. “Yes, I know. We weren’t on the ship long. He was trying to help me find my parents. That’s where you come in.”

“Where were you before then,” asks Tinkerbell, ignoring Emma’s attempt to change the subject, “if you weren’t on the ship, I mean?”

Home, Emma thinks without meaning to, we were home.

“I have…” she pauses, wincing slightly, “a sort of castle? I’m just a caretaker though, and not a very good one, but if you help us - ”

Tinkerbell’s jaw drops.

“He lived in a castle?”

“It’s really not a very good castle,” Emma says, shuffling awkwardly, “I’m not - I mean we weren’t - Does it matter?”

“Does it matter that he gave up the sea?” Tinkerbell asks, aghast. “That he traded his ship for you?”

“He traded his life for her,” says Ariel softly as Emma swallows hard, unable to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, her head spinning. “If you cared for him at all, will you help us?”

Tinkerbell’s jaw snaps shut, her expression carefully blank, and Emma wonders what the real story might be between Killian and this coal-smeared fairy.

“I owed him a favour, that much is true,” states Tinkerbell baldly. “And If he’s really dead… well.” She holds out a hand to Emma, who shakes it rather weakly in return. “I can repay the woman he loved.”

“We need to find Snow White - or a witch who cursed her,” says Eric. “The dwarf - Grumpy - he said you may be able to help.”

“Did he now?” says Tinkerbell. “Well I’m sorry to disappoint, but I don’t keep powerful magical beings just hanging around in the back room. And anyway, if I knew where Snow White was I’d have turned her in for the reward years ago.”

“You wouldn’t!” Ariel gasps.

Tinkerbell’s eyes narrow shrewdly.

“Wouldn’t I? Some of us have to look out for ourselves.”

“My mother is cursed,” Emma snaps, “or - or something, we don’t know, but we’ve been told there’s a witch who has the spell to find her, and we were told you could find us the witch.”

“Do I look like a mapmaker?” Tinkerbell scoffs. “There are a dozen or more witches out there who trade in magic dark enough to track a curse, but none of them are the sort you’d like to pop in on for tea.”

“You must have something that could help us find her though?” suggests Ariel encouragingly. “Fairies are magical beings, after all.”

“Fairies are,” admits Tinkerbell, “but I’m not, not anymore. Blue saw to that many years ago. If you’ve come to me for fairy magic, I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”

“Just cause you’re not a fairy as such, doesn’t mean you don’t have access to things,” says Emma, finally regaining her senses enough to slip the stolen ring from her finger and hold it out to Tinkerbell. “Or are you trying to tell me this was made by the local blacksmith?”

“So I’ve a few bits and pieces,” Tinkerbell admits. “So what? They’ve no power beyond what they can buy me. They’re useless.”

“Try me,” says Emma lowly. “You might not have magic, but I do.”

“Alright,” Tinkerbell finally acquiesces, turning to shuffles through the contents of one of the many drawers that line the workshop walls. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Here.”

She turns back, holding a glass vial of a dark, shimmering powder up to the light.

“Fairy dust,” she says. “If you believe, it will take you where you want to go. Magic attracts magic,” Tinkerbell continues as she drops the vial in Emma’s waiting palm, “or at least that’s the idea, but this magic is dead.”

“And what magic does dead magic attract?” asks Ariel suspiciously, as she steps back slightly. Tinkerbell smiles wanly and shrugs one shoulder.

“I guess you’ll just have to find out, won’t you? But be careful. You’re dealing in cursed magic, and those who trade in it. Remember that they’re not a friendly bunch.”

“I guess we’ll just have to risk it.”

Emma is already turning to leave, Eric and Ariel close behind her, when she spots, pinned to the wall of the workshop among a hundred sketches and poorly blotted invoices, a wanted poster. The poster is frayed and yellowed with age, but the woman in the image still stares defiantly out at Emma, her hair dark, her chin held high. For Treason, it says, Snow White.

For the first day since the day of her birth, Emma gazes upon her mother’s face.

Her breath catches, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she stares into the facsimile of her mother’s eyes. She doesn’t know how good a likeness it is, doesn’t have a memory to compare it to, but she fancies for a wild moment that she has her mother’s chin.

“Good luck,” calls Tinkerbell, and the moment is broken, the door slamming shut as they step into the street.

She leaves the poster behind, but the eyes, the eyes seem burned onto her subconscious, the whispers from her dreams echoed in every step she takes.

Emma, Emma, Emma.

Find me.

“It’s a lead,” Ariel says encouragingly, clutching at Emma’s hand as they make their way back to the carriage. “It’s more than we had this morning.”

“Yeah,” Emma mutters half-heartedly, “I guess.”

“What’s wrong?”

It’s a loaded question. Her head is swimming from Tinkerbell’s words, the enormity of Killian’s sacrifice suddenly clearer to her than it has ever been in the reflection of the fairy’s sheer disbelief, her heart heavy and leaden in her stomach as she thinks of the last words they exchanged, fractious and bitter. Of the words she’d never said, not once.

He’d loved her. He’d died for her.

And what had she done for those who’d sacrificed everything for her? Her parents, Killian, even Blue in her own twisted sort of way?

What sort of Saviour is she, if in the end all she leaves behind her is chaos?

What sort of person is she that even now, with no witnesses but Ariel and her kind eyes and gentle touch, she can’t bring herself to tell the truth.

It’s me. I’m what’s wrong. I can’t save them. I can’t, I haven’t, I won’t.

“I don’t know - I just,” she shakes her head. “I spent all my life living in the woods, hand to mouth, with no idea of who I was or where I came from. It… really sucked.”

“And you don’t like to think of Snow in the same situation?”

“I don’t like to think of anyone living like that, if it hadn’t been for Killian - ” she shudders. “We have to find her.”

“We will,” Ariel says, and smiles. “Have hope.”

There’s the sound of approaching hooves, and then two men wearing the livery of Eric’s guard burst into the clearing, their horses’ flanks sweating and their own faces flushed with exhaustion.

“Your Majesty!” cries the first, “news from the northern border!”

“Yes, man? Speak.”

“You won’t believe it, Sire.”

“Well, you can but try to convince me,” Eric says jovially. “Have at it.”

The two men exchange a gleeful look, and the second clears his throat.

“We received a tip from a drunkard of that area, that a certain wanted man had been spotted causing trouble in a tavern.”

“You tease your king so, spit it out!” laughs Eric, and both men chuckle lightly before tearing Emma’s world down and yet rebuilding it with their next five words.

“Captain Hook is under arrest.”

Her hands shake as she forces her legs into her breeches, the silk dress Ariel had leant her lying in a crumpled heap behind her as she struggles with the laces, her breaths coming quick and short and her heart pounding.

“They plan to hang him at dawn,” Ariel says from the doorway, her voice gentle even though her words cut like ice. “The prison is ten miles from here, and guarded well - Emma - ”

“Don’t tell me not to,” Emma says, “don’t.”

“I wouldn’t dare, but Emma, you must know that Eric will see this as a betrayal. He has lost so many ships to Hook, he will not look kindly on you helping him now.”

Emma spins to face Ariel, and the older woman almost seems to jump at the expression on her face.

“I won’t leave him to die,” she hisses, and Ariel bites her lip.

“Not even for your mother? Eric’s resources - ”

“Fuck his resources,” she spits, and then closes her eyes briefly before continuing as calmly as she can manage. “Listen, I’ve never had a mother. Never. But Killian - Killian I had. He was mine. If I can save him - “ her breath shudders. “If I can save him, I have to try.”

“Even if it means you never find your mother?”

Emma smiles bloodlessly.

“I have hope.”

Ariel sighs, looking over her shoulder before stepping over the threshold to Emma’s room and closing the door behind her.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she says, and Emma’s aching heart leaps, a real smile blooming across her face.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

#csbb #cs ff #cs fic #captain swan #cs crew #clare vs heathens #clare vs writers block #contains goat #hub shenanigans

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verbumincarcerem · 6 years

Text

you were made to suffer

Prologue, Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3

Chapter 4: In the Blood

Heal him.

Melody was certain that one basic command was wrapping itself around her neck like a noose. So simple, so easy. All she needed to do was reach out to Ben and cast out the Scourge from his body.

The daemon—Ben—in the chains thrashed. It hadn’t noticed her slowly nearing yet.

But it would soon. And there was still not even the slightest tingle of magic burning at her fingertips.

It should have been simple. For Lunafreya, it would have been. But Melody’s healing gift was weak, and as of this moment, nothing else was more difficult than saving an innocent man that she’d personally dragged straight to hell.

He’s innocent, true, but still a stranger. I owe him nothing. It’s easier to escape with just yourself.

The thought came to her like a breath, effortless and without censure. Melody paused, revolted and dismayed at herself. When had she become like this? So ruthless and hard-hearted? She had to heal Ben now because he deserved it. Because she still had some decency. Her dreams had not led her to Ardyn because they were secretly alike, one darkness calling to another. She was better than her thoughts, than him.

Stepping lightly, Melody managed to skirt around Ben and lay a hand on his back, another at his neck. His jugular vein was stiff, as if the miasma was hardening inside him as it hollowed out his humanity. The thing jerked and snarled, and a hand with broken, blackened nails clawed at her wrist. The other worked the chains more frantically. It wouldn’t be long now until he was free, until he turned and attacked her, infecting her with the Scourge, too, if he didn’t kill her first.

In spite of every instinct telling her not to, Melody closed her eyes and tried to think healing thoughts. Bruises fading away. Skin knitting back together. Lungs filling with air instead of damp. Vitality and strength surging through renewed limbs. Hands glowing white as they healed everything that was wrong.

Somewhere in front of her, Ardyn sighed loud enough to echo, the sound a chorus of wraith moans in the dark. “Unbelievable. Is there truly nothing left of my world in this unrecognizable farce? They don’t even make healers like they used to.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, concentration broken. Miasma leaked down her hand at Ben’s neck. She squinted her eyes open, heart pounding to find that a pair of dark, dripping horns were starting to sprout from the top of his bald head.

“Back then, all it would take is an instant,” Ardyn mused, his tone whimsical as he spoke more to himself than to her. But she heard every word clearly. “Someone in dear Ben’s place would have been child’s play, yet here he is, suffering while his healer—” He broke off with a laugh. “Struggles to heal.”

“Even Lunafreya would’ve struggled with this,” she bit out.

“I wasn’t speaking of Lunafreya,” he replied silkily.

Melody clenched her eyes shut and delved deeper, imagining. Miasma drawing away from the body, turning into mist. Veins changing from black to blue. Rot replaced with rebirth. New, unbroken skin in place of those horns, and those gruesome eyes clearing, becoming Ben’s natural seafaring blue. And when he speaks again, it’ll be in his normal, rough, salty scratch, not the inhuman shrieks of a daemon.

“You know what your problem is, don’t you?” Melody jumped as Ardyn’s hands cradled her by the shoulders, his mouth by her ear. “Healers are selfless by nature, but you? You are so deliciously selfish. You care more for your secrets than you do their lives.”

“That’s not true!” She drew her hand from Ben’s neck and shoved Ardyn back. He stumbled away, laughing darkly, with flecks of miasma dripping down the lapels of his coat. “I pick my battles. If I tried to save everyone, then I’d save no one.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure all those people you passed by would agree with you. That poor old woman by the sea, the little boy roaming the Lucian outlands.” Ardyn shook his head, face heavy with mournfulness. “Already lost causes, much like your Benjamin here.”

Ardyn looked and sounded perfectly regretful, perfectly understanding. Save for the glint of amusement in his amber eyes. So many games he was playing. Melody wasn’t sure which one she should try to win, or even if she could win. She was shaken that he knew about those nameless people she’d chosen not to help, each of them beyond her skills, now ghosts she’d been trying to forget. How had he come to know her failures? Just how much about her did he know?

“No, he isn’t,” she replied, and then she drew the knife she’d reclaimed from Ardyn’s chest and swiftly cut open the back of her hand. Not the palm or the wrist. Cutting those areas made it difficult to wield things, could take too long to heal, and be life-threatening if done incorrectly. What she was doing was dangerous enough, and all she needed was a little blood.

The wound stung, blood welling up quickly from the cut. Melody clenched her fist, so the pressure would force the blood out to slide down her hand more easily. Before she could lose a drop of it to the ground, she raised her fist over Ben’s mouth.

The first few drops missed, hitting his face and hair as he thrashed and snapped his jaws, the smell of blood sending him into a frenzy. Once he realized where it was coming from, he stilled and opened his mouth wide, a macabre parody of a child catching raindrops on his tongue.

After he swallowed five or six drops, Melody felt it. Felt him.

Not Ben, but Ardyn. The Scourge. Its source. The separate energies that made up photosynthetic organisms and the human they fed on, intent to take over—and it had come from him. Melody felt the magic in her blood react to the organisms’ presence, awakening at last. Separately, she sensed Ben’s despair and disgust—and anger and sorrow. She sensed an acute willingness to die.

Melody clenched her dagger as Ben grabbed her with a clawed, festering hand, bringing her bloody wound to his mouth.

The action was enough for her magic to flare at last, to protect her blood from being infected with the miasma. Melody latched onto the warmth and forced it to flow out. Her hands burst with white, but that wasn’t where the healing magic was focused.

If she couldn’t heal Ben from the outside, then she would do so from within.

Ben’s back arched, and he threw his head back with a shriek. His skin seemed to burn white-hot from the inside, and miasma wafted from his body in bursts of mist, as if the blackness itself was fleeing from him. The horns, the claws, the rotting skin, everything daemonic was burned away until only the human in tattered clothes was left, yelling out in a ravaged throat what could only be pain.

Melody snatched her hands away. Ben slumped to the floor, face-first and unconscious but no longer screaming. As soon as she’d released him, the connection between them was broken, and her magic followed its host. She peered at him to make sure he was breathing, and he was, but Melody didn’t feel like congratulating herself, didn’t feel thankful that she hadn’t had to gut him to end his misery. She felt like crying.

“What a display!” Ardyn clapped his delight, the sharp sounds echoing hollowly throughout the room. “The novice healer, victorious after all! And quite the miracle you performed, my dear. You should be proud.”

“I did what you asked. Now let him go.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Ardyn paced around Ben’s body, throwing her a condescendingly patient look over his fallen form. “I don’t recall making any such promises.”

Melody fought not to reveal the desperation she was drowning in. ��You said this was a game. I won. Winners get something for their victories.”

“But alas you have only won the round. The long game is still at hand. Oh?” Ardyn smirked at her dazed expression. “Did you think I would let you go so easily? Perish the thought. Guards, oh, guards!” he called in a sing-song, hand by his mouth.

Two MTs shuffled into the throne room, their steps perfectly in sync and unnaturally stiff. They looked to Ardyn with their unblinking, eerily-glowing red eyes. Ardyn snapped his fingers and pointed down at Ben.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ardyn said as Melody took an aggressive step forward to take them out. Her hand was suddenly empty, and a quick inventory check revealed the rest of her weapons were gone as well. Vanished into thin air. “You’ll get those back when I know you can behave yourself around my soldiers.”

“What are you doing?” Melody stared after the MTs helplessly as they dragged Ben away. “Where are they taking him?”

“Somewhere safe until our next little game.” Ardyn closed the distance between them, holding her fast with his hand gripping her chin. “Is the anticipation killing you as much as it’s killing me?”

“I thought you couldn’t die.”

“So you are following along. Good, very good.” He released her and gestured her along with a crook of his finger. “Now keep following.”

What now? Melody didn’t think she could take much more of this, as evident by the strain in her voice as she asked, “Where?” Nevertheless, she did follow as Ardyn led her away from the throne room.

“As you so assiduously pointed out, you did technically win my first gambit against you. It’s time for you to claim your own glorious reward.”

“Which is?”

“Dinner, with me.” She caught a flash of teeth as he threw over his shoulder, “Aren’t you lucky?”

For just two people, the spread of food was impressive. Plump strawberries, grapes, and melons immediately drew the eye, the fruits having become increasingly rare in the wild without sunlight to grow them. Holly had mentioned starting a greenhouse powered by artificial light to preserve the plants they needed to live, and Melody had even found her seeds to get started. She cut off the thought before it could depress her, following the line of the table with a wary gaze. Thickly-sliced cuts of beef and savory breads wafted to her nose, making her realize how hungry she was, and her mouth watered at the sight of grilled carrots, squash, and zucchini arranged prettily on a massive serving dish.

She was starving, but at the same time, her stomach cramped in protest. She knew the reason why. It was the man sitting to her left at the head of the table, holding court and watching her far too closely over a glass of red wine. Melody forced herself to fill her plate before he could prompt her to do so but proceeded to pick at it, eating a bite or two every so often. She hated having strangers watch her eat, but for some reason Ardyn was worse even though he wasn’t exactly a stranger.

The dining room they were in was an intimate one, intended for small, private dinners among family than hosting foreign dignitaries or a surplus of guests. Wall lamps burned low, casting the gray room in a warm, orange light while the night pressed against the windows behind her. There were no MTs guarding the room, and no one else joined them. Melody wondered what the show was for because it certainly wasn’t for her.

She wondered at the appreciative drink Ardyn took of his wine, of his own plate that had been covered in food but was now mostly empty. He couldn’t die, but he needed food? What about sleep?

Ardyn was in the middle of discussing the room’s previous décor and the changes he’d made when she asked, “Will you die if you don’t eat?”

“No.” His voice was light with arrogance. He smiled, a look of surety that said, I know what you’re trying to do. “Nor will I starve.”

“You don’t feel hunger?”

“I don’t feel a great many things.”

“So why bother?” She gestured to the table and the room at large. “With all this?”

His eyes were half-lidded as he purred, “Pleasure.” As if it explained everything.

Melody ignored the low drag of his voice, how it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “But if you don’t feel—”

“Pleasure, my dear, isn’t something you feel. It’s something you take.” He leaned upon the arm rest, chin propped casually on a hand, and looked her up and down. The amber in his gaze seemed to burn, but he swirled the wineglass in his free hand nonchalantly. "I'm certain you know what I'm talking about."

She smiled, or thought she did. Her mouth made the familiar pull, but there was no emotion behind it. “Not really.” Giving up on her appetite returning, she set down her fork and pushed the plate away. “So. What now, Ardyn Lucis Caelum, or whoever you’re supposed to be? Gonna call in the MTs to drag me away, too?”

“Please,” Ardyn said, dragging out the word and leaning back in his chair. “Call me ‘your Majesty’. It’s only fitting. You’re my dear, sweet subject, after all.”

Melody lifted her chin, proud. Defiant. “I’m from Accordo, and Accordo has no king.”

“Is that so?” His eyebrow arched, but still no anger appeared on his face. No frustration. Melody wasn’t sure why, but the lack of negative emotion bothered her. “I must have missed these past thirty years where Niflheim has gripped Accordo in its fist.”

“No true Accordon has ever acknowledged Aldercapt as their sovereign. Now he’s dead, along with his entire high command.”

“All save for the Chancellor,” Ardyn commented lightly.

“The Chancellor is—”

“Right here.”

Melody stalled. Ardyn raised his glass to her, his growing smirk warped through the glass. Her next words were accusing yet cautious. “The Chancellor’s name was Izunia.”

“Mm, yes. I’ve answered to that for the past few decades. Ardyn Izunia, the name more fitting than you know. Oh, my dear girl, did you not watch the news? Cameramen were crawling all over this place when the treaty was being”—he laughed to himself—“negotiated.”

No, she hadn’t watched it, even though the event had been the top story even out toward her waters. Melody couldn’t recall now what she’d been doing that day, and whatever it was had been swiftly overshadowed by news of Insomnia’s fall and Lunafreya’s alleged death, which she’d learned about only after arriving home.

But… She did remember hearing a brief radio broadcast. The news anchors had remarked on the unusual sight of seeing the Emperor in the flesh, no longer hidden behind the might of his kingdom. The man walking beside him, Chancellor Izunia, had been described briefly, too, another rare sight. What had they said?

Now here’s something you don’t see every day, folks. A Nif dressed in true colors, all black instead of white. Have you ever seen such a thing, Yrene?

No, Lorin, but Chancellor Izunia’s fashion sense isn’t the only thing that’s been making a splash as of late. You know, they say the Magitek troopers and tech were all his influence, the reason behind Niflheim’s military success being largely attributed to him and Imperial Research Chief Verstael Besithia.

That’s all Melody had to go by, a brief mention and Ardyn’s own word. Unacceptable.

Before she could verbally deny it, Ardyn pulled from his coat and tossed what looked like a newspaper on the table. “As enjoyable as it is to watch you struggle to grasp reality…”

She took her eyes off him to read the headline: “Lucis, Niflheim to Discuss Peace Treaty,” only to land on the black-and-white photo in the middle of the article’s text. The shot was of Aldercapt strolling toward the Citadel, surrounded by armed guards, and at his side was, unmistakably, Ardyn. Same long coat, same hat, turned toward the camera, in mid-conversation with Aldercapt.

He could still be lying, her mind railed. This could be a trick. It’s not real.

But something deep down in her gut clenched, and she knew then that some part of her had recognized the truth and accepted it.

So he was Niflheim’s chancellor. Fitting. He was as mad and inhuman as the rest of them. But so what? That didn’t make him a Lucian king any more than she could claim an Oracle bloodline.

“Imperial Chancellor Izunia,” Melody enunciated every word, getting a feel for their truth. “I don’t know how you did it, but eliminating the Emperor, burning through Niflheim’s high command, assuming control of the military. That’s quite a coup. Was the false treaty with Lucis your idea as well?”

“I like to think of it as more of a collaborative effort.”

“Busy boy. Sure it was.” She braced her arms on the table and leaned towards him, her words entreating. “But none of this has anything to do with me. So why not let me go? I’ll take Ben, and neither of us will ever—”

Ardyn sighed, lowering his glass to the table. “Oh, how quickly she moves towards deflection and deceit! Did you really believe that would work, my dear? A few words of shameless flattery, and I’d be in the palm of your hand like all your little hunters?”

“What I thought would work was speaking to you like a creature of reason.” Melody pushed back into her chair and crossed her arms. “But I forgot: you’re an evil, insane daemon.”

A blur of purple light and miasma-thick shadow rushed toward her. Suddenly, she was standing, the chair and table gone, the dining room replaced with the bedroom she had woken up in, the same as she’d left it with the exception that her weapons were missing. But none of that mattered, because Ardyn was holding her up with a hand around her throat, not squeezing, her feet still touching the ground, but Melody knew if she tried to pull away, all that might change. So she froze as Ardyn said softly, “I’m also your generous host.” His thumb swept across her jumping pulse. “How generous depends on you. And me.” He smirked. “But mostly on you.”

Her mind couldn’t catch up with what that light had been, how she’d gotten here, not just with his hands on her, but in this room, when it was several floors below the dining room. How had he gotten them both here, with what magic, and why was he still not angry, even at being insulted?

The words that came out instead were “Why are you doing this?”

Ardyn’s eyes lit up, as if delighted by the question. “Did you know the gods secretly amuse themselves with mortal affairs? Doomed lovers, exiled princes, a group of young heroes who arrive just in time to slay the great evil threatening all they hold dear. They adore these tales, will sometimes intervene enough so the story ends the way they want them to. The gods are selfish creatures, after all.”

Melody felt his eyes linger upon the bruise on her cheek, and Ardyn’s smile appeared crueler for it. Hand falling away, the Niflheim Chancellor strolled toward the door. “Why, you ask me? Why you, why here? Why me?” He stopped, turning just enough for her to see his face, and the showman was back, all wistful storytelling and animated anticipation. “Because those tales are currently on hiatus, and, unfortunately for you, my dear, I find myself miserably bored, yearning for them to begin again.”

#otp: more than you bargained for #a decade of darkness au #you were made to suffer

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smallpressdistribution · 7 years

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Feast your eyes and your shelves on October’s

SPD Recommends *Backlist*,

ten still-so-relevant titles selected by our very own Matthew Hedley!

1. Cold Genius - Aaron Kunin

Have you heard Aaron Kunin get excited about Milton yet? In love with things that are funny because he loves them, like Milton’s bible fan fiction, or Chiquita banana, or language meaning a particular thing. Is it fair to say Kunin’s quote clusters are a joke, a reflexive reassurance, a kindness that doesn’t force words down your throat, a presentation, a kindness, so that his book feels deeply kind. I appreciate the Ben Lerner blurb – “it occurs to me often to be grateful for his work.” Because I am, also, deeply grateful. Reviewers seem to delight in calling him a genius – because it’s in the title, maybe – but this book is so much more interesting than that. He’s a genius, who cares, “genius” is really a silly thing, don’t you think? It’s a brand, maybe, or something a lover says and is misunderstood and misunderstood until he figures in a Kunin poem.

2. Trances of the Blast - Mary Ruefle

This book of Ruefle poems is an odd gem. Its title is given the lie by the duration of its gaze. A stanza for the thing, a stanza for the feeling about the thing, a stanza for life after living with the thing. Remember Inception? That movie all the memes come from? This book has all the immediacy of an explosion in that movie, as time dilates wider and wider, until we’ve forgotten we were running from an explosion in the first place. What was that movie about? Or – wait, what’s this book about? It’s not exactly still, since there’s so much life ahead to get to, and it has pace, some yearning to be turned on, left on, but its movement comes from turnabout, the unwieldy and furry shift of a person looming in the midst of a poem.

And so I have had to deal with wild intractable people all my days and have been led astray in a world of shattered moonlight and beasts and trees where no one ever curtsies anymore or has an understudy. So I have gone up to the little room in my face, I am making something out of a jar of freckles and a jar of glue

I hated childhood. I hate adulthood. And I love being alive.

3. Monk Eats an Afro - Yolanda Wisher

This book is embodied poetry, the talked about but rarely seen kind. It’s important that the book is anachronistic in its sensitivity – Cry of Jazz came out in 1959, Monk Eats an Afro in 2014 – but Wisher loves jazz, and is good at it. The Sonia Sanchez blurb should be a giveaway of how in scene this book is to Philadelphia, to Philly jazz, to clubs where Sonia still holds court at a central table, with similar tables around, Wisher at another, someone, maybe Dawn Evans holds down a third, there aren’t that many tables but they’re mostly full, with men and women who make Philly great. Sure, I’m being overly romantic, because this is a literal memory I have, being in that room, being in my hometown, sometimes it feels like it might disappear, also – this book is romantic. Its romance poems are downright sexy, and god, when Wisher swings into a rhyme at the end of a stanza it rings out. There’s a body at risk here, recounting personal experience with a heady sense of its own cultural touchpoints. There’s something conservative about a jazz fanatic in this day and age – to go through every day hearing what the radio does while still pulling back to Monk and fam takes work, a love of the way things were – which, in context with the rest of this list, makes a deep commentary on how conservative poetry as a whole really is. Because this book feels novel and standout amidst the others of the list for how separate its references are. No other book on this list is more than one degree of separation (in terms of debt owed) from John Ashbery, and this book might be two, and that makes all the difference. It’s not that it’s “anti-academic,” because that term posits the academy as the thing, and everything else as lying in opposition. But I remember a creative writing professor ask a creative writing graduate student what she could possibly talk to a slam poet about. Monk Eats an Afro is incommunicable with that sort of thinking. Not opposition – a powerful voice, sure in her self.

4. Stories in the Worst Way - Gary Lutz

This book makes me want to write better. Lutz’ style should be ponderous -- the whole text appears at a glance almost as marginalia, like liner notes on liner notes, but nothing is frantic. Somehow it feels calm, even, impossibly, focused. Which can be a little frustrating -- the game of the title STORIES IN THE WORST WAY always cycling through my mind as I am shocked by the talent. Because they are really well written and make you jealous and more than a little productive. Lutz makes me write. Because he really can write, and his overcrowded margin of a text feels absolutely effortless and easy for him, which is also impossible, and also untrue, and it’s – god, it’s frustrating! But if I didn’t have this book around, what other book could I use to make myself write. I admit, I throw this book around a lot. It’s a really nice weight and size to be thrown, and then picked up, mumble a bit, read the same story again, somehow write four pages, go for a walk, turn around mid-walk, come home and read the same story, write some more. It’s a book I love and picked from thousands of titles here at SPD -- and if you can’t handle being jealous and productive, I just don’t even know you.

5. Videogames for Humans: Twine Authors in Conversation - edited by merritt kopas

This book of playthroughs, essays, contexts, games and game-ified writing is unique and complex. Twine as a digital platform stands alongside all my other distant dreams of choice mediums for preventing academia and the state from incorporating language and work into their narrative. But, unfortunately, the space remains uncurated in meaningful ways to further that vision, which, as Wikipedia will tell you (by omission or deletion mill), perpetuates the same power structures as the world outside. So: CRY$TAL WARRIOR KE$HA (made pre-$ removal) is on the sample page today (looking absolutely amazing), while the most recent review is some undergraduate freshboy’s takedown of its writing structure. Which is to say that the academy is always uncomfortably present in the history and training of creators, players, readers – and even in the essays in VIDEOGAMES FOR HUMANS. The tension in the book’s movement back and forth between Kesha and undergraduate with a grudge is what makes the book so incredibly worthwhile. Beyond just a book for digital language nerds like myself, this collection feels so important for asking questions of how to create positive art spaces. Teenaged entertainment proposes an answer, negated in the misogyny of Lil Yachty, reconstituted in the queer narratives of Twine, complicated in the reactionary nature of write-ups… How will any of us make art in a time where to be an instrument of the state is such a bald-faced violence? But magic and a joy in loving self-sabotage shows a glimmer of hope:

“There’s this assumption that if you stray from The Scientific Method into actually caring about things like lying on the floor of your room in the middle of the afternoon with black canvas hung over the curtains to keep the sun out with a single candle burning, wearing lipstick—even though you pretty much don’t wear lipstick any other time in your life—sort of meditating and sort of tripping off sensory deprivation and sort of falling asleep, that you had better take that weird stuff just as seriously and humorously as scientists are supposed to take science. Like basically magic can’t be weird or fun or fucked up or stupid on purpose. Which is wrong!”

6. Event Factory - Renee Gladman

Event Factory – There’s a setpiece of science fiction where worldbuilding, forced to include some cultural background for the book, treats us to speculative songs and poetry that are, let’s be honest, always awful. The cantina songs, the God-Whispers of Han Qing-Jao, the water songs of the Fremen – let’s be real, these are painful moments. Even Delany – sorry. But then you have Gladman, a luminary poet, writing her Ravicka novels, and suddenly, writing becomes speculative in parsing and content. There’s all the textured concentration and phrasing her talent begets, combined with a character-driven, engaging and difficult science fiction novel. So that our transportation occurs on every level – not escapism, because the density of idea and descriptor doesn’t admit such an easy movement – as we are other before it. It’s a deeply disturbing book, to be sure. The disassociative trip of finding things already happening to yourself makes the book a Ketamine nightmare in its darkest, half-sexual, half-prone. That’s a warning, I suppose, or as much of a warning as I can give for a book I’d like you to read. It’s a book of recollections, and it often recalls the worst. Go read it.

7. In the Time of the Blue Ball - Manuela Draeger, translated by Brian Evenson

This is the only book on this list I didn’t know beforehand, but god DAMN. It reminds me of Kathryn Davis, but with a different set of idiosyncrasies. Or Monica Furlong’s deeply strange cousin. Or it’s not really like another person, but an outstanding talent all to itself that speaks in an unusual voice, with a style and focus all her own. Still, it’s hard not to try to put it in context, because I hadn’t heard of Draeger previously. Shelley Jackson wrote the back cover blurb, and if you’re not down with Shelley Jackson, there’s nothing I can say to convince you to read this.

“I’m warning you, Potemkine,” said the tiger. “Now, here we are together in too small of a space. It’d be better if you didn’t wiggle in front of me. In the darkness, I could imagine that you were running.”

“I don’t look like a wharf rat,” I said.

“When someone starts running in front of me, it’s too late for distinctions between species,” said Gershwin.

Half-accessible, half-mystic fantasy that flirts with various reading levels, IN THE TIME OF THE BLUE BALL is a gorgeous book of fiction. With thanks to Brian Evenson for a stellar translation.

8. This Lamentable City - Polina Barskova, translated by Ilya Kaminsky

He lies naked on something white, She laughs above She covers him With her pearl, her body her Star, her body her snow, her body On top of the word “strange,” On top of the word “fright.”

Barskova wanders the city and chronicles, and edits, and edits, and edits what she sees. This book is beautifully refined, calm, sure.

“In our village where small animals live slowly And humans jump on them.”

I’d like to do this little feature with only quotes, quotes and gasps afterward. The above a reaction to finding the scattered remains of snails in the lane. I hope it snows where you read this, in the evening.

9. The Feel Trio - Fred Moten

Fred Moten. Glory, Fred Moten. One of the most talented writers of a generation who makes the balance of phrasing and legibility feel effortless. Not that every line is beach-read-legible, but that his word clusters are drop-dead gorgeous, and always feel intentioned and deserved. Throughout his published works, Moten remains a cheat-sheet for debut writers – “how do I get away with putting this really fabulous but loud phrase in my writing” – but THE FEEL TRIO is a monstrosity of confidence, even for him.

“this a service on the surface for frank wilderness and carl flippant. my absolute beauty studies feelings in an open afterlife. I hold him and I’ve lost and I feel it in my hands and the sharp distance of his little bother, explosive flower of I’m not ready and don’t want to.”

10. That They Were at the Beach - Leslie Scalapino

My favorite book of poetry has somehow never been on a previous SPD Recommends Backlist. The narrator of the book fascinates me – defensive in language, insecure in relative positions, honest in gaze – in her movements between mechanism and pathos. The formalization of language, centered around the em dash – pretending to be a device of clarity – reminds me of coding languages, its Turing-complete, it’s a half step from language, but in this case not towards clarity but something else, something that masquerades as clarity but is poetry. Which isn’t an opposite of clarity, but it’s not the same thing either. I find it impossible not to copy this book’s phrasing for months after I reread it, so I’m trying to be good here. It’s the book that made me love poetry.

#instar books #fence books #wave books #hanging loose press #tupelo press #letter machine editions #north point press #dorothy a publishing project #calamari press

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samsylviasmoustache · 7 years

Text

The Boxer

Sam, Ruth, a dive bar and a lot of self-loathing.

“Here you go.”

He slides a measure of bourbon over to her; sets his own down on the scarred and sticky table. She smiles and raises her glass to his.

Cheers, neither of them says.

“I think it was good tonight,” she ventures, wincing at the burn of the cheap liquor. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sold on the whole riding in on a white horse thing when you first described it…”

“Told ya.” He drains the whiskey in a practiced gulp, looking back over at the bar rather than her. Onto the next fix. He remembers himself enough to raise a quizzical eyebrow at least: another?

She shakes her head. “I’ll let this one… settle first.”

Damned if she’s going to watch him at the bar like she has nothing better to do. Instead, her eye roves the rest of the dive-bar they’ve found. Somewhere—elsewhere—the rest of the GLOW crew are celebrating another successful week. She imagines it is more cheerful than this, with bottles of Budweiser and a jukebox playing synth-pop rather than fuzzing death-metal. She isn’t quite sure why they’re here instead. Debbie, maybe. There’s still an unspoken rule of avoidance in play there; maybe there always will be.

She suspects it’s more than that. Debbie has probably already gone home to Randy. Maybe it’s about staying in character. Zoya doesn’t have friends, only allies she hasn’t betrayed yet. Can’t be too close; can’t know all the stories and share all the jokes or she’ll lose her grip on that.

She finishes the bourbon; fire in her belly.

Maybe it’s not about Zoya at all – there’s another character in the ring here, after all. Plain old Ruth. She’s here because Sam is the only other person she knows who fucked up every good thing in his life without thinking too.

She frowns, spinning the glass in her hands. That’s not right either. They think. Think too much, perhaps, about the wrong things. The job, the story. Both of them so busy chasing a dream, a narrative, that they miss out on the flow of their own lives—

“Hey, I know you.”

“Hmm?” She glances up, half-smiling out of genial habit, at the slurring voice.

“Yeah. You’re her aren’t you? The Commie bitch from that wrestling show.”

Ruth cringes inwardly, shrinking away from the drunk. He’s tall and well-built, running to fat, sweating and bald. He’s every unwanted hand on her body in a club, every cat-call she’s ever shrugged off in the street. Ruth cringes away, but on the other side of a see-saw, Zoya rises up.

And Zoya has never cringed in her life.

“Da,” she affirms, as Ruth looks out from behind her icy eyes. “Commie bitch Zoya, that me. Who’s bitch are you?”

It takes a second for him to process. “The fuck you say to me?” he spits, and the horrible sticky table is flying before she even has time to flinch.

Time warps, glacier-slow. The table wasn’t for show; he was clearing a path. His fist swings back, unstoppable as a planet, and she’s frozen. Detached, almost. Watching dispassionately from somewhere else as her head is about to get punched clean off her shoulders. And like a magic lantern show flickering up to speed the scene unfolds, but not as she expects.

Something, someone, launches at her assailant with a yell. Half his size, but with a bantam-weight fury that takes the bully off guard; knocking him back a step.

“What the fuck man?!”

Sam. The world’s most unlikely knight in scuffed leather jacket, standing between her and three hundred pounds of rock-ape, with his fists balled.

She can feel her attacker’s confusion. The math doesn’t make sense. Sam is so much smaller, older, and somehow so much angrier. Hell, the whole room can feel it. Pin-drop silence; thirty pairs of eyes locked on their tableaux. The only movement in the room is the bartender surreptitiously removing a large baseball bat from under his counter.

Some kind of animal logic turns cogs behind those piggy little eyes; the certainty of the equation unfolding. A ham-like fist draws back again. It’s a wild haymaker and slow enough for Sam to duck. She expects him to drop, roll, run. Not to come up under the man’s guard and scrape together every bit of strength he has into a fierce uppercut. Rock-ape’s head is flung back and he staggers once again. One, two, three seconds of muzzy incomprehension. In her mind’s ear Keith counts down to victory.

Then he lands a return blow like the meteor-strike that killed the dinosaurs, and Sam goes flying. The rest of the room seems to fly with him; descending into a maelstrom of punching, kicking, testosterone fury.

She ignores the chaos, the stray kicks and knocks, scrambling to find him on the floor. He is curled around his stomach, unmoving. She drags him by the labels of his leather jacket through the door. He can barely stand; she can barely carry him. They are limping away by inches in the neon-lit mizzling rain, a cut-scene ripped straight from Blade Runner. At least until the body goes crashing through the bar window, crunching onto the sidewalk in an explosion of shattered glass and blood, and the fresh shot of adrenaline sends them both running.

She manages to pilot him to collapse on his couch, still clutching at his ribs like he’s been stabbed.

“We should get you to a hospital—” she tries.

“No,” he rasps. “I’ll be fine.”

“Harry Houdini died—”

“From a blow to the stomach,” he finishes. “I know.”

Of course he does. She puts her head on one side, trying to puzzle this out. “You’re ashamed?”

“What? He had a hundred pounds on me—”

“Yeah, I saw. And about two decades less,” she shoots back.

He almost laughs at this, but thinks better of it. “Nice to see you extending your talent for making friends outside of the ring.”

“Well, what can I say? I’ve got a great mentor.”

He raises his hand in mock surrender, wincing at the pain. “You gonna stand there insulting me all night or—?”

“Or?”

He swallows, on the back foot now. “Fuck, I don’t know. Comfort me? I just took a pretty big punch for you.”

“Why?”

He blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “What do you mean, why?” Realising she’s serious, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Ruth. You’re more fucked up than I am. You make me laugh, and life feels less shitty when we hang around together. You need more than that?”

The conversation has pivoted once again back on her. She sighs dissent through her nose and goes to find ice in his kitchen, returning with a bag of sorry frozen peas and a wet flannel instead. “Here.” She folds his bruised hand around the freezer veg, tucks it back against his ribs. The wet flannel she uses to dab away blood in his eyebrow, cool an already purpling cheek.

It’s fine until she catches his eyes. Then the intimacy of the moment suddenly strikes her, stomach contracting sharply.

“You make me feel less… shitty too,” she admits, because she has to say something.

He nods. “Good. Um.” He makes a face. “You’ve got dirt on your…”

“Oh, um…”

There is an awkward moment of gesticulation, until he solves the problem by reaching up, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

“Thanks,” she creaks. As if this is all completely normal. As if his fingers haven’t stalled in the stray hair by her ear; as if her flannel hasn’t stilled in its busy work.

He breaks the spell. “This is… this is a bad idea.” It half sounds like a question.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding like a fucking car ornament.

His moustache twitches with the wry grin underneath. “I mean, I’d only fuck this up. And people would talk…”

“It’d be a shame to ruin a friendship,” she adds.

“Yeah, yeah. I wouldn’t want people to think… you know… it wasn’t all earned through talent.”

“And after Rhonda—”

He flinches. “What?! Why the fuck would you bring her up?”

“I’m sorry! I thought we were doing reason why we shouldn’t—?”

“Well, yeah, but you know… nicely.”

She bites her lip in effort not to laugh in his face. “Nicely?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Nice reasons not to.” He catches her giggle, and immediately regrets it, wincing hard at the stab of pain from his ribs. “Fuck.”

Her smile twists in sympathy. “Can I see?”

“I thought we were agreeing not to take any clothes off?” he grumbles, but lets her pull his shirt up.

“Fuck,” she echoes, at the blooming flower of black and blue. She reapplies the sad bag of peas. “Thank you?” she tries.

“Yeah.” He lays back into the sofa. “I think you’re welcome.”

#netflix glow #fanfiction #sam sylvia #ruth wilder #sam/ruth #swilder #ust

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