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greenlaut · 2 months

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fuck it,

LIST OF INCENSES I THINK AC 1 - AC UNITY CHARACTERS WOULD LIKE

credentials: (1) incense is a big thing in my country both for daily and religious uses; (2) i have a shit ton of incenses bc i use them regularly

ALTAÏR IBN LA'AHAD — his most familiar scent is frankincense bcs either umar or rashid lit up a lot of frankincense (haha old man incense). BUT his favorite scent is jasmine because it's sweet and calming it's like a soothing balm to his running thoughts and worries. also the scent of jasmine here has supernatural connotations, so i think it's fitting for altaïr as the master assassin herald of death etc etc

MALIK AL SAYF — oud. definitely oud. very charismatic and heavy. definitely suits him bcs as soon u enter his space u will think he's someone not to be trifled with. it also has a family/brotherly connotation to it which suits malik. if u want combination; oud + sandalwood

KADAR AL SAYF — champaca. it's sweet and bright. reminds u of a singing bird maybe? if u catch a whiff of it in the wind it feels like napping in a hazy afternoon.

MARIA THORPE — jasmine with tuberose. almost woody? floral. probably reminds you of moonlit night with silk curtains blowing in the wind

EZIO AUDITORE DA FIRENZE — sandalwood. a classic. with frankincense and myrhh. this scent reminds me of church (our churches usually light these scented incenses). it's heady and heavy. if you smell it too much it can overwhelm you.

LEONARDO DA VINCI — citrus and agarwood. very playful and has creative vibes to it. it also smells very unique and reminds me of a warm person

CONNOR KENWAY — majegau. this one is very specific. majegau is a type of tree sacred to people in bali region (i'm from java so i dont know much). but the scent is very mountainous. it reminds me slightly of sandalwood but much lighter, and gives off a more foresty vibes. it has a very respectful but down-to-earth air to it that suits connor's person

AVELINE DE GRANPRE — citrus and vanilla. i'll be honest i never had this one, but i'm trusting what people said. it's apparently very unique and refreshing scent when burnt. kind of woody surprisingly with just a hint of sweetness to it. i also think aveline would like clove incense. it's sweet and has something underneath that feels like it's ready to strike

ADÉWALÉ — also an oud enjoyer methinks. maaybe oud + frankincense. i think smelling the incense will help settle down his thoughts and pain, bcs it's a very meditative and heady scent. charismatic vibes

EDWARD KENWAY — tobacco, clove, and cinnamon. it's smoky and heady. kind of pirate vibes. it's a very overwhelming scent to some people bcs of the tobacco

HAYTHAM KENWAY — i feel like he has a very old man taste so i'm chucking lotus OR frankincense. i think he'd like both bcs they're the most "classic" incense scents. definitely charismatic tbh

SHAY CORMAC — tobacco. smoky. just a classic "smokes and mirrors". it's kinda sad? it's a very lonely scent i think

ARNO VICTOR DORIAN — vanilla with sandalwood. it's heady and sweet with woody undertone to it. it has a european vibes to it that i personally dont like to light (vanilla doesnt smell good in humid weather to me), but definitely suits arno. it's sensitive yet strong, kind of tragic

ÉLISE DE LA SERRE — rose. definitely rose. cloying, floral, and sweet. has mixed receptions; it's a classic scent but i personally dont like it. i think it suits élise for her complicated nature. flitting and impossible to mistake

fin.

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wellpresseddaisy · 6 months

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And Wishing I Was Gone, Going Home

Rather belated, but for the 4th prompt, Home.

His mother never told him magic had a smell.

She’d taught him so many things in their shabby kitchen in Cokeworth, but not that. He’d thought it her perfume, the subtle scent of petrichor and stormy seas that hovered about her, even on days it didn’t rain.

And girls like Lily, well they just smelled nice, didn’t they? She made him think of the first warmer days in spring and those little violets that sweetened the breezes.

He never noticed it on the train, too excited and then too annoyed to smell anything. It wasn’t until much, much later that he realized his housemates each had their own distinctive scent that grew stronger when they cast. Most of them he didn’t have names for until he’d had more experience in the world.

Some of them made him sneeze terribly, like Gareth Abernathy. Looking back, he felt a bit bad that Gareth had to be moved to a different dormitory, but it was either that or Severus moving. Lucius and the other prefects came out of that dorm grim-faced. They never told him what the boys said they’d do if Severus was the one moved.

Even Lucius didn’t know about his…talent. Something told him to keep it to himself. It gave him an edge, once he learned to navigate all the scents coming at him in a day. He nearly always smelled James Potter (grassy, overlaid with something too, too sweet) before he saw him.

He should have known the first time he met the Dark Lord that he couldn’t be trusted. His magic smelled of decay and dust, like the inside of a tomb. It crawled into Severus’ sinuses and stayed there, a constant reminder. Why had he pledged himself to that? He smelled like the darkest of the dark books in the Malfoy library, the ones Lucius pulled him away from with a sharp,

“I catch you near those again, my lad, and I’ll wallop you myself.”

His mark smelled the same way, blooming horribly every time Voldemort found something pleasing. He found it a small mercy that he carried the mark only a year or so before…before soft spring and tiny violets were ripped forever from the world.

The decay kept returning, though. Faintly, faintly he’d smell it through the next decade. He hoped, but he knew one day it would return as strong as ever.

He knew the Potter child would play a part in whatever came the first day of class. To see him snickering with the latest Weasley after Draco’s hours-long diatribe on Potter refusing his hand…he wasn’t sure if the headache or the mere existence of another Potter set his teeth on edge more.

Potter…Potter’s magic smelled of the green new growth in a forest. The underlay of it, though, stopped Severus in his tracks. Frankincense and myrhh, the scent of one laid to rest. He knew. In that moment he knew it would be Potter to end the Dark Lord’s reign, whenever it came.

He never knew how he made it through the years of waiting, always on guard, decay floating at the very edge of his senses. The return…that was almost a relief.

Something tickled his nose. Sandalwood and leather and warm feathers. He shifted and…bedlinen? Would his earthly torment never end?

That last night in the Shack…he’d known. Known it would come one day. Some part of the universe must have cared, because he closed his eyes the last time smelling not decay but the clean, astringent wash of frankincense and myrhh.

-------------------

He breathed in, his chest caught on searing pain.

“Lie still, you ridiculous brat. Cissa’s been up three days keeping you from popping your cogs. If you destroy her hard work then we’ll certainly have words.”

Lucius. He’d know that scent and that supercilious drawl anywhere. And…sweet, clean lavender wafted over him.

Narcissa.

“She’s asleep, finally. You should also be asleep, as a hint.”

He managed an interrogative sort of noise.

Lucius sighed. “If you’re going to insist on being an obstreperous bratling, then I suppose I could sit with you for a while. You won’t be able to speak yet, so don’t even try.”

The familiar scold settled something within him. The bed dipped and Lucius sat carefully next to him. Cool fingers brushed his hair off his forehead.

“No fever, at least. If you get yourself into a froth she’ll put me six feet under, so we’ll do this calmly, please.”

It felt a bit as if he was a grubby firstie again.

“Would you like to know who found you?” Lucius asked.

Severus assented. Yes, he bloody well wanted to know who dragged him back to life (beyond Cissa, because of course she would).

Lucius’ low chuckle warmed him.

“Potter did. It always comes back to him, doesn’t it? He…I suppose I’d better tell you in sequence. You never liked a tale that hopped about in time.”

No, he did not.

“Did Potter see…what happened to you?”

Severus managed to shrug. He knew Potter saw the aftermath, but how much else was anyone’s guess. Knowing Potter, he saw all of it and had convinced himself it was all his own fault.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end. We’re all free of it, you know? Whatever message you gave Potter, he did the thing properly and…came back, somehow. The Dark Lord’s reign is ended and somehow Potter convinced the Ministry that my family was coerced. How, I wonder, would he know I was given to the Dark Lord’s service as tribute by my father?”

The archly asked question had Severus freezing in place. Had Potter found…he had to have found what Severus left. He’d written it all down, everything he knew that no one else did, in the days leading up to the final battle. Trust the nosiest arsehole he’d ever had the misfortune of teaching to ferret it out.

“Ah, yes, apparently he also delivered quite the impassioned speech on the many ways the magical world has failed in the last several generations to the detachment of Aurors about to descend on my home. Thankfully the dossier information kept us from being arrested. I expect I’ll have some questions to answer.”

Severus agreed with that. But oh, what he’d give to see a memory of Potter doing that.

“Apparently, some time in the middle of the night, Potter remembered you and came charging up to the front doors, hammering on them and shouting. By the time we got down to open them, as we’d sent the elf on duty to bed, he’d been joined by the Weasley boy and that Granger chit who were unsuccessfully trying to calm him down.”

Severus snorted at that, but carefully.

“Quite,” Lucius agreed. “As with anything involving Potters, we unfortunately devolved into farce. Potter, who apparently never washed despite battle and being covered in what looked like most of your blood, having hysterics in the entry, shouting teenagers, such a wonderful scene. Granger kept trying to take over and the Weasley kept trying to shove them both behind him. Thankfully, Granger gave Cissa what she needed to know to mount a rescue and Draco got Potter calmed down.”

Severus raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, he got an elf to bring some of that revolting tea you like, sugared it ‘til the spoon practically stood up, and barked at Potter that he’d either drink it or be stunned. Weasley didn’t like that much, but seemed mollified when Potter did as he was told. I confess that I don’t particularly like the way Draco looked at Potter, but I expect I shall have to bear up under whatever Draco tells us.”

Severus snorted again.

“Cissa, Granger, and I went to get you while Draco and Weasley handled Potter. You…Severus, if you ever do anything like that again I will kill you myself. You looked dreadful and it took all Cissa’s skill to drag you back from the brink. Your robes are a loss, I’m afraid. Our laundry elf burst into tears when asked if they could be saved.”

Trust Lucius to focus on something like robes.

“Then we spent the last three days not being arrested and keeping you from succumbing to your injuries. I think Draco has Potter ensconced somewhere. I believe I heard an argument with Weasley and Granger over that. Something about clearly no one else is taking care of him and he’ll let them know when they can visit.” Lucius sighed. “He’s like his mother.”

And, Severus thought, his father, who looked at a ragamuffin firstie and decided that clearly that child was his.

“I don’t want to hear one word from you.” Lucius tapped Severus gently on the nose, a fond smile softening his features. “You need sleep.”

He wanted to protest, to ask for the memory of Potter, covered in gore and having hysterics in the Hall, but he knew a futile gambit when he thought of one. Lucius could be as unbending as Merlin’s staff. He sighed.

“Yes, I know. If you behave for Cissa, we’ll share our memories.”

That would have to do. Severus let himself relax slowly, let the sandalwood and lavender of Lucius and Narcissa wash over him.

Home. They’d brought him home.

#severus snape #snapetober 2023

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99bowl · 1 year

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And I’ve brought you Myrrh... MYRHH DER

#valen's art #my art #fanart #arknights #myrhh #myrhh arknights #this was for her oprec #which happened a long time ago... I forgot to post #art

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delicatecombat · 7 months

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New Aesop fragrance Ouranon has notes of frankincense, myrhh and hay. People try it and say it smells like church. I imagine baby Jesus in his manger surrounded by gifts from the magi and sweet straw bed. Frankincense trees grow gnarled but proudly with sticky milky sap. Sparkling resin notes and something dusty underneath.

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scapegrace74-blog · 1 year

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Don’t Let Me Fall, Chapter 8

A/N Thank you for your patience while I worked out some issues with this chapter. I hope that you’re as happy with how it turned as I am! It ends with a bit of a cliffhanger, but the good news is that I’ve got part of Chapter 9 already written.

For those who have asked about the inspiration for Jamie and Claire’s routine, you can find a video of it here. The move I’ve dubbed the “death spiral” starts at 1:12.

Previous chapters can be read here.

Over the course of his years as an athlete and aerialist, Jamie had noted there were two types of performers. There were those who excelled at the physical aspect of their jobs. Technically proficient, they drew joy and inspiration from the perfection of each move and sequence. The audience’s enjoyment was an unintended consequence of their own focus on execution in its purest form. He counted himself and most of his peers amongst this group.

Then there was the rarer specimen. No less physically adept, their motivation was the audience. Put them in an empty room and their performance would suffer. But in front of spectators, they outshone the spotlights, bringing something ineffable to the stage that could neither be taught or contrived.

Witnessing Claire Beauchamp perform to a sold-out tent of rapt Japanese spectators, Jamie understood once and for all just how rare a jewel she was. For while she had learned and then mastered the physical discipline that was the aerial straps with astonishing ease, her performance was on an entirely different level now that they were on tour.

Night after night their act, placed just before the intermission of Tropico, drew a crescendo of sighs and gasps as Jamie lifted, twirled and spun Claire through the air like an iridescent feather. His body was the podium on which to display the art that was his partner, and he’d never been more honoured to play a supporting role. She deserved every accolade, so when the klieg lights blazed for their second curtain call, he took a large step backwards, gesturing to Claire and bathing in pride as the typically reticent Japanese crowd acknowledged her with thunderous applause.

***

I had been to Japan once before, a three day stay while touring with the Royal Ballet. We’d been entertained from morning to night, but my jet-lagged memories blurred Shinto shrines, imperial palaces and outdoor tea ceremonies into a chaotic cherry blossom slide show.

By contrast, the three weeks spent in Tokyo with Cirque des Étoiles left plenty of time for personal exploration, even with eight weekly shows and our regular curriculum of strength training and stretching. With over two hundred artists, stagehands, musicians and supporting personnel, we took over a large hotel not far from where the touring big top was set up in Yoyogi Park, which meant all of downtown Tokyo and its eternal hum was at our doorstep.

Once my internal clock had adjusted, I developed a bit of a routine, rising early to walk the tree-line paths in the nearby park. While the winter branches were bare, it was still an oasis of tranquility in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities. After breakfast, I joined one of the group Pilates sessions before making my way to the hotel gym where the physical trainers put me through my paces. That left a handful of hours of leisure before I needed to report to the big top for costume and make-up.

“Did ye ken fugu is the Japanese word fer puffer fish, Tourist? Tis considered a delicacy, despite being more deadly than cyanide if it’s no’ properly prepared.”

And through it all, there was Jamie. Always Jamie.

He was standing in the doorframe of my hotel room, nearly obscuring my view of the hall. His hair was damp, darkening his curls to the colour of myrhh. A subtle sniff yielded a whiff of sage and tree sap, the remnants of his post-workout shower in the room next door.

Either by design or cosmic happenstance, Jamie and I were placed in adjoining rooms. By and large, this was very convenient as we spent most of our free time together. It was only late at night, body weary but nerves jangling from another magic experience soaring through the air in his arms, that the convenience turned to torment. Through the wall, I could hear Jamie going about his nightly routine, talking quietly on the phone to his family, settling into the mattress with a greedy sigh. It took all my will power not to knock on the connecting door, knowing as I did that on the other side lay a promise of paradise.

“I’m pretty certain our employer would take exception to us eating potentially deadly fish, Fraser,” I smirked, returning to the search for an umbrella as Jamie flopped down on my bed.

“Ye’re probably right. What about regular sushi, then? Yi Tien was tellin’ me about a place he tried the o’her day.”

I made a vague affirmative noise as I continued to open and close drawers and peer beneath the bed.

“What are ye lookin’ for?”

“My umbrella. I swear I hung it up in the closet yesterday, but it’s not there.”

Jamie glanced towards the window, a rogue curl falling rakishly over one eye.

“Tis barely a smirr. Ye dinna need one.”

As it turned out, Jamie’s definition of a smirr involved us having to hop around puddles and duck under awnings as we ran, laughing, to a nearby office tower. We were both quite damp as we descended, paradoxically, into the basement where there were a handful of small shops. Jamie ushered me through the door of one of these with a shrug, and we entered another world.

A tiny Zen garden of rocks and bamboo greeted us. I was now familiar with the Japanese custom that dictated we remove our outdoor footwear before entering any private space. Jamie cursed as he tried to jam his massive feet into the modestly sized slippers provided by the restaurant.

“Look on the bright side,” I teased him as a kimono-clad hostess led us to our table. “You can tell everyone that you’re big in Japan.”

“I’m big pretty much everywhere, Tourist.” An awkward beat. “Uhhhh, that didna come out quite right,” he hastened to add with a blush.

I could feel the colour rush to my own cheeks as I valiantly tried to stifle my giggles. I should have taken pity on Jamie’s Freudian slip, but I found I couldn’t. Having spent a significant amount of time pressed intimately against his body, I also knew it wasn’t an idle boast. Jamie glared at me playfully, but I caught the corner of his mouth pleating.

We were ushered into a small room divided from the rest of the restaurant by rice paper screens. Watching all six feet four inches of muscular Scot try to fold his limbs on the tatami mat in such a way as to allow him to approach the low table set off my giggles again.

“Ye’re having a great deal o’ fun at my expense, Tourist,” Jamie grumbled good naturedly after our hostess left with a graceful bow.

“I can’t help it. You’re like Gulliver in Lilliput!”

As it turned out, Gulliver’s Travels was one of Jamie’s favourite childhood stories and my comment initiated a conversation in which we lobbed the names of beloved books and authors at each other, finding we had a great many in common.

The sushi was undoubtedly good, although I had no recollection of what we ate. What I did recall, long after we’d left Japan, was watching Jamie struggle with his chopsticks while he regaled me with a boyhood anecdote about digging his very own hobbit hole on his family’s estate. There were raindrops scattered across the shoulders of his denim shirt, turning the fabric the exact same shade as his eyes.

***

Touring with Cirque des Étoiles was grueling work. It sounded idyllic, travelling from place to place and experiencing local culture while performing to sold out audiences night after night. There came a time, however, where Jamie just wanted to watch some television in a language he understood, make a proper home-cooked meal, and sleep in his own bed.

Fortunately, the Cirque planned each tour around the very real risk of performer burnout. Which was why, after their five-week run in Hong Kong was over, Tropico went on one-week hiatus. Performers had the option of flying home, taking a local vacation, or moving on to the Cirque’s next locale and waiting for their colleagues to catch up to them.

“Have ye ever been tae Bangkok, Tourist?”

Claire was rummaging through a stall of trinkets in the local night market, searching for a suitable souvenir. Steam from a nearby cart selling roasted chestnuts was making Jamie’s wame rumble and he wondered if he could convince his partner to take a break from her treasure hunt to grab a bite to eat.

“No, never. Have you?”

Finally settling on a jade figurine in the shape of a cat, Claire began to haggle with the vendor over the price. Jamie watched on in amusement as she used her expressive hands and the calculator on her phone to arrive at a price that both she and the store owner pretended was an expedient hardship. Her cheeks were flushed with victory as she joined him back on the street and he could finally answer her question.

“Aye, on a weekend break when Quitan passed through Hanoi a few years back.”

“Well, you can give me some pointers before you leave. I’ll have a whole seven days to explore, after all. Is everything alright with your arm?”

Without realizing it, Jamie had been rubbing his wrist. A nervous gesture, he supposed.

“Oh, aye. Nothin’ tae fear, Tourist.”

He was quiet as they navigated the tightly packed pedestrian street, lights strung overhead making it as bright as day. There was something he’d been meaning to ask Claire, but he’d been putting it off and now it felt like it was almost too late.

“You’re going to Phnom Penh, right?” she asked while they leafed through a selection of Chinese calligraphy on vellum, the chop marks bright red against their pale backgrounds.

“For a few days, aye. I’ll be spending most of the time in Siem Reap. Seeing Angkor Wat, y’ken?”

“Sounds lovely,” Claire replied, although to his ears it sounded half-hearted.

Jamie glanced sideways at his partner, trying to read her expression. She was so lovely, lustrous skin reflecting the sodium lights and hair curling wildly in the humidity. Doubt sharpened its teeth on his insecurities, but he shoved it away and drew a fortifying breath.

“Tourist, I’ve been meanin’ tae ask ye… and ye dinna need feel obliged…but would ye…that is, could ye see yerself…ifrinn, what I’m tryin’ tae say is, would ye consider comin’ tae Cambodia wi’ me? As my friend?”

Claire stopped walking and was staring up at him, her eyebrows furled in consideration. Nearby, someone set off a firecracker that had them both flinching.

“As your friend,” Claire clarified, managing to sound both relieved and disappointed.

“Aye. I enjoy yer company, Tourist, as ye ken well. T’would be a more enjoyable break if ye came wi’ me. Plus, I wouldna need tae worry about ye in Thailand all alone. I’m stayin’ in budget hotels. There’s sure tae be another room available. And we can always explore Bangkok t’gether later, between shows.”

The certainty returned to those honey-gold eyes that haunted his dreams. A strong hand, delicate and warm, linked with his own.

“Together.”

***

Our hotel in Singapore was arranged around a massive rain tree, with each guestroom facing an interior arcade. While this made for a pleasant view each morning, it also meant a long walk from the lobby to my door. I was coming around the final corner when I caught sight of John Grey entering a room about halfway down the hallway. There was nothing unusual about this except that I was fairly confident my former partner’s room was on a different hallway. In fact, I was certain the room he’d gone into belonged to Clarence Marylebone.

When I’d first realized the artistic director was on tour with Tropico, I’d expressed my surprise to Jamie.

“Tis no’ as unusual as ye may think,” Jamie had said between mouthfuls of udon. “A circus show is ne’er a finished work. Routines evolve. Talent changes. Even the costumes and music may need to be adjusted tae accommodate cultural norms.”

His explanation made sense, and it was the last time I’d given much thought to the pompous playboy getting a free ride around East Asia. Until now.

I desperately wanted to tell Jamie what I thought I saw, but he and John had only just begun to mend their frayed friendship. Without any way to confirm what John might have been doing in Marylebone’s room (although I could guess), I kept the incident to myself.

The following Sunday was a rare night off and some of the troupe went out on the town to celebrate. Ever since we’d returned from Cambodia, I had noticed the other performers treated Jamie and I like a couple, always assuming we’d want to sit together at breakfast or share a taxi to the circus grounds. We were no more a romantic couple than we had been before we left for Cambodia, but I certainly wasn’t going to set them straight. As Jamie had implied, it was only a matter of timing.

“Rickshaws!” Mary, typically soft-spoken, had consumed a fair number of Singapore Slings, and was therefore shouting animatedly at anything that caught her eye.

“Let’s take them back to the hotel,” I suggested, not particularly interested in navigating the uneven cobbled streets in my slingbacks.

“Let’s race them back to the hotel,” Mary countered.

There were three rickshaws and nine of us, so logic dictated three per bike. Mary dragged me into the nearest one, with Jamie at my heels. Before he could climb in, however, I grabbed Yi Tien Cho and pulled him up next to me.

“Tired o’ me already, Tourist?” Jamie joked, his eyes smoky in the dim light.

“No offence, Fraser, but you weigh more than three Yi Tien’s. And if there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I hate to lose!”

With a hail of laughter, our driver accelerated away, motivated no doubt by Mary’s offer of a generous tip if we outpaced our colleagues.

“Come on, Jamie, jump in with us!” John cried from another rickshaw.

Watching over my shoulder I felt a warmth that overpowered the glow of alcohol observing Jamie and John, giddy as schoolboys, crying out encouragement to their driver. The incident surrounding Marylebone’s hotel room faded from my mind as I listened to Jamie’s booming laugh echo across the narrow street.

***

My partner had been acting oddly all day. After months in each other’s back pockets, we’d recently spent a week apart when Jamie travelled home to Scotland, and I visited with friends in Sydney. He seemed happy enough to see me again when we regrouped in Melbourne but had since grown quiet and distant. The previous night I heard him tossing and turning through the thin shared wall of our hotel. The water from his shower turning on woke me in the early morning hours. Perhaps he was jetlagged.

I resolved to give him space. Jamie worked incredibly hard, with an intensity that was almost frightening. If that made him moody from time to time, so be it. Instead of inviting him on my afternoon visit to the St Kilda Botanical Garden, I slipped out quietly while he was conferring with Roland, one of the staff physiotherapists.

That night Jamie’s smile when we met backstage for our warm-up was radiant, and possibly a touch relieved.

“There ye are, Tourist. Ye look beautiful.”

To my everlasting surprise, Jamie bent down and placed a tender kiss on the shell of my ear, one of the few places not artfully decorated in stage make-up. I was wearing the same costume he’d seen me in for the past three months, but I tingled all over in pleasure nevertheless.

“Uhhh, thank you. So, umm… so do you.” Dressed as Marylebone’s vision of a noble savage, my partner wore little more than a loin cloth and some artfully applied vine leaves, but his perfectly formed body was beauty incarnate, so I wasn’t exaggerating.

Jamie’s grin was reaching mythical proportions. Before we could continue to stare at each other like addled simpletons, our five-minute call crackled over the stage director’s walkie talkie.

“Time tae get tae work,” Jamie said ruefully. “Let’s make it one fer the ages, a’right partner?”

“You’re on,” I replied, placing my hand in his as we went to our marks.

And it was. Whatever had dampened Jamie’s mood had passed like a thunderstorm, leaving him charged and utterly magnetic. My afternoon spent surrounded by nature, the relief of seeing Jamie return to his usual sanguine self, his unexpected kiss; they all combined to lift my spirits and send a wash of endorphins through my veins. Together, we were magic. Every touch, every gesture was a perfectly struck note, humming in the air around us until I was convinced I could hear it.

So attuned was I to Jamie’s body that I knew something was amiss before it happened. He was lowering me around his body like a hula hoop using his stronger left hand in preparation for the move I’d dubbed the death spiral. One millisecond he was securing his grip on my ankle and the next I was being heaved skyward in an act of super-human strength. Instinct forced me to grab for the loose strap where I clung for an endless second, staring at Jamie’s stricken face in disbelief. Before I could even make sense of what had happened, he was gone. A sickening thud was the last thing I heard before pandemonium erupted.

Someone was shouting at the audience to stay calm. A high-pitched wail sounded like a siren but turned out to be rising from the very pit of my stomach. I peered downwards, searching madly for some sign that Jamie had survived the fall, but the stage lights blinded me. My strap was lowered slowly, far too slowly, to the stage. No sooner had my feet touched the ground than I was rushing to where Jamie lay, a motionless bulk surrounded by stagehands and the staff medic. I pushed someone aside to kneel by his head. When I saw his marine blue eyes were open, I bent forward, unable to contain my relief.

“Jamie?” My hands fluttered near his face, afraid to touch him anywhere he may have been hurt. I settled for brushing back his curls where they clung to his damp forehead.

“He’s dislocated his shoulder,” I heard the medic advise, and one glance at the gruesomely distorted joint confirmed this was true.

“Hold still, Jamie. They’ll need to pop the bone back into place.”

I had to lower my head even further to make out his voice, more shape than sound.

“I dinna have. Much choice. In the matter. Tourist. Got the wind. Knocked fair out o’ me.”

The fact that he was able to joke, however feebly, when he probably should have been dead broke the icy dam that was holding back my emotions. They rushed out in a flood, and the swiftest was anger.

“What the hell was that stunt you just pulled, Jamie? You could have been killed!”

His eyes were growing unfocused with pain, each breath a ragged pant, but he still managed to answer.

“Promised ye. I wouldna. Let ye. Fall.”

His words hit me like a slap.

“Such a bloody hero,” I groaned, unable to hold onto my anger in the face of my gratitude.

“No’ a hero, Tourist. Jes. A man in love.”

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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