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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

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The Emperor Part 2: Toji Fushiguro x Fem!Reader

synopsis: a blight strikes the Imperial Palace, and you're caught in the middle of it all.

wc: 1.7k

tw: straight fluff

masterlist

Soft whispers of the fever spreading through the country reach your door in almost record timing.

And while Toji does not address it directly, you know his intentions as you lay in his arms, listening to him divulge the most recent reports.

"I'm a little worried," he admits, and you stroke his arm carefully, looking up at his pensive face.

"You will do what you know is best," you reply and touch his cheek. "You're the emperor, appointed by the gods and their heavenly mandate. All you need to do is listen to their wisdom." Toji takes your hand and kisses your wrist, his green eyes closing.

"I am always astounded by the comforting words you share, my little nightingale." You smile, curling the same hand around his shoulder before sighing, and drifting off to sleep with his warm body nestling yours.

But the fever does not pass by your house.

The first concubine to get it showed no symptoms, and it spread like wildfire throughout the halls of the palace, even daring to touch the advisor to the emperor before Toji began to send each concubine back to her own hometown for safety.

Your safety.

You watch as the palace dissolves into a ghost town, the sounds of women and Princess Tsumiki vanishing almost overnight. And Toji becomes the only visitor to your chambers, even when he is not desiring to sleep with you. He confesses his worries, curls into your frame, and even bemoans his predicament before falling asleep in your arms. Most nights, Toji just lays with you in the bed, speculating about how long it would be until the blight would end. And you offer your best words to ease his troubled soul, but soon, it's apparent they are not enough.

Then, one night, you awaken with chills and a cold sweat running down your spine. You thank the gods that this was a night when Toji did not come to lay with you, citing strategy meetings with the country's best doctors as his reason. And when you cough loud enough to call the attention of a maid outside of your door, you know that you might be seriously ill.

"Do not tell the Emperor," you beg the doctor, who looks down at you with pity. "Just tell him I am menstruating." But the lie only keeps Toji at bay for an hour or two, at most.

When the door slides open in the morning and Toji walks in, you see two of him in your sickly haze. But you know there is only one Toji Fushiguro and that he was not pleased to see you in your bed, sheets pulled around your weak frame.

"Please," you croak, waving your hand. "Don't come any closer, Your Holiness."

"Toji," he corrects you, kneeling by your bed and taking your hand. "And you cannot command me to do anything."

"I am unwell," you whisper. "Let me recover before you return. I do not want you to get ill. Our country needs you."

"But I need you," Toji rebuffs. "I'm staying right here until you get better. If I catch the fever, then we will be sick together." You do not have the strength to argue, so a chair and a table are brought for Toji to work and stay by your side through the day and night. As you fade in and out of your sickness, you see him hard at work, glancing over at you every so often, hear him arguing with the doctors outside of the door, and feel him gripping your hand in his as he kneels at your beside, praying to the gods feverishly when there is no one else around.

You can barely eat, at one point only drinking water, and you sleep most of the day away that you don't even recall which day it is when you do awaken. And Toji remains by your side, even as you catch signs of the fever letting up; the sounds of life return to the palace as you slowly recover.

It is a crisp, autumn evening when you finally have the strength to be wheeled into the garden, a large blanket covering your legs as Toji pushes you around and comments about the flowers that are blooming. You're touching a chrysanthemum when Toji sighs, looking out at the massive space.

"I'm not calling the others back." Your eyes slide to the Emperor, who crosses his arms and nods his head as if this was the moment for him to make up his mind. "I'll pay for them to have all of the comforts they had here... but I will not ask them to return."

"Are you sure, Your Holiness?"

Toji clenches his jaw, biting the side of his lip that's scarred.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"But I have not given you a s--"

"I don't care." The discussion is ended at that moment, for you know the Emperor is not one to be persuaded when he has made up his mind. You watch as the letters go out, along with the monthly payments, and Toji watches you regain your strength, his conviction about his decision growing every day.

_____________________________________________________________

Illness strikes you again as soon as you feel like things are normal. As you lay in the royal chambers with cool towels on your forehead, you wonder if this is a punishment from the gods.

Nausea plagues you, and even though you desire to eat anything and everything, you throw it up as soon as it's been digested.

And Toji? Toji is frustrated.

"I will not permit visitors to the palace. I will not allow you to step one foot out of these doors. You will be fed by my hand, and no one will be permitted to handle you except me." You listen to him growl at you while you chew on ginger root, your blank stare focused on his face. "Do you hear me, y/n?"

"Yes, your Holiness," you reply, but something in you tells you that this isn't the kind of sickness he thinks it is. Your suspicion is confirmed when your cheeks get redder and rounder and you gain a little weight, the small bulge beneath your clothing showing slightly. Even the doctors stare at Toji with blank and idle eyes, wondering when he would catch on to the fact that you were growing.

Toji stands at the window one night, fiddling with his robes when you approach him from behind and hold him close.

"I love you," you whisper, and he looks over his shoulder at you, lips quirking up in a smile.

"You want something, don't you? You only use that tone when you're about to ask me a question," he laughs. "Whatever it is, you can have it."

"I already have everything I want," you reply, kissing his back. "Besides, you've been so busy being the Emperor that you haven't noticed the changes in your own home."

"Hm? Do you mean the new trees? I had them planted for their blossoms but it seems--"

"Your home, Toji."

"This is my home," he murmurs, turning around to face you, eyebrow raised. "Is there something you need to tell me?" When you grab his hand and place it on your belly, Toji stares at you, then frowns. "Um..."

"Feel," you encourage him again, holding his hand captive.

"Little nightingale, I am not sure why you have me feeling your--" Toji stops, his green eyes looking off into the corner of the room as his fingers roam back and forth across your stomach. He blinks twice, pulls his hand back, then quickly grabs the hem of your nightgown and ducks underneath.

"TojI!" you exclaim, but you feel his hands touching and exploring, and hear him talking to himself excitedly.

"How long?" Toji wonders underneath your dress, movements stilling.

"Um..."

"How long?" he repeats eagerly and you laugh, placing your hand on his head.

"I think it's only been two months." Toji reemerges from under your gown and clasps your shoulders.

"Your feet, are they always cold?" You search Toji's face before whispering,

"Yes...?" The light in his eyes is impossible to dim. His face brightens considerably, and then he begins to pace around the room.

"Right, cold feet..." He begins to tick his fingers off one by one, muttering to himself again.

"My love, is everything alright?" you wonder, lacing your fingers together as he runs his hands through his dark hair and turns back to you.

"I've just been told you're with child. I'm among the happiest men in the world, sweet one." His fingers touch your face tenderly, and you lean into his palm, smiling. "But you must get your rest. We will talk about it with the priests in the morning."

"Priests?" you wonder as he shuffles you toward the bed. "What do they have to do with--"

"And think of names for our son," he urges you, pulling the sheets around your frame. "I will plan the celebration as soon as I hear from the gods."

_____________________________________________________________

"What if we named him... Kosuke?" You wonder, playing with Toji's hair in the morning light. Toji sticks his tongue out and makes a 'yuck' noise, and you purse your lips.

"How about Sachihiro?"

"That's a mouthful," you reply, and he rolls his eyes, exhaling deeply. "Maybe Tatsuo?"

"Dragon?" Toji laughs, looking over at you. "You want me to name him after my rivals in the East?"

"Don't talk about Emperor Geto like that," you mutter, swatting his arm. "He's been so kind."

"He's been so nosy," Toji retorts, just as Princess Tsumiki comes running into the room, followed by her attendant, who appears to be extremely apologetic as she tries to scoop her up. "No, no," Toji mumbles. "Leave her be."

"Let's ask the Princess what she thinks," you suggest, and Toji nods, standing from his seated position on the floor.

"Tsumiki, what would you like to name your little brother?" he asks, pulling her up into his arms.

"Mango," she replies, sticking her fingers in her mouth. Toji looks over at you, unamused.

"Sure, we'll name him mango," you offer, smiling at the girl who leans over to touch your face lovingly. "It's your favorite fruit, after all." Toji tilts his head, then inhales sharply, eyes widening.

"Megumi," he breathes, and you raise your brows sharply.

"Blessings," you whisper, and he nods, eyes locking with yours as his smile widens. "Megumi..." You try the name out on your tongue, finding it fits quite nicely.

"Megumi."

#toji fushiguro x reader #toji fluff #jujutsu kaisen toji #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro

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amelee23 · 4 years

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Magical | Bang Chan

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Genre: Thriller/ Fantasy, Fluff

No. of words: 1.600

Warnings: Sensitive topics, dark themes

A/N: This story is actually written to apply to anyone, so it doesn’t have mentions of age, gender or occupation. Even the reader’s relationship with Bang Chan is left for interpretation.

Let me know if you enjoyed and remember, keep strong stays! <3

They were following me.

I didn't know what it was or who they were; I was too scared to look. Their presence emanated it - a fright the likes of which I've never experienced before. With every inch they managed to gather on me, I could feel their frostbite attacking my lungs and skin. They were talking to me, whispering and yelling at the same time. The voices, a cacophony of sounds, were loud and clear inside of my brain; telling me to come back, to look behind me, but I couldn't bring myself to. The malice was obvious - they wanted me, wanted to eat me whole - take control over my body, soul and mind. I urged my feet to go even faster, but they were already too heavy for me to lift in a full sprint. I barely trudged my weakened body, while slipping in the mud, tumbling on the pebbles and jumping on the arid ground. They would reach me at one point, and I knew that. But I was too stubborn to give up; I wanted to go out exhausted but knowing I have fought my fight.

The forest was opening up, and a few faded rays of light were coming closer to me in my sprint. I headed for that open area and was met with a field full of flowers. In the distance I could see them waiting for me - my friends, my family, my acquaintances. I begged my weary feet to take me towards them with the last bit of strength that I had. However, as I got closer their faces got all the more blurry; I couldn't make up who they were anymore, until they all turned into indistinguishable shapes and shadows that laughed as their cold red eyes bore into my own. They disappeared from in front of me like an illusion, and all the flowers on the field died at once. Shocked and afraid, I couldn't stand around to ponder; I could feel it from the hairs on the nape of my neck standing up, and the goosebumps on my arms that the darkness had almost reached me.

I curved my run to the west, heading towards the high mountains. The previous laughter of the shadows echoed, as if it was bouncing off invisible walls. My breath was becoming more and more unstable, ragged with every forced step I took. My soles hitting the ground hurt all the way to my knees, and I felt dizzy. Something sparkled in my hazy vision, and I instinctively followed the twinkle.

It was a lit fireplace, bright and alive. It's warmth beckoned me, called me over with a siren's song. As if just a puppet, all the pain in me disappeared as I walked towards the fire. In just a few seconds however, I was met with the ground as a powerful gust of wind caught me off guard. I turned to look at the fire, no traces of it ever being lit remaining. I clutched the rocks tight in my fists, banged them on each other desperately. My hands were numb and I couldn't feel them soon enough.

Already defeated, I rose my head to see the thing that had been following me, and my whole body became paralyzed. It was pitch black, a shape with no beginning and no end. It had no eyes yet it was staring at me, no mouth yet it talked to me, relentlessly. It lunged at me at a speed I could not perceive, and pierced through my body. Everything went black and my body grew cold.

---

When I woke up, an intense headache hit my senses. I was just as nauseous as I was when I fell asleep, but somehow the pain grew worse. I looked around me in confusion, shaking away that nonsense of a nightmare I just had, to try to remember what happened before I fell asleep. I was in Chan's house, that was for sure. He was nowhere to be seen, which is peculiar considering he was here before, trying to keep me warm. But now he was gone, and I was cold and alone.

I've been feeling ill ever since this morning, and no matter how much I tried I couldn't bring myself together to function properly. So I ran away from all responsibilities, came here and begged Chan to shelter me from my own powerlessness. I'll probably regret it later, feel embarrassed about it, but it couldn't be helped; I needed some sort of salvation, peace of mind.

I heard Chan's voice not even a minute later, and he sounded like he was saying farewell to someone. He came into the room, holding a blanket in one hand and my phone in the other. Wrapping the blanket around me, Chan looked at me with worry in his eyes. He handed me my phone back and the person in my front camera was pale as a ghost.

"They kept calling you to ask you to come back." He told me, and I clutched the phone a little too tightly.

"I can't go back now..." My voice was hoarse and frail, but I managed to speak a sentence.

"I know, and I've told them just that. Right now, you need to rest." With a tiny smile, Chan scooted closer to me and draped an arm around me, pulling me to his chest. He began searching for a movie on Netflix, but as I nestled into the warmth of his body, I could feel myself slip away again.

---

I woke up in that very cave where I passed out. I was sleeping on hay instead of the cold ground, and I could feel a wet rag on my forehead. Someone must have found me, I thought. I was saved, but for how long; I couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth it anymore.

Slow and limping, I made my way to the entrance of the cave. It was day outside, and it was quiet and peaceful. I could feel the charcoal of the fireplace still radiating warmth. Whoever saved me probably wasn't far.

I wanted to sit down in the camp, but the sun was merciless next to the heated charcoal. I smacked my lips, and realized how dehydrated I was. A well was not far away from here, I remember passing it while I was running away from the darkness. Automated by my thirst, I gathered all my strength to push away the lid off of the well. And that's when the substance that should have given me life seemed to drain me of it.

They were waiting for me.

The shadow sprung to life out of the well and attacked me in full sunlight. The contrast in color was blinding, and I stumbled backwards in fright. I scurried away through the dusty ground and closed my eyes, thinking it would all be over soon. Then, above my head I heard a whistling sound of something flying at high speed. I opened my eyes just in time to see an arrow fly into the boundless shape, not harming it whatsoever, but it seemed confused. From behind me, a hooded figure pulled me up to my feet and stood in front of me. He was holding a bow, and his body was lean and sturdy. His features however, were very blurry to me. I couldn't make up his eyes, but he looked very familiar to me. He had a big nose and curly blonde hair peeking from his hood.

I clung to him in desperation as the shadow growled, its mumbling getting erratic. The archer began reciting some words, in a language that was unknown to me; still, even not being able to understand him, I knew his words meant well. A bright light enveloped us, and suddenly my senses were enveloped in a sweet smell.

---

I didn't know how much time had passed, but I got woken up again by the sound of my ringtone. Still drunk with sleep, I got up from Chan's grip and reached for the phone. Chan was sleeping soundly, his big nose crinkling as he seemed to battle something in his sleep. His blonde curls were covering his eyes, and I reached over to move them away as I answered the call. His sweet perfume lingered in the room, and I tried to focus on it as the person on the other line began yelling to me.

"Where are you? A guy answered your phone not too long ago, was he saying the truth? We really need you right now..." I dismissed their incoherent mumbling and took a deep breath and mustered my courage.

"Yes, he was telling the truth... I am feeling unwell and cannot be there today. Please,... I just want to rest." The person on the line sighed and eventually agreed to let me go. I exhaled deeply and closed my eyes in content. Chan, having woken up by my voice, chuckled lightly.

"Good job." He told me, and smiled sleepily.

"It was time I stood up for myself." I replied softly. He smiled even brighter than before and came closer to hug me.

"I'm proud of you." As he spoke those words, his body warmth enveloped me and healed me down to my soul. I was floating around in that sweet scent, in that homely feeling of security.

And I was once again reminded that Chan's hugs were indeed magical.

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iamanartichoke · 4 years

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Ficlet Prompt: Brodinsons, Post-Ragnarok. Thor and Loki having to share a bed and getting annoyed with the other's sleeping habits. Sibling hijinks ensues! :3 (some normal, some magical :D)

I had a lot of adorable fun with this one. Ignore my questionable biology re: allergies and fake gravity. Thank you for the prompt, @ms-aqua-marvella!

Word count: 1644

_____

Loki would be horrified if he knew, but norns, he was snoring.

It had been centuries since they’d shared a bed, so Thor had forgotten all of Loki’s unconscious little quirks. He’d especially forgotten that, when Loki traveled by airship for long distances, he snored when he slept.

He never snored at home, or anywhere else as far as Thor knew. It was just that something in the artificial gravity on board spacecrafts disagreed with Loki’s constitution, made it hard for him to breathe properly.

It was simply one of those things, or so they’d always thought. Some Aesir were intolerant of specific berries and could not eat them without breaking out in a rash. Others found it difficult to breathe in the springtime, when fresh flowers bloomed and pollen drenched the air.

There was no real reason. Eir simply said that biology worked that way sometimes. Neither Thor nor Loki gave it much more thought.

Now, though, Thor had to wonder if it had something to do with Loki’s being Jotun.

It was not a question he could ever ask.

Thor sighed and rolled onto his side, facing his brother. Usually, their roles were reversed: in the days that followed Ragnarok, as they existed on this massive ship with its tiny, cramped cabins, Thor would spend his time trying to be in several places at once.

There was so much to do and, each night, Thor would drop into bed thoroughly exhausted; he’d be asleep practically before his head hit the pillow.

Loki, on the other hand, slept very little. He made himself scarce during the day and in the evenings, he spent more time reading or practicing spells than he did in their bed. Thor only knew this because, without fail, each time Thor woke up in the middle of the night for one reason or another, Loki was always awake and occupied with something.

Tonight, Thor couldn’t remember what had woken him - if he’d ever managed to fall asleep at all. There was an odd restlessness in his bones, an itch to be up and moving and working. Anxiety-driven, most likely. That happened sometimes.

At some point, Loki had climbed into their bed and fallen asleep, and now as Thor watched him, listening to the soft purr of his snores, he had to reflect that never did Loki look younger or more peaceful than when he slept. The years and his troubles simply fell away.

He slept on his side, somewhat curled up, hugging his pillow. His black hair obscured part of his face, and his chest rose and fell gently. Thor had a sharp memory, then, of a little boy with the same dark hair, curled up beside Thor in bed; it felt like yesterday, and it made tears spring to Thor’s eye because they were not those children anymore and would never know such innocence again.

To distract himself, Thor reached out and nudged Loki’s shoulder. “Loki,” he whispered.

Loki didn’t move.

“Loki,” Thor said, louder this time. He nudged Loki again.

Loki stirred a little, blinking sleepily at Thor. “What,” he murmured. “What’s wrong.”

“You’re snoring,” Thor informed him, with yet another nudge. “It’s keeping me up.”

“I don’t snore.” The words were automatic, and even mostly asleep, Loki sounded offended. “Leave me alone.”

“You do snore,” Thor continued. “On ships, remember? You always have. You’ve not outgrown your allergy.”

“My allergy to what? Spaceships?” Loki groaned and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his eyes.

“No, to artificial gravity. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Loki frowned, and then yawned. “Oh, that.”

Thor waited, but Loki didn’t elaborate further. His eyelids were already drooping; he was already finished with the conversation, ready to doze off again.

Thor should have let him sleep - Loki did not sleep nearly enough - but the idea of spending even one more minute staring into the darkness, restless and awake, made Thor’s skin itch.

He didn’t want to be alone.

“Hey.” Thor poked Loki’s arm. “Has it been bothering you? The gravity? Have you been feeling unwell?”

“No.” Loki’s eyes drifted closed.

“You would tell me, right?”

“Mhm.”

It took less than a minute for Loki’s breathing to even out as he fell asleep again. Thor propped his head up on his elbow, watching his brother, and waiting. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the soft snoring started again.

“Loki.” Thor nudged him hard, and Loki woke with a jolt.

“What?” Loki batted Thor’s hand away. “What do you want now?”

“You’re snoring again.”

“I am not - but, if I were, clearly it’s because I can’t help it.” Loki’s green-eyed gaze slid over to Thor; somehow, he managed to give Thor a look that was both withering and adorably sleepy. “You’re welcome to sleep elsewhere, if you’re so bothered,” he added.

“Me?” Thor squeaked. “Why should I be the one to leave? If anything, you should sleep elsewhere.”

“Why? My alleged snoring isn’t bothering me.”

Thor groaned. He flopped over onto his stomach, pulling his pillow to his chest and using it to prop himself up. “You are the most impossible brother,” he said.

“You’re the one waking me up at norns o’clock in the morning to nag me.” Loki turned onto his side, barely lifting his head from his own pillow. “Don’t talk to me about impossible brothers.”

“Fine, fine.” Thor shook his head and then let out a snort of laughter. “I feel like we’re children again,” he went on. “At least you aren’t kicking me in your sleep. You used to do that.”

“Only to get you off of me,” Loki returned. He closed his eyes again, but seemed to be more or less awake now, which pleased Thor. “You’re a sleep cuddler. Treated me like a stuffed animal companion.”

“You liked it,” Thor said with a grin.

Loki made a face. “I most certainly did not. You took up too much space. You suffocated me. I’m lucky to have made it to adolescence alive and in one piece, as a matter of fact.”

“Alive and in one piece, but certainly dramatic as all hell,” Thor retorted. “A trait that has persisted through adulthood, I might add.”

Opening his eyes, Loki flashed an unexpected grin. “Yeah,” he agreed. He looked over at Thor and then, as if on cue, they both started giggling.

Oh, how Thor had missed this. He had not even realized how much he missed it - there had not been time to realize how deeply he felt not just the loss of Loki, but the loss of Loki-and-Thor, the single unit they’d been for so many centuries.

Everything had been so chaotic since that ill-fated venture to Jotunheim. A millennium of life could not have prepared Thor and Loki for the worst ten years they’d ever have to face. There had been banishment. There had been death. There had been untold loss and so many lies that truth became more of a concept than something real to hold onto.

All culminating in Ragnarok - the end of the world.

Now, here they were on the other side. Laying close in this small bed aboard a drifting ship. “How did we get here?” Thor wondered aloud. “You and I.”

Loki made a show of pulling his pillow over his head. “Don’t get philosophical on me now, brother.” His voice was muffled, and a moment later he tossed the pillow aside. “Does it matter? We’re here now.”

“I suppose.” Thor reached for Loki’s discarded pillow and tucked it under his own.

“Hey,” Loki protested.

“Sorry, did you want this?” Thor hugged both pillows, pressing his face into the soft cotton. “Mm. So comfy.”

Loki scowled; a moment later, both pillows abruptly vanished into thin air. Thor’s head dropped to the mattress and he let out a little yelp of sheer surprise.

Loki waved his hand. The pillows reappeared under his own head. He made a show of fluffing them up, then arched an eyebrow at Thor. “Oh, sorry, did you want these?”

“Worst brother ever,” Thor grumbled.

“Best brother ever,” Loki corrected. “You love me.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like you very much.”

Loki laughed at that, reaching out and kicking Thor’s ribs with his bare foot. “Ass.”

Thor smiled at him and adjusted his position. He edged closer to Loki and settled his own head onto the pillows, shoving Loki - gently - aside to make room. “If you wanted to cuddle, brother, all you had to do was ask,” he remarked as he settled in.

“Yes, but subterfuge is much more my specialty,” Loki said. His words were accompanied by an eyeroll, but he didn’t protest Thor sharing the pillows. Perhaps, he felt a little nostalgic, too. “Now, are you going to let me get some sleep or not?”

“Only if you stop snoring.”

“For the last time, I do not snore.”

Thor reached for the blankets and pulled them up around his shoulders, making sure to tuck Loki in, too. “Yes, you do. But I’ll try not to hold it against you.” In fact, Thor was feeling much sleepier than he had before. The restlessness had eased from him without his even realizing it. Loki had that sort of soothing effect.

“Good, because if you wake me up again, I’ll turn you into a frog.”

“I dare you to try.”

Loki smirked and reached out. Green seidr flickered at his fingertips and, despite himself, Thor shrank back a bit, which made Loki look immensely pleased with himself. He wiggled his fingers, the light fading away. Then he turned onto his side and - to Thor’s surprise - laid his head on Thor’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Thor,” Loki said, his breath ghosting along Thor’s collarbone.

Thor smiled. He patted Loki’s hair, just like he used to do when they were children. Then he settled in and wrapped his arm protectively around his brother. “Goodnight, Loki.”

#tumblr prompts #brodinsons #sleepy loki #thor being an insomniac #cute fluff #sharing a bed #post ragnarok fic #ms-aqua-marvella

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letterfromtrenwith · 6 years

Text

Six Fics - George & Elizabeth

Six fics for @upstartpoodle and @enyses

First Kiss, Underwater, Children, Regency, Mirror, Last Thoughts

Send me a character/pairing and I’ll write a minific on each of the prompts

First Kiss Flowers petals swirled around them as they stepped out of the church into the sunshine, the bells ringing out behind them, well-wishers smiling and clapping. George smiled at her, pure adoration in his eyes. It touched her, cutting through whatever other unwelcome feelings might have been trying to encroach. The guests looked at them as they stood upon the step. Elizabeth knew what they were expecting.

As he had bid her goodbye the previous evening, George had – almost timidly – pressed a kiss to her cheek, the most intimate they had ever been. She had been surprised by how deeply that barest of touches had affected her. Now, he glanced at her, questioning, silently asking her permission. Of course she would grant it – she was his wife now, and she intended to be a true wife in every way.

So, she met those entrancing eyes of his and smiled, leaning in. His lips were surprisingly soft, his kiss incredibly gentle. It was chaste, of course, they were in public after all; but, for just that brief moment, and for the first time in she did not know how long, Elizabeth lost herself to tenderness.

Underwater It was like coming up for air, breaking the surface of a sea she did not realise she had been submerged in. After Francis’ death, she had been forced, by both her own grief and by what society expected of a widow, into a sort of shadow world. A murky, dull place, devoid of light and laughter. Her son was her only source of happiness, but even he had sometimes only reminded her of what she had lost – his father, her husband, the chance for more children.

No matter what…difficulties had preceded it, her second marriage had gradually, bit by bit, drawn her out of this peculiar exile. Gone were her dark clothes, the oppressive silence of a house in morning. There instead was the laughter of her baby, the smile of her eldest child as he played with his governess, the trill of her harp strings played for the first time in months.

She took pleasure in small things again – a spray of baby’s breath picked from the gardens, the soft linen of a new shift, the bittersweet flavour of a morning cup of coffee. Her dulled, dampened emotions came back to life – happiness, affection, passion, love.

The waters had parted over her and she had emerged back into the light.

Children “Are feeling quite well, my dear?”

Elizabeth started a little as George spoke to her and he frowned. She had seemed oddly distracted these past few days, and it concerned him. After dinner, she had excused herself, saying she wished to bathe before bed. George had left her be, but retired early to await her. When she came into the bedroom, damp hair bound up with a strip of linen, wrapped in her bed robe – although an old green one, not the new embroidered blue silk he had bought for her – she looked pensive, even a little melancholy. It worried him.

“Elizabeth? Is something the matter?” He made to get up from the bed but she shook her head, coming to join him, curling up next to him against the pillows.

“Nothing. There is nothing the matter.” She gave a small smile. It was genuine enough, but there was still something behind it. George laid his hand gently over hers, where she toyed with the edge of her robe. She interlinked their fingers.

“Elizabeth. Tell me, please.”

“It is silly. It is only it is my – my monthly – “ George made a small noise of understanding. He should have realised – she often found a bath especially soothing during these times.

“And it is troubling you?”

“No, no, it is not that. It is just that, I had been wondering if I was with child again…but it seems I am not.” She smiled again, a little sadly this time.

“Oh, my dear. I am sorry.” He shifted, inviting her closer, and she cuddled into his side; he wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her arm soothingly. “It is quite soon, after all.”

Their youngest children, twin daughters Clare and Susannah, were not yet nine months old, and they had come less than eighteen months after their elder sister.

“Oh, I know. I’m being foolish.”

“Not at all, my dear. Do you wish for more children?”

“Yes. Very much so. But I know it is possible there will not be more. I was not young when we married and now – “

“Oh, Elizabeth, do not say you are old. If you are old, then I am quite ancient!” His light jest had the intended effect, and she made a soft noise of amusement.

“Do you wish for more children?” She looked up at him, her soft eyes wide. He bent his head to kiss her forehead.

“Of course, my dear. A dozen if you wish!” Elizabeth laughed properly this time.

“A dozen, indeed? Well, if that is case…” She bit her lip. “When I am feeling quite myself again, we shall have to work very hard at it!”

Regency “Papa. The newspaper says we are to have new King. Is that true?” George raised his eyebrows at his eldest daughter over his teacup. At thirteen, Ursula was precociously intelligent – perpetually curious about the world around her. She took somewhat after her elder brothers in that respect, but even they had not been prone to stealing their father’s newspaper of a morning. George caught Elizabeth’s eye and she smiled before turning to help their youngest child, Flora, only four, tear off a piece of her toast.

“In a way, my dear.” He knew she would not be satisfied with that answer, and indeed she wasn’t.

“Even though King George is still alive?”

“Cousin Loveday says the King is mad.” Clare piped up. At eleven, she put great stock in the wisdom of her elder cousin.

“Aunt Wenna said he’s not mad, he’s unwell, and very sad because Princess Amelia died.” Clare’s twin, Susannah, argued.

“Being sad doesn’t mean he can’t be King! And besides, Valentine says the Prince of Wales is a fat idiot.”

“Ursula!” George hid his smile behind his cup as Elizabeth admonished their daughter. The other children giggled and their mother shook her head with a sigh. No doubt Valentine had given his verdict on the soon to be Prince Regent in one of his letters from school, Ursula being his most frequent correspondent. George privately rather agreed with his son’s assessment, having been introduced to the Prince on a visit to London several years previously.

“Your Aunt is right.” Elizabeth continued, pouring some milky tea for Flora, who slurped at it happily, entirely uninterested in matters of state. “The King is very ill – he has been for many years, since your Papa and I were young, even. Now, it is too difficult for him to perform his duties, and he must rest, so the Prince is going to look after things for him.”

“That’s right. Just like if something happened which meant I was unable to look after the Bank anymore, Geoffrey Charles would do so in my place…Not that that is likely, of course.” George rushed to the reassurance, seeing the worried looks cross his older daughters’ faces at the mention of anything happening to him. Ursula’s immediately turned to a puzzled frown, however.

“Geoffrey Charles? Not Valentine?”

“Valentine is not old enough, but of course he will inherit one day, just like Geoffrey Charles inherited his father’s estate.” The very house they all now lived in. George and Elizabeth had prepared to move back to Cardew once Geoffrey Charles came of age, but he had insisted he did not want to live at Trenwith alone, nor make the younger children leave the house they had been born in, and so they remained.

“Would Geoffrey Charles come home then?” Their youngest son, Nicholas, only eight, had seemed much more interested in his porridge than their discussion before now, but had looked up at the mention of his idolised elder brother, who was currently fighting on the Continent.

“Geoffrey Charles will come home soon. He said so in his last letter.” Elizabeth soothed, but she and George exchanged another glance, this one sadder than the first. They worried constantly about him, and his communications were sporadic, but they could never burden the children with their concerns.

“Now!” George decided a change of subject was in order. “That’s enough about princes and regencies, get off to your morning lessons, all of you. Go on, shoo!”

The four eldest departed with only minor grumbling, Ursula tucking the infernal newspaper under her arm as she went.

“I’m going to stop getting that.” George muttered and Elizabeth laughed, lifting Flora onto her lap.

“Do not deny that you are pleased to have such clever children.”

“Oh, of course I am, my dear. But I am getting too old for politics at the breakfast table!”

Mirror George only caught a glimpse of her in the reflection – a flash of white over his shoulder, like a fleeting spirit – before she wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding him tightly.

“What are you doing sneaking about in here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, my dear.” He felt Elizabeth’s huff of amusement against the back of his neck. She pressed her face into his soft material of his shirt and he covered her hands with one of his. “I am back very late; I did not want to wake you. I thought it best if I slept in here tonight.”

“Best for whom? Your poor wife, who has laid alone in a cold, empty bed this past week?” Her words might have sounded plaintive, but her tone was teasing and he could see her mouth curving in a smile as she propped her head on his shoulder and their eyes finally met in the mirror. Despite her playfulness, he could see that Elizabeth was tired. He hoped she had not been sitting up waiting for him.

She turned, touching her face gently to his, closing her eyes. George studied her in the glass – the fine arch of her cheekbone, her full lips, the soft curls of hair falling over her face. She was so very beautiful. How he missed her when he was not at home, more and more every time he was away.

Where once he had relished the demands of his work, he now often found himself resenting them for how they took him away from his home, his family and, of course, his wife.

“Every time you go away, I swear to myself that when you return, I shall forbid you from ever leaving again.” It was almost as if she had read his thoughts. He turned in her arms, away from the mirror at last, lifting a hand to touch her cheek.

“And do you forbid it?” Neither of them spoke entirely seriously, but George knew that if she said ‘yes’ and meant it, he would contrive every way he could to obey her. Elizabeth cocked her head to one side, as if considering, but her eyes sparkled.

“Hmm…no, I do not think so.” Still holding him close, she leant forward to brush the lightest and most tantalising of kisses over his lips, barely pulling back before she spoke again. “For if I do not let you leave, I should be forever denied the pleasure of a reunion.”

Last Thoughts It had all happened so quickly. The magistrate’s court sat in judgement of an assault – some altercation between a pair of feuding families with a long history of dispute. It had been a fractious trial, relatives of the accused and the alleged victim making a nuisance of themselves. George had had to threaten them with removal several times.

Then, there had been a particularly vociferous objection to a piece of evidence, someone had jumped to their feet, and another to meet them. The constables had moved in, and chaos had ensued, men shouting and brawling, benches clattering over, until suddenly – an unmistakable crack. A pistol shot. The whole room froze – a bizarre tableaux centred around two men: the man with the gun, and the constable forcing his hand away. Towards the bench.

George had stood in the heat of the tussle, attempting to call for some order, and was about to look around to see where the shot had hit when a woman screamed, pointing directly at him. He glanced down at himself and found that he could not comprehend what he was seeing, the blood spreading across his chest.

Everything blurred after that – the room tilted and George could not follow what was happening. He was no longer standing up, but he was being moved; there were hands touching him, grasping his arms and legs, pressing on his shoulder, which hurt. He could not tell them it hurt, could not say anything.

A man was speaking to him, a voice he recognised – not panicked, but questioning, urgent. He could not understand it. He felt a thud, something hard against his back, and then more voices, people clustered around him, their shapes indistinct. Out of the corner of his eyes, he glimpsed something – a woman, dark hair, a blue dress.

Elizabeth.

He tried to call for her, to reach for her, but his body would not co-operate. The pain in his shoulder was worse, and he could feel himself slipping, but he grasped at the thought of his wife, fought to hold onto it. To keep her face in his mind, to conjure up the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand.

Please, he thought, as his vision began to grey. Please let me see her again.

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #george x elizabeth #fic #f: ge #m: fic

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webbadgerblog · 7 years

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Precious Moments

Winter is a time for quiet reflection. An empty space. A season when nature sleeps under a dark earth, preparing itself for spring with its promise of sunshine and growth. It is a time when we need to nourish ourselves, to stave off the cold, to sit by fires with loved ones.

Which of course we have taken the opportunity to do …all our children flocked home this Christmas (like the Canada geese that arrive in December, flapping and noisy on the Dart!) and we shared many beautiful moments with them, making memories to warm us during future winters.

Mike and I saturate ourselves in nature whenever we can. We love to wander in wild places and winter is no exception. On the moors with their icy skeleton trees, silent cool earth and low grey skies, often with a hazy golden sunlight filtering through and also along craggy clifftop paths with the sea crashing on the rocks below, echoing in our ears and the taste of salt on our lips. These days have been heart-warming soul food. It is where many of my paintings are dreamt.

However, I know for many the winter months can be a challenge, particularly to those who are feeling fragile and I have seen this with my own mum this season. She is a feisty Irish woman full of Celtic spirit and determination, a force to be reckoned with, yet even with all her energy and passion she was knocked for six by a cough, which settled on her chest and lingered, forcing her to be cared for instead of being the carer. Her illness has been a wake-up call as it has reminder of how much I love her, how deeply precious she is to me. I need to value every minute I get to spend with her.

My Mother, Cathy

My mum has been an enormous influence on who I am today. Her creativity and zest for life is woven into the fabric of my being. She is a great gardener and I paint how she plants! Kooky and free with a mysterious magical alchemy that creates a simple wild beauty out of seeming chaos.

Her name is Catherine, or Cathy as she is known. She was just a girl when she had me, only twenty and her youthfulness was wonderful to grow up with. She loved country and western music, adored dancing and taught me to jive at five!

It has been very difficult for me seeing her so unwell, but also a privilege in that I was able to give something back and repay her for her constant love and support. It was exhausting in much the same way as caring for a sick child is. You love them so much and it hurts to see them in pain. There is the constant worry they are getting worse, the feeling it is never going to end and the need to do something, anything to try and alleviate their suffering. So I looked after her, cooking nourishing organic soups and making sure she was comfortable, doing everything from making cups of tea to filling her hot water bottle! Ensuring she felt nurtured and safe.

Life is fragile; we live and then we die. It is a universal truth and my mum’s illness has been a loud and urgent wake-up call to really live! To take any opportunity I have to cherish those I care about and to be kind when at all possible. After all, when it comes down to it, what is more important than love? My painting celebrates this, rejoicing in all that is good in the world and making a stand for open heartedness. I believe that this is needed now more than ever.

Flowers for Mother’s Day

So all of this, and more, is poor souls who nourish us. Whether celebrating someone who is a mother in the traditional sense of the word or not, it is an opportunity to acknowledge those special women who radiate love without even trying and, moreover, have the ability to make us feel unconditionally accepted. Mother’s Day gives us an opportunity to say an extra special thank you. This thank you can take many forms, but I believe that a unique gift of flowers for Mothers Day is such a sweet and tender token.

To view my non-wilting unique flowers for Mother’s Day you can find my original paintings printed canvasses, prints and cards at yvonnecoomber.com

Before I go, just to let you know, my mum is so much better … and of course I will continue to love and cherish her.

The post For My Mother appeared first on Yvonne Coomber.

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