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revelisms · 7 months

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He's not a religious man.

Superstitious, perhaps; spiritual, hardly—but Fate has her ways: claw-tipped fingers blue and demure, weaving chance like a seamstress bobbins thread.

And maybe Vander, the Hound, Zaun, this child—maybe all of it exists as the needle; he, the tear in need of stitching.

A loose thread; a future yet to be sewn.

A patchwork parable: smoke and schemes.

They spoke of his mother like a sickly omen, and his father like a begone spirit, vanished.

They spoke of him like something intangible: a concept, a slip of a butchered tongue, a wash of light from a galaxy gated in smog. Yet his steps hold sound: heavy-footed heels, heel-to-steel-tipped-toe, a graceless carryover of the mines; his clothes hold scents: of the Lanes' sweet-soured stench, of tobacco and juniper leaf, of cedar oil and citrus and clove.

In the churches, he splits the silence with every stride, and sinks into an empty pew, in an empty hall, incense pluming fragrant off glittering tile and gilded glass and a child's scribble tucked in his pocket, paper pinched half-minded beneath his thumb—and he does not pray.

No, he is not a religious man.

To be anything near it would be to deny the blood-soaked earth on which he stood: the blood his roots have drank from, his branches have beared fruit from, that his people have devoured: stripped the leaves for their bedding, splintered the branches for their kindling, consumed with the careless abandon of a youth's first harvest—one who has forgotten to sew the next.

(Needle, or thread?)

Most days, he wills himself not to care.

Superstition begs differently.

He will wash his hands thrice, on the mornings the sun shines too cleanly, simmers through jade-paneled glass and sits like a pyre on his cave-chilled scales; he will turn the lamps down low, on the days the storms wash the streets clean; he will keep a gun at his back and a knife at his waist, on the days he feels safe enough, and a dozen more, on the ones he doesn't; he will eat alone, standing, hunched at the open draft of a night burned with neon, before he ever thinks to sit at the kitchen table.

Strange habits. Stranger beliefs.

They say the Sun's a devil of disease, don't you know? That the storms of Jan'ahrem's sleeves are the oldest gods of all. That one ought to wear a bullet for every Sump-layer they cross. That those buried within their bowls may just as soon be buried beneath the rubble.

A canary, they called him. An irony.

Sooner to squawk than to sing; a wingless creature slimed from the Pilt.

A manifest.

Needles and thread.

He sung only at an ivory cast of 88 keys, a girl at his knee and a set of knobby fingertips skipping beneath his own, as the words little girl blue slipped too quietly off the tongue.

He prayed only at the altar of Vander's knees.

In the churches, he leaves his tithes, and slithers off in a prowl of loping boots. Heel-to-toe thud-thudding, hands pocketed, wool sweeping.

The streets greet their Unholy, their Deliverance, their Own with blind chaos, devouring. Countless lives lived; countless threads, stitched and unraveling.

From his breast pocket, he snaps open a gilded cigarette case, and walks on.

Tobacco weaves through the fibers of his coat.

silco / on prayers

#arcane #arcane fanfic #ficlet #prose #those posts on silco being hinted at as a sort of cult leader/spiritual figure/dark messiah #yeah #still thinking about that #silco #silco arcane #the like. smallest dash of vanco whump #but c'mon #when is it not here #writing

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raytm · 5 days

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for twenty eight years he had endured. It had never seemed like a grueling task, not one that would scour abrasions into his forbearance until he was all exposed nerves and tumultuous ire. the thing was, when one was so acquainted with death, with killing, it no longer held its harrowing ramifications. It was disconcerting how comparable the crushing of bone sounded, like thick carapace splintering, how the pulp of brain matter and shards of skull could look monstrous if one let their vision fade into amorphous rage. his strength was an asset to the people, one they neglected to recognise as violence when it was harnessed for protection, not destruction. the air felt heavy, the stagnant calm before a fierce storm. that is how he had felt, how cathartic it was to irrevocably yield to that seething rancor. his father’s voice had droned on and on, an ever present second heart - beat, derisive and inordinate. it was rapturous, the silence as he gurgled on mouthfuls of blood, the shuddering heaves of a chest caved in. the crater from the impact of his fist over and over again, a purging of burgeoning resentment that gathered at the ridges of his knuckles, extending across tenuous bone as rib after rib shattered violently, imbedding in vital organs and soft, sanguine tissue. it had started as a trivial conversation, matrimony for the sake of the family, his elder sister too incompetent to even be considered a prospect. he wondered, in that euphoric aftermath, surging through him, his breath ragged, if that was all it too to break, finally. he had weathered their father’s animosity for decades - he was not going to allow it authority over his sister’s lives. gepard laid back, flush to the old, lacquered table where they had eaten dinner numerous times, the velvet cloth draped over it incriminating - saturated. his father’s crumpled body had slumped out of the gilded, imperious chair that sat at the head of the table, toppled over now, confining his mangled arms, stretching out in a blind terror, at all wrong angles. his sightless eyes were wide, horrified, his mouth an everlasting cavern of frantic screams. he sighs, it was like the breath he had been holding for years had finally been released. he would have to get rid of the body. he closes his eyes for a long moment, considering his options, there were few, this had not been a plotted slaughter - it was impulsive. he had never once considered himself as his father’s killer yet there he was, an abhorrent rendition of carnage, his face pallid, his eyes dark and merciless, fists dripping with his father’s blood, cruor smeared across the back of his hands. he tilts his head back, gazing at the chandelier above, the tiny, ornate crystals seemed to shimmer eerily now, adjudicating him for his crimes. it was unsettling how facile the matter felt, how towing his father’s limp body out of the dining room, leaving a long, sinuous smear of blood, was entirely natural. he was unperturbed by the unpleasantness of it, but also recognised, with cold rationale, that he could not forsake his father to that room, in that house, lest a servant or one of his sister’s should stumble upon it. he had not bothered to clean himself of blood, there was so much he doubted it would be worth the effort expended. rather, with a spade clasped in one hand and his father’s collar viced in the other he walked the cobblestone path into the gardens, his father’s polished, black shoes disturbing the soft dirt, his immaculate clothes sullied with mud, slick with blood. cast in the ambient glow of the moon, the early hours of belobog’s dawn too cold to receive the sleepless, gepard landau buried his father in a shallow grave, the mire and grass shoveled ontop of it marked it not as the work of an amateur but as someone who no longer felt subjected to things such as discretion - or charity.

#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#violence tw /#gore tw /#murder tw /#uh tw tw /#anyway.#steeples hands #gepard drabble

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mytheoristavenue · 2 years

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Your Obedient Servant - Chapter 1

TMNT 2012 Royal AU

The knights marched toward the grand hall of the castle, their dignified general in his finest dress leading them. At his que his sons fanned out, taking a post at each of four doors that allowed access to the dining room. Splinter entered, greeting the king, leaving his army behind.

In your chambers, you scoffed at your lady in waiting, April as she pestered you on etiquette and the importance of the day. “Yes, I understand, I swear.”

She sighed, slumping her shoulders. “Apologies, my lady, I have every faith in you.” she smiled. “I’m just nervous is all.”

“It’ll go swimmingly, I’m sure of it.” you reassured her, now finally ready to meet with your father. April carried the train of your dress, walking behind you as you began to descend the staircase. At the bottom, a young knight waited, guarding your entrance to the the grand hall. As you came into his view, he glanced up at you, catching your visage bathed in the dreamy light of the golden rays shining in a nearby window.

Donatello’s breath hitched in his throat as he watched you approach, light dancing off your skin, and your gown the most flattering it could possibly be. He gulped, wishing so desperately to compliment you, or even bid you good day, but he screwed his lips shut. He wasn’t allowed to breath your air, let alone speak to you. You smiled at him warmly, curtsying as you came to a halt in front of the gilded door. “Good day, Sir Donatello.” you greeted softly. His lips parted to answer you, but he quickly stopped himself, deciding to simply bow before you , opening the door for you as he did.

Across the castle, Sir Raphael stood watch at his own post, awaiting the arrival of the kingdom’s guests. The general had warned him of the hostile neighbors to the north, and the knight had, admittedly always found the worst in people before the best. His eyes narrowed into an even more stern expression as he heard the tune of trumpets play from the castle’s grand entrance, introducing the representatives of the Foot Kingdom. As the decadent doors opened, Raphael squinted, his eyes unaccustomed to the bright daylight. He watched as a young woman strode into the room, her rich crimson attire hinting at royalty, but also having armored shoulders and knees, a cape flowing behind her and a sword sheathed at her hip. She walked in a cage of armed and masked men that he recognized as the knights of Foot, two at either of her sides, and one in front and back of her. Bowing reluctantly, Raphael hoisted the door he guarded open with a bow, locking eyes with the woman for a moment, before uncomfortable breaking eye contact.

Inside the room, your father sat at the head of a gilded table, decorated with the best finery the castle owned, and the most delectable meal the chef had ever prepared. The king stood as you, accompanied by April glided into the room. Simultaneously, the Foot’s representative entered across the room. He greeted you both as you were seated at his right, and her at the opposite end.

“Princess Saki,” your father finally said. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Karai is fine.” the guest answered. “And you may address me as ‘general’, if you wouldn’t mind.”

The king’s eyes widened, surprised that the Foot would have a little girl as their military leader. Never the less, he agreed with a smile before motioning to you. “My apologies, General Karai. This is my daughter, (Y/N) of York, heir to my throne.”

You bowed to her, and she to you. “Interesting. Lovely to make your acquaintance, princess.” Someone in the way she uttered your title made your skin crawl, but you chose to ignore it.

“I hope you’ll find out preparations to your liking?” King (L/N) said, continuing the pleasantries.

“They’ll do.” she said snarkily. “I am accustomed to more lavish surroundings, however, I’m of the understanding that your kingdom is hemorrhaging funds as a result of this bloody war, so I’ll excuse it.”

You furrowed your brows, exchanging an offended glance with your father as he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, we hope to put all this carnage in the past today. Allow me to introduce my military lead, General Splinter.”

On que, the old rat strode proudly into the room, hands folded behind his back, taking a seat at the table. “Your majesties,” he greeted as he did, knowledge of proper etiquette spilling from him as he spoke. “It is an honor to have a seat at your table, my king, and even more so to be in the presence of such an accomplished major.”

Karai smirked at the old man before speaking to him. “Thank you for joining us, General Splinter, your reputation proceeds you.”

“As does yours, my lady.”

As servants poured out of every crevice to serve the first course of the meal, you began to feel nausea bubble in your stomach. Your eyes watched a maid spill ale into your glass and gulped, something was amiss.

“So, your majesty,” the general began again. “As for my kingdom’s conditions of peace,” she spoke, waiting for one of her men to serve your father their declaration of demands. “We are willing to pull all military forces from your lands, as well as use our vast recourses to not only repair the damage we’ve done to your cities, but help to improve and build on what you already have. In exchange, we are asking for total control of your army.”

Shock ran around the table, you dropping your fork in response, flabbergasted that she’d have the audacity to ask such a thing. Splinter sat with wide eyes, unsure how to react to the thought of being thrown from his title. The king himself felt offense bubble into his stomach, but he found it in him to push it down, regaining composure.

“I’m sorry, General, that’s not possible.” he answered calmly. “My people are not included in the negotiation, that includes those under my personal employ.”

“That is disappointing,” Karai sighed, crossing her arms. “That was out only stipulation, and I’m afraid without an agreement on this, it wouldn’t be in our interest to sign the treaty.”

“General, be reasonable.” you father begged, “This goes directly against our demands, the only two being that your kingdom fight with us when needed, and leave us be when in times of peace. We’ve offered open trade routes, real estate to your citizens, we can’t give anything else.”

“If the Foot had control over your militia, we could train them to expand passed their current limits of potential. You’d never have to worry over invasion again.” she reasoned, still standing firm.

“I’m sorry,” said the bitter king. “It’s off the table. Perhaps we could meet again in the near future and revisit the conditions of this treaty after we’ve had time to reconsider.”

For the first time since you’d seen, Karai’s expression turned sour, her confident smirk melting into a sickening scowl. “In that case,” she began, pointing two fingers directly at you, prompting her men to spring into action, two of them taking you by your arms and yanking you out of your chair. “I hope you don’t mind if we keep something as collateral.” Your father called out to you, jumping out of his seat, lunging for you, Splinter doing the same, leaping across the table to save you. “Go!” she commanded, directing a seemingly preplanned kidnapping, the Foot soldiers scooping you up and dashing out of the door with their leader in tow.

Sir Leonardo stiffened at his post, hearing the crash of plates being cast from the table, accompanied by shouting. Suddenly, the door he was guarding burst open, a masked knight carrying you away right in front of him. “Halt!” he ordered, drawing his sword, breaking into a sprint after him. “Halt in the name of the king!” he shouted again, relieved when the knight headed his command. “Let the princess go!” he ordered, looking more into your eyes that to your capture.

A beat of silence passed, and you were sure that the soldier was weighing his options. As Leonardo began to lower his sword, thinking had gotten his way, you were thrown from the window your kidnapper stood beside. “Princess!” he shouted out to you, teeth grinding as he darted for you, reaching out for your delicate hand and missing it by mere inches. Just as he was about to leap out of the window to your rescue, he was pulled back by the knight that had taken you in the first place. Struggling, Leo watched you fall into the arms of another Foot soldier, before being thrown into a carriage and whisked away.

Angrily, he turned back to the man that had him in his grasp, slamming him against the wall, fury in his eyes for having lost you. As he raised his sword to smite the betrayer, he deemed him unworthy, opting for a solid strike to the face with his fist, which left the man sleeping.

Taglist: @sunshinesdaydream @helpyaw @thelaundrybitch @wikedwiz442 @momii @camillahorne26 @turtle-babe83 @fyreball

So sorry if I missed anyone! If you want to be added to the taglist, please comment on this post to be added in later installments! Thank you for all the new follows and all the love and support! Please like, comment, and share! I read and respond to every comment, and I so look forward to hearing everything ya’ll have to say!

#tmnt #TMNT 2012 #tmnt 2012 royal au #tmnt royal au #knight!turtles #princess!reader #tmnt donatello #tmnt leonardo #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt raphael #tmnt karai

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meowww-ffxiv · 1 year

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Most people would, or should, be rightfully nervous around Estinien.

Especially back in the days when he was all snarls and vengeance, as Mordred put it. When his armor was all sharp edges and spikes, the patches of exposed skin a challenge for those fool enough to think them exploitable weak spots, and the rest of him many a dragon's final sight. When there was a growl to Estinien's voice whenever he spoke, and his courtesy was curt even if always sincere.

He used to be very unhappy, Theodore would think and not bother to voice it. They were all unhappy. Most of them were drowning, even. Him, Mordred, Estinien, Ysayle. Even Alphinaud. And all of the Holy See and the Dravanians, in a maelstrom of blood and vengeance, an endless vacuum that had torn their lives asunder and still splintered them more.

Mordred was in agreement.

So he did this:

He couldn't open a jar of honey he'd brought with him on that trip with Ysayle. Theodore said, "Let me." To which Mordred shook his head, walked over to Estinien, and pried the lid off using a spike on his back.

There was a moment of deathly silence in the camp, wherein Mordred walked off back to the bubbling pot. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder, voice raspy from the persistent and unending cough the cold weather had forced on him.

Estinien said nothing. And then, sounding highly amused, "You are welcomed."

When it was time for them to wash up, having sent Ysayle ahead, Mordred turned to Estinien and asked, "D'you bathe?"

"You cannot just ask someone that," Theodore said from next to him, already stripping off his armor that was identical to Estinien's in every way except that Mordred had gilded it in a gleaming blue coating that rendered it more resistant to lightning and fire-aspected aether, to counter the dragons' breaths here. It was enough differentiation that his helmet looked like he served an entirely different order, an entirely different creed, when he set it next to Estinien's obsidian-black one.

Mordred turned to Theodore at his chastisement and asked, "Well? Does he bathe?"

"You cannot ask me that either," Theodore replied, torn between annoyance and exasperation and humor.

"I do," Estinien said on the other side. His thin lips had twisted into a mangled but still genuine resemblance of a smile. Like he'd forgotten how the expression sat on his face but there it was, teased back into existence from some long-forgotten, buried grave in Estinien's memory. He'd smiled more easily about Alphinaud's young antics, but this particular kind of amusement was more akin to a resurrection.

Maybe all the more dear for it, who knows. Theodore certainly did not, because he didn't know Estinien well and could make no assumptions for him or about him. They weren't rivals either because that'd require Estinien to think well of him, and he didn't.

But at least Theodore knew how it felt to go days, months, years forgetting that you were once capable of smiling at something. Out of love or out of humor. And then it got startled out of you, like a fox scaring a rabbit out of its hole.

It had been Mordred that made Theodore laugh that first-time-in-a-long-time too. Over something just as blunt, just as ridiculous, just as Mordred-like. Something about being a tiny miqo'te with a deep baritone and a silhouette that looked remarkably like an inverted vase primed Mordred like the opening to a punchline. He'd never told a joke intentionally in his whole life, and he would never. He said he had no grasp of humor, and wouldn't attempt it for fear of causing offense. But it somehow made him deadly funny.

Yet he wouldn't hesitate to reap the benefits. As Estinien continued chuckling while washing his hair, Mordred slowly turned to Theodore and raised his eyebrows, also very slowly. His tail flicked. He held out his hand.

"What is it?" Theodore asked.

"You said the bastard can't laugh," Mordred replied. "Fifty gils."

"Only fifty," Estinien remarked.

Theodore glanced at him. Might as well lay it on thick. Estinien was aggravatingly handsome when he smiled. "Be quiet. The shark is at my door and you are helping him?" To Mordred he said, "It does not count if you facilitate the humor. It has to come naturally."

Mordred scoffed. "Something to laugh about naturally? In this economy?"

Estinien turned away, shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

Theodore paid Mordred fifty gils.

That night Mordred pried open a jar of pickles he bought from the hunters in Tailfeather (with that money!) to celebrate. Once again, he did it with a spike on Estinien's back. And this time when the scary unsmiling Azure Dragoon sat still to let it happen, it was intentional.

You two are so weird, Theodore wanted to say. He could not.

#meowdred surana #theodore pentaghast #mon writing #meowdred had always been a little weird

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warmer-autumn · 6 months

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With a sound like rushing glass, punctuated by heavy thumps, a squat shadow lumbers down the corridor. It drags a clawed arm down the wall, causing a screeching sound that would sicken your stomach.

A legion of guards about 50 paces away, all share a terrified look as they turn to each other. About 5 of them cut and run, but the rest of the line holds.

Closer still the figure walks. The figure itself is jagged and pitch black, fragments of light reflect off of it. A moving statue of black crystal. An intense aura of dread emanates from it, as its pained breathing echoes off the gilded cavern walls.

The figure is close now. The guards brace their arms. Those in the back fire their crossbow bolts at it. But they clatter to pieces on the ground.

The figure breaks into a sprint now, and lunges at the group of guardsmen, and proceeds to go *through* them. Arms and legs, massive quantities of blood and gore fling off the armor as it maintains momentum.

With a sickening "schlick", the clawed arm cleaves through the helmet of another guard, leaving perfectly sliced half of a skull.

Arrows splinter, and bullets shatter as they hit the crystalline monster. Magic seems to peel away from it. Blades fall in half. Flesh almost melts away from the razor sharpness of it.

The Ebonite Bulwark stands without a scratch

Piles of steaming gore linger on the cold mountain floor. Blood wicks away from the shiny surface of the figure's armor. A red carpet of entrails inviting this engine of carnage.

Ebonite is a glassy material, similar to obsidian. It is strong and nigh impenetrable. However it's most important feature is it's sharpness: Ebonite is sharp enough to slice through steel, earth and most importantly, flesh. It's so sharp in fact, that the Dwarves never need make weapons out of it, just armor.

Ebonite is not forged or shaped, it is grown. It is a crystalline structure which sprouts from a sort of metamaterial called an Ebonite Seed. These seeds are shaped through harmonic resonance, and grown over the course of months to its' desired shape.

The result is an armor that is near bulletproof, magic resistant, and capable of eviscerating opponents just by being in the same space as them. Dwarven warriors are sealed, often for the rest of their life, inside full suits of Ebonite.

#worldbuilding #dwarf #fantasy lore

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snuh · 1 year

Audio

Paul Weller: I Walk On Gilded Splinters

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rastronomicals · 2 months

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4:36 AM EST February 13, 2024:

Johnny Jenkins - "I Walk On Gilded Splinters" From the album Skydog: The Duane Allman Retrospective (March 19, 2013)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Dr. John cover upon which Duane Allman plays. Originally released on Jenkins' 1970 album entitled Ton-Ton Macoute!

#Johnny Jenkins #Skydog: The Duane Allman Retrospective #I Walk On Gilded Splinters

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drowning-in-cacophony · 10 months

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Gilded

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt 207: Can We Kiss?

Summary: when cursed like Midas, Jana calls an old love for help

Just when the silence is stretching on too long, it breaks with clipped, quiet words, fingers lacing over one knee tight enough to break knuckles. “Can we- What if I kissed you?”

She blinks, a too quick half-aborted motion, because even the flicker of her eyelashes makes the gold crack over her cheeks. She keeps her hands firmly in her lap, cradled into the bend of her skirt, already turned to that shimmering, impossible gold. It’ll probably be worth tons. Moveable gold in fabric form, the dreams of alchemists everywhere and maybe she’d be more impressed if it wasn’t a consequence of her setting her hands down just to think.

“Why would you kiss me?” She says, lips crackling like she’s got paint stroked over the skin. It breaks into the cracks, exposes more gold anyway. Mari shrugs, a bunched up tight motion. In fact, that’s everything about her posture, from the moment she walked in here and stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, noting the gold spread over one wall, on the couch, on skin. It’s on the mirror too, because apparently looking at her own reflection was enough to trigger the splintering burnished yellow, and isn’t that a shame. She’d liked that mirror. So had Mari, once.

“You said it was like a curse.”

“A booby trap, technically.” And she just couldn’t resist picking up that spell book, could she? A spell book that remains locked shut with spindles of unbreakable gold, tossed across the room to stop the gold from her fingers from coating it in a complete casing, and with it any solution.

Mari fixes her with irritated eyes, and yes. This was part of the reason they’d stopped talking, stopped acknowledging each other at all. It’s like they can’t help it, winding the other up. She overcorrects. Mari argues pedantically back. A wheel, going round and round until they’re both miserable and fighting.

Still. She’d be lying if she said those irritated eyes didn’t evoke some sort of fondness inside her. Mari might be a living nightmare sometimes, with her recklessness and her certain belief that nothing can truly kill her, but there’d been that spark, that core fire of her that’d attracted Jana’s interest, made her someone special. Something treasured. Always treasured, even if they’re never meant to talk to each other again.

But here Mari is in her solar, just because Jana had left a message for some assistance at Mari’s family’s phone. Unasked and unavoidably here.

“Curses usually have one big weakness.” Mari, the resident curse expert. Jana will swear until her dying breath – one that might come sooner than expected depending on how this gold progresses, she’s not too sure if it’ll turn her to a statue or keep her as a living breathing person who just destroys everything and one else instead. She knows what she’d choose, if she set the curse, and it’s hardly reassuring - that she didn't mean for Mari to come when she left the message.

“It’s part of their deal with the fabric of the world. True love’s kiss.” Mari, to her credit, doesn’t even flinch when she says the words. She stares straight at Jana, no hesitation, no doubts about what she’s offering. Jana’s shaking her head before she’s even finished.

“No.”

“No, I’m wrong about curses?” One of their other problems, Mari’s ego, hits. Jana’s fingers twitch; she clamps them down as the gold spiders out some more.

“No, you can’t kiss me.”

“I think I can.” Too well measured, a tone that Jana will fight a losing battle against and try regardless. “It’s part of the deal. Not even the best enchanter can fight that and you know it.”

“I am turning everything I touch to gold. I am not risking-” Jana cuts herself off, or the word does, you laden with too much sticking to her throat. Like the gold, impossibly corrupting, spreading out like a virus, she feels it bleeding through her skin. She shakes her head vigorously, and if her hands weren’t gilded, her knuckles would be white with tension. “I’m not risking it. They’ll be another option.”

“I don’t think there will be. This curse was made for a reason: to stop people from touching that book, which we already know belonged to a very powerful enchanter. It’s going to be impossible to break, if one excludes the rarest thing possible.”

“You want to risk your life on the chance-”

“It’s not chance.” Cold, cutting and aching, Mari’s words like guts on the floor. Jana’s eyes leap up, wide and surprised; despite the revealing nature of her words, Mari’s staring back at her with no shade of embarrassment. Just deadly seriousness.

“It’s not chance, Jana,” she repeats after a moment. “And I’m willing to.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m saving your life. You know, you, the one who protects this whole city from falling into sub-space?” She snorts. “Even if there was a major risk, life for life: you’re telling me mine matters more than all of the city? That it’s not worth trying just in case, for one person?”

You’re not just one person. And isn’t that always going to be the problem. Mari and Jana are clashing opposites, and their attempts to be something more ended in literal wildfire and a hundred different arguments since. With their duties, both know their risks, and both know that this is the best option to try. The enchantment won’t have a weakness: Jana would have found it if there was one, would have never needed to phone.

Yet Jana’s heart aches whenever she sees Mari, even just thinks of her, and the thought of risking-

She can’t.

But, as usually is, there’s rarely a choice once Mari’s got an idea certain in her head. True love’s kiss, one of the rarest things in the world, but they both know Mari’s right. That’s what they are. That’s what they’ll always be.

Gold crackles over her lips.

“Can we kiss now?” Mari asks, eyes laser focused.

Jana stares hard at her, as if to memorise her.

Then she nods.

#flash fiction friday #flash fiction #short story #writeblr #word count: 1018 #I figured 18 words over was okay...?#bit of a modern magic world here #also I've been wanting to do something midas-curse relating for a while so this was fun!#anna's writing

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