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let-me-love-you-loki · 2 months

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Take Me to the Barn

“Em?” Adam’s voice filtered through the house. It made my heart skip a beat after so many days of quiet.

“In here,” I called back softly from my place on the sofa. It had been so long since I’d seen him, and I must have fallen asleep waiting to hear the truck in the drive.

Adam appeared around the corner; his curling sandy hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and blue eyes tired as he sat a backpack against the wall. A small smile curled his lips as he stood there looking across the living room at me. I watched his wide chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I said quietly. My eyes flicked past his broad shoulder, searching for the other person hiding behind him. “Come here, honey.”

Dark haired and blue eyed, Mattie Jackson slipped out from behind my husband. She was pale and thin, dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. Her clothes seemed to hang off her—sweatpants that were tied tight around her waist, a hoodie that swallowed her whole. My heart sank into my stomach at the sight of her.

I held out my hand. My goddaughter curled into a ball beside me, hiding in the space against my ribs. It wasn’t until I put my arms around her that I realized how frail she’d become. I could feel the sharpness of her bones beneath her skin. I glanced up at Adam, trying to read the severity of it all in his face. What I saw made my blood run cold.

Adam crossed the room in a few strides. He leaned over and pressed a kiss against my forehead. He lingered as if he wanted to memorize me. I watched my husband fold himself into a sitting position in the floor by Mattie’s side. The lines around his eyes, the way his mouth tightened as he looked at her, it made fear run down my spine as my imagination went mad thinking about what had happened to her in California.

No sooner had Adam sat at her feet than Mattie crawled into my lap, tucking her head against my shoulder. I felt her take one deep breath and then tears started to flow. Her sobs were silent, but heavy and heartbreaking. I wrapped my arms tightly around her, cradling her head and slipping my fingers soothingly through her hair.

“It’s okay, honey,” I murmured against her sobs. “It’s okay.”

She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. Her sobs seemed to tear through her. “It’s not. It’s my fault. I can’t, Em,” she whimpered. “It’s too hard.”

“Shh,” I cooed as I rocked her back and forth. She curled closer, her tears dampening my shirt. “It’s okay, Tea. You’re not doing this by yourself.”

I looked up at the soft whisper of Adam’s voice. “You can stay here as long as you want. I promised your Momma that I’d make sure that you were okay and taken care of. I’m sure Em would be happy to have someone else around the house when I’m gone.” He reached up and settled his hand on Mattie’s knee. “I need some help with the horses, too.”

Adam smiled softly at me. There was a deep sadness behind it.

It wasn’t until later that night that I learned the whole truth of what had happened in California at the Jackson compound.

***

“He won’t come here,” Mattie snapped, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared across the corral at the large black horse.

Bear had been on the farm for about a month after Adam had found him abandoned in a field. He had been so thin that we weren’t sure that he would survive. He was skittish around people, and it wasn’t hard to see that he’d been abused by whoever had owned him before. Scars were visible beneath his coat, causing thinner spots in his thick coat. It had been weeks before he would trust either of us to come close. But with patience and care, he’d finally learned to trust us enough to eat and gain weight. He would still hide at the back of his stall when we brought through hay and water, but at least he’d started eating.

Adam shook his head and stepped up beside Mattie. He’d taken her out to get fitted for a pair of cowboy boots and made sure she had clothes that were okay for the barn and corral. Her dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail that was pulled through the back of her baseball cap.

“You have to be patient,” Adam said gently. I sat on the fence with a book, one that I’d been meaning to read for ages now. “He’s not had an easy time, Tea.”

Mattie huffed and took a few steps toward Bear. Her shoulders were squared, back straight, her entire body radiating fear and frustration. It took half a second for the horse to recognize it and skitter backward. He stamped the ground with his front hooves, kicking up clods of dirt.

“This is stupid,” Mattie said as she stamped her feet in perfect imitation of the horse. She pouted. “Why are you making me do this? He doesn’t like me, and I don’t want to be here.”

I looked up in time to see a flicker of hurt run across Adam’s face. He ran his hand roughly over his beard and then back over his curling hair. He tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked onto his heels.

“You wanna go home then?” he asked with a firm, quiet voice. I knew from his tone that he didn’t want her to go. And I knew deep in my heart that she needed to stay with us, to heal whatever happened to her.

She stared at him with wide, almost terrified blue eyes. “Are you kicking me out?”

Adam took two quick strides toward her and pulled her against his chest. Mattie wrapped her arms around his waist as he held her tightly. His chin rested atop her head; his eyes squeezed shut with pain for our goddaughter. Half a second later, her shoulders fell, and her deep, heavy sobs echoed through the yard. I made a move toward them, but Adam shook his head.

“No,” my husband assured her. “We aren’t kicking you out. You know better than that. But you can’t just mope around here and think it’s gonna get better. We gotta work at it, Tea. We gotta work and be patient. Just like we do with Bear.”

Mattie hid her face against Adam’s shirt. Even from where I was, I could see her take deep breaths of the fabric. I smiled. There was definitely something soothing about Adam’s scent.

“There’s something wrong with me,” she groaned, her voice still thick with tears. “It’s all my fault.”

“You stop that right now, Mattea,” he snapped. It wasn’t angry. Firm, edged with a little disappointment. He knew she didn’t mean it, even if that was how she’d been feeling for weeks on end. Adam hadn’t told me everything that had happened, but I knew enough that it scared Jon Moxley so shitless that he’d driven from Vegas to Rancho Cucamonga in two hours. God knew, it had to be bad. “There’s nothing wrong with you at all. And if Nick put that in your head…”

Mattie’s shoulders shook with sobs. “No. No…”

My heart clenched in my chest as I watched him cradle her as if he could protect her from the world. I’d known from the moment I’d fallen in love with Adam Page that he had the biggest heart in the world. That he’d be an amazing father. I suddenly saw it with my own two eyes.

“What those girls said to you, Tea, and what they did. None of that was your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Your Momma shouldn’t have shut down on you like that. And your dad sure as hell shouldn’t have walked out on you.” Adam clutched her closer, his grip on her fierce. “Sometimes people are mean and selfish. Sometimes people hurt those around them to make themselves feel better.”

Her voice came out faint and small. “Is that what happened to Bear?” I watched her lift her head just a little and saw her bright blue eyes watching the horse over Adam’s broad bicep.

My husband visibly relaxed a bit. His hold loosened as he pressed a kiss to the top of Mattie’s head. “Something like that. The people who had him before us didn’t take care of him. They treated him badly. And now he’s afraid of people most of the time. He’s afraid of the other horses. Of Skipper, too.”

Skipper was the border collie that Adam had found wandering the road almost a year ago. His fur was matted, he was practically skin and bones, and he looked like he’d been without a home for a while. The sight had broken Adam’s heart. I went to work one morning and then came home to find my husband on the kitchen floor with the dog across his lap and a bowl of Fresh Pet wet food beside him. He was feeding him slowly, one morsel at a time. Earning his trust.

Now Skipper went wherever Adam did. The dog was right on his heels from the house to the barn, the fields to the river. He napped in the sunlight on the porch while Adam and I rocked in our Cracker Barrel red cherry chairs. He slept on the end of the bed when Adam was home and on his pillow when he wasn’t.

I watched my husband crouch down and let out a quick whistle. The collie came loping out of the barn, sending Bear skittering back toward the fence again. Mattie scratched him behind the ears when he came close, an almost smile appearing on her face. She settled her forehead against his and kissed his snout. My heart squeezed hard at how she seemed to release something.

It was one of the things I loved most about Adam Page. He had a gift for fixing broken things.

Adam tapped her on the shoulder and pointed toward Bear, murmuring something to our goddaughter. Mattie stood up, straightened her shoulders, and took a few cautious steps toward the horse, who took a nervous half-step in return.

___________

Tag List

@not-that-kinda-gurl088

@lilred91

@imagineall-the-fandoms

@maelleoute

@librathepheonix13

@unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin

@spaghetti-hoop

@ryantaylorgirl

@mrsmatt

@wardlowsbabydoll

#take me to the barn #take me series #adam page #hangman adam page #adam page fanfiction #hangman adam page fanfiction #aew #aew fanfiction #the elite universe #crossover #too late tales #mattie jackson #emily king (ofc)#ofc #oc #one shot

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khaotunq · 1 month

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TYPECAST: Khaotung Thanawat edition

#khaotung thanawat #the eclipse #tonhon chonlatee #2gether the series #moonlight chicken #a tale of thousand stars #55:15 never too late #only friends the series #my gifs #my edits #mine: khaotung thanawat #mine: typecast #userjamiec #tuserhidden #tuserrowan #tostrangers #joe from blacklist was meant to be here but the scene i wanted to use was ungiffable #but his description is 'no gay all panic'#zero isn't here because we don't know enough about him #but his description is 'maybe gay mostly panic inducing'#didn't do cause youre my boy or charming stepmom because i haven't watched em #yes i know jojo said ray was bi but SHRUG #ktnw typecast: gay panic. look me in the eyes and tell me i'm wrong.#i'm as weak for the os2 ayan opening his eyes as i am for original ofts trailer sand smoking so it goes in okay #55:15 is genuinely a lovely little show btw it destroyed me and i love it

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bravechamomile · 11 days

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Believe it or not, it was for Valentine’s Day😳

The ones on the right are the famous memes @starcre8tor and @taffybuns created on tumblr, thought it would be fun to try😏

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #ladybug #adrien agreste #adrinette #ladynoir #marichat #ladrien #adrienette #ml #miraculous fanart #ml valentines day 2024 #no it's not too late lol #ml fanart #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #my art

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cutepresea · 8 months

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New art by Akira Matsushima for the release of the Tales of Symphonia The Animation Anniversary BD Box that will be releasing on November 29

Taken from the Tales Channel twitter

More details here

#i used to post way more tales stuff i can absolutely post for symphonia's anniversary #tales of symphonia #lloyd irving #colette brunel #tos #tales #tales of #tales series #yes i realize how redundant the wording is but it's too late to fix

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sf-bl · 6 months

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Posting the silly stuff in my unfinished files because I'm tired. TFW it Nisha.

#Tales from the Murderlands #nisha kadam #ai handsome jack #rhys the company man #I can't draw heart hands #I realised this after I started #too late now #it nisha

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helios-kirbs · 6 months

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(late) halloween drawings of the sillies

#tales from the stinky dragon #tftsd #kyborg #art #fan art #infinights interns #little guys #brink tussler #bartholomew finn #gumgum #happy halloweeeeeeen #late but like who cares #also just realized #im missing mudd so im gonna have to make a silly little drawing of him too and post it later #dont think just brink #you can only have the context for the gumgum one if ur in the discord 💔#trickshot

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mickedy · 27 days

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Idk how attached I am to these designs.. these are two wooden mannequins how hard can they be to design TT_TT

#make-dy #theres names is tip and top :p #i think they are too heavily looking like sans andpapyrus from under tale as a byproduct of me thinking about them a lot super lately TT_TT

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yellowtrinity · 5 months

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helga pataki voice i hate you and yet i love you and yet

#he fucking got me like i dreaded he would #i'm 80 hours into tov and i'm not nearly done yet....... too busy dog snowboarding and whatnot #anyway i just wanted to upload something... i haven't drawn much more than headshot sketches lately #tales of vesperia #tov #raven #my art

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plaguedoctormemes · 1 month

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i dont care about fandom because its a cesspool but what is up with the strange bitter hatred towards m/m ships lately from some people. the fictional gay men cannot hurt you and do not pose a threat to the yuri, my friend. Like at all. peace and love on planet earth

#its VERY weird?#and really uncomfortable honestly #the doctor is in #not plague #i dont even follow many fandom blogs (most of them are just casual) but it keeps popping up randomly as of late #and some friends of mine have been noticing it too #i know its asking a lot for online fandom people to not take their hobby so seriously [tale as old as time] but still

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let-me-love-you-loki · 1 year

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Too Late to Be Too Late--Ch. 4

Part 4: Mattie

One moment, it was just us—just Nicole and Lee and me. My baby brother and sister trying their best to keep me together. It was just them. Momma was in her bedroom—the one she shared with Dad. I’d barely seen her since the day Papa told us what happened. That those stupid kids at school had made Dad leave. That I had made him leave. Aunt Denise was there. She’d been the one to cook our meals and make sure everyone had clean clothes and lunch for school. Nicole refused to go, even after we didn’t even go to the same one. After the first day, Papa and Denise stopped trying to make her. By the second, Lee had boycotted, too.

One moment, it was just us. Just the three of us clinging to something. To the hope that when Papa came home, he’d bring Dad with him.

One moment, I had my head hanging over the trash can, vomit and bile burning up my throat as my eyes burned with tears and I struggled to breathe.

And then the next… the next there was something—someone—else. Big and buzzing and smelling like caramel and alcohol. He’d stopped drinking a long time ago, but I would always associate the warm scent of whisky with Uncle Mox.

I knew he was there—I registered it—but in the next moment, it was gone. All that remained was the empty, gaping hole inside me. I wanted to run away from it. But more I just wanted to crawl into it and never come out. Maybe then I would be able to forget what I’d done to our family.

Somehow, I slipped off into a twilight darkness that flowed around me like water.

***

I felt gross. Grimy and sticky. Like my skin had been painted in salt water. It felt tight. Almost painful. My eyes ached. They hurt like they’d been rolled in sandpaper. My throat was raw. Every little bit of me was tired.

The feeling had gotten worse after Uncle Mox had me take some medicine. He hadn’t told me what it was, but it made my arms and legs feel heavy. I tried to open my eyes and lift my head, but I couldn’t. My heart beat slowly, thumping hard. It made it hard to breathe.

“Get up.” The voice was low and rough. There was a faint sense of anger beneath the surface. “I said, get up.”

My whole body hurt. The world shook and thundered beneath me. My stomach turned upside down and inside out. Like going through the same loop over and over again on a roller coaster.

“Cookie—” Only Uncle Mox called me that. “Either you get up your way or mine. And I swear, yours will have way fewer bruises.”

“’M still tired, Mox.” The sound was my own voice, but I didn’t recognize it. It was pitiful and whiny.

“Don’t make me ask again,” Mox said as a jar ran through my bed. My stomach tried to claw its way up my throat as the world shook violently. “Now get the fuck up.”

Before I could move, the world tipped sideways. I went tumbling, crashing hard against the floor. The breath rushed out of me, throwing the room into sharp focus as the shock cut through the leftover haze of the drugs.

Motorcycle boots appeared in my vision. Uncle Mox let out a grunt as he sank into a deep squat. He balanced on the balls of his feet and gave my shoulder a shove. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make me look up.

“You know I love you, Cookie. And I love your momma too. But you and Cupcake gotta stop all this mopey bullshit.”

“You don’t—”

“What? I don’t get it?” He snapped his fingers right in front of my nose. With every word, he thumped his fist against his chest. “Broken home. Projects. Got the shit kicked out of me daily. Dropped outta high school. Booze and coke and just about anything you can possibly imagine and definitely things you can’t.”

The feeling of being sick hit me again. I toppled forward and pressed my forehead against the carpet. “Stop, Uncle Mox!”

His boots disappeared, but I could hear him stomping away. The door banged against the stop as his voice roared down the hallway. “Nacho, open the door!”

Almost immediately, my sister’s voice replied. “Which one?”

“Patio!”

Nicole called out for Lee, and within a few seconds I heard the locks clicking. Uncle Mox wrapped his hand around my ankle and practically dragged me backward. I clawed at the carpet, tried to get my hands on the post of my bed. My free leg kicked backward. I hit Mox in the shin at least once, but he didn’t stop.

The carpet burned. It felt like being raked over sandpaper. I screamed as a sudden anger and rage surged through me. “Let go of me!”

When he’d dragged me all the way into the living room, Uncle Mox leaned over and hefted me over his shoulder. I thrashed and flailed, beating my fist against his back. “Put me down!”

“I warned you, Cookie,” he growled. The heat of Southern California slammed into me as he stepped out onto the patio. “It’s time for the bullshit to stop.”

“Daddy left us!” Tears burned against the backs of my eyelids. “Daddy left me!”

Nicole let out a faint gasp at the moment Uncle Mox yanked me back over his shoulder and practically dropped me to the ground. I swayed as the blood rushed back out of my head. The stone patio was hot, burning against the soles of my feet.

“Your Daddy is a coward who ran out when things got tough,” Uncle Mox growled at me. His face was calm as he pointed over my shoulder to the house. “And your Papa is an ignorant dick to leave you and Cupcake when you need him!”

Anger roared up inside me. I felt it start at my toes and burn it’s way through my whole body. Before I could stop myself, I reached out and shoved my hands into his chest as hard as I could. He barely flinched. Barely moved a single centimeter. The scream tore at my throat as it ripped out of me.

“Shut up!” I shoved him again. “Shut up!”

I took a step forward, wanting to punch my Uncle Mox in the face. It hurt so much to hear the things he said. It was like a knife slicing between my ribs to think about my Dad as a coward. My eyes burned. The tears fell in a torrent.

“Mox…” Nicole’s said from somewhere over my shoulder.

He made a noise that sounded like a hiss. I felt his roughened fingers settle on my wrist. With gentle pressure, he pulled me toward him. For a split second, I thought that he was going to hug me. But a place in the back of my mind registered the way he held my wrist. I knew that feeling. I knew what it meant.

My heart dropped into my stomach as Uncle Mox whipped me past him. I couldn’t stop myself. Water rushed into my mouth and up my nose as I hit the water, sinking fast through the warm top and down into the cold bottom of the pool.

I dragged myself toward the surface, my soaked clothes weighing me down. I broke through and sputtered. Water came through my mouth and nose as I tried to breathe.

“What the fuck!” I yelled, coughing. “Why’d you do that?”

Uncle Mox crouched down at the edge of the pool just out of reach. “First off, watch your fucking language. You know better.” There was half a smile somewhere in his voice, but it was still buried beneath a quiet sort of rage. “Second, it’s time for you to stop wallowing and grow up.”

“Mox!” Nicole snapped, stalking up behind him. “Don’t talk to her that way!”

Without even looking at her, Uncle Mox said, “Stay out of it, Nacho. Go back inside.”

“No! You’re not gonna be mean to Tea!”

Treading water, I looked up at him. Uncle Mox stared right back at me. His face was steady and blank in that way that only he had. “It’s my fault,” I said softly.

“No, it isn’t,” he replied. “It’s your Daddy’s fault.”

“If I hadn’t gotten into that fight…”

He shook his head without looking away. “Wasn’t a fight. That was a beat down.”

“If they didn’t know about our family…”

Uncle Mox sank back, plopping down on his rear. “Your family is what it is. Ain’t nobody else’s business. And those girls are little punks with bitch ass parents who haven’t taught them shit.”

I swam toward the edge of the pool. My clothes kept dragging me down, making it harder to move. I pulled myself up onto the patio, water streaming off me, hair sticking to my neck and cheeks.

“Is there something wrong with me, Mox?”

He scooted across the patio to sit behind me. He tugged me back against his chest, ignoring the water that immediately soaked into his clothes. “No. Not a goddamn thing. Be exactly who you are, Cookie. And anybody who doesn’t like it can fuck off.”

For just a moment, my chest ached. And then it felt as if part of the weight on my shoulders lifted. As long as Uncle Mox was there, I could be okay. I could make it. But I was afraid of what might happen when he left. When I was all alone again and left with the thoughts and memories of what happened.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me, Mattie. I’ll camp out in a hammock out here if that’s what it takes.”

My body ached. My heart ached. I felt the tears again. Mox hugged me tightly.

“I’m right here, Cookie. No matter what.”

I burrowed back against him, holding onto his arms with every ounce of strength I had. “Thanks, Uncle Mox.”

______

Tag List

@not-that-kinda-gurl08

@lilred91

@imagineall-the-fandoms

@maelleoute

@librathepheonix13

@unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin

@spaghetti-hoop

@ryantaylorgirl

@mrsmatt

@rollynchwhore

#too late to be too late #too late tales #the too late tales #mattie jackson #jon moxley #polyamory #polyamorous relationships #angst #elite universe

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honey-beesknees · 1 year

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I will never get over hnoc I think. Like,, they took Arthurian legend and made it polyam, gay, trans, AND WESTERN and then set it to some banger music thank you the mechanisms

#if you dont already listen to the mechs pspspspsps gay space pirates that tell takes of their travels....#and they're twists on legends and folk tales #and the pirates themselves have lore too which they have two albums about #also if youre into tma the lead singer is played by jonny sims #the mechanisms #hnoc #its so late.... but the urge to listen.... maybe ill just listen to b+w #honey's waggle dance

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confetti-cat · 2 months

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Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.