Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday's official Blog! This is where we post a magical 24h prompt every Friday! Come join! The world needs your stories! || FAQ || Discord || Previous Prompts || Suggest a Prompt || Ao3 Collection
✨ It's Thursday and that means it's time t- no. Wait.
It's Flash Fiction Friday and we are never wrong!
✨ New to FFF? Let us fill you in!
Flash Fiction Friday is a fun writer event that’s meant to inspire, share and connect writings of all genres and writers of all ages. It’s designed to make people want to write, especially if they’re feeling blocked. Everyone and everything is welcome!
We always do our very best to keep the prompt’s genre open, entertaining, positive and encouraging.
Write between 100-1000 words. It can be any genre, in any text format and 18+ is fine by us, just please tag accordingly.
Use this Friday’s theme in your text. Any way you see fit. This means that your text is newly written for the prompt by you. We do not allow any contributions created or aided by AI/LLM.
Post on your tumblr blog and remember to tag us at @flashfictionfridayofficial!! So we’ll see it, read it and reblog it!!
Deadline is 24 hours after the prompt has been issued (12 pm CET).
And then, next Friday, we’ll mention your work in a showcase post on our main blog before our next prompt drops.
Please post your entries as regular posts, not screenshots — or provide the text as a regular post as well. Let’s keep everything as accessible as possible!
We ask you to tag your works with any appropriate content warnings and let the reader know what they’ll find before they get the chance to read your work!
If you have a question, check out our FAQ page! If your question isn’t on there, don’t hesitate to ask!
You don’t need to ask for permission or need to get added to a list to join in. Just write, have fun and don’t forget to tag us!
Tag your fandoms correctly and remember we now have an Ao3 collection (‘FlashFictionFriday’) ✨
We do not condone fiction, asks or comments that glorify: direct hostility, unconstructive critique, LGBTQIA+ hate, slurs, racism and/or general no-no behaviors.
If you want to be closer to the epicenter, you can come chat on our open discord: https://discord.gg/rUWCE8a
✨ We also introduced our very own Wishing Well, a place for you to whisper your prompt suggestions into. And we’ll listen! Check everything about it out HERE.
✨All your amazing works from last week can be found HERE.
Go check them out and consider supporting your fellow FFF writers with some likes and reblogs!
✨ And now, the new prompt!
[#FFF 359 The Wrong Sign]
This prompt was sent in by the one and only @cocoamoonmalfoy, thank you so much! You read the sign, but something went wrong! Now you're stuck at the other end of the galaxy, accidentally went into the wrong room or slightly misinterpreted the situation... Oops? Whether it's time to get your eyes checked or the fates were faulty, we want to know! So go and type and tell your story!
A NAFTK prequel drabble. Eventual Bucky/Reader, General Audiences, 100 words exactly. This drabble meets the requirements for @societynsoelsscribblesJune Jukebox Scribbles (Hey Baby by Bruce Channel) and @flashfictionfridayofficial's Prompt #359 (The Wrong Sign).
Summary:
You're dancing. Bucky's watching. Neither of you are paying attention.
Heeeeeey baby, baby… The women sing together in the middle of the dance floor, and she dances with them, laughing as she twists under Widow's arms.
"You could join them," suggests Steve, sitting at the bar. Bucky gulps at the beer, thin as water.
"Friends only," Bucky reminds him.
I wanna know-oh-oh, will you be my girl?
She glances at Bucky, eyes bright and mouth laughing. Maybe an invitation—but she glances away again, just as quick.
He won't risk it.
"You're an idiot," Steve tells him.
"Yup," agrees Bucky, resigned, and finishes the beer before the song is over.
<-Previous Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->
Dill was focused on the zombie horde, sprinting over to the re-fallen to reposition their barricades when the fighting lulled, re-loading ammo and using every spare moment to catch their breath. Cheese was craning their neck every five seconds, headless of the wandering dead who were wandering their way to Cheese and Dill's brains at that very moment, twisting and turning with the motions of their glaive. Dill was going to kill them.
Two seconds away from being brained, they straightened up with an 'AHA!', loud enough for the stragglers outside the door to take notice. Pointing triumphantly towards the road, they exclaimed, "That's what was bugging me! We're not on Sandistone Road, we're on Elvenhurst!" They spun expertly, lopping a wayward arm off. "It's the wrong sign!"
Dear faithful writers of Flash Fiction Friday, here’s an announcement!!
You have battled the word-beast every week, you have slain that writer’s block and now you stand on the field of prompt-victory! We salute you, you absolute madmen!
And to make things even more fun here on the channel, we have now opened a prompt wishing well!!
How exactly does it work?
submit max. 3 words per user, per week, via ask
you can also just submit a theme you would love to see a prompt for
you can submit anonymously
if you submit with your username, we’ll credit you for the prompt!
and then we’ll reach into the suggestion well and fish out the best ones to transform into prompt magic ✨
Doesn’t that just sound splendid? Ofc it does! So now toss us some of those amazing and strange words you want us to work with, and we’ll be very grateful.
Thank you so much everyone for continuously picking up the writers’ sword and participating in this little prompt corner of the internet. Your story matters.
.
.
.
Consensual + non-romantic kisses and hugsies from the whole FFFcollective 💕 ✨ 💕
just as a reminder for all you wonderful prompt-gifters out there:
the prompts need to be (ideally) 3 words long — or ~ 10-20 characters. if you send in one-word prompts, we most likely will not be able to use it as a prompt.
for example, "sun" is simply too short. it is an interesting object, but it doesn't give off a strong picture. "scorching sun" would instantly add more meaning. "you are my sun" could equally be very thought provoking.
also our dragon on banner-duty claims that too short prompts make the banners look "ugly" or whatever, but we totally got the dragon-situation under control, so no need to worry about that 😌
no, no, no, not with comments, those will always come from the collective itself. no, this goes out to all you fanfiction writers among you! as so many of you contribute fun entries each week, it gets harder for us to correctly tag your fandoms when we reblog your entries (especially if we can't know what is original works or fanfics! we can't spend googling each entry's main characters!). so from today onward, please make sure to add a hashtag for your fandom!
choose ONE tag for each fandom in your post
make sure to keep it brief: what would most people look for if they wanted to find this fandom or avoid it?
we are aware that some fandoms have quite complex tagging systems (notably marvel cinematic universe) -- still. one tag. if it includes multiple characters from different movies, just tag it marvel.
this way, we will be able to easily copy your tag and have a coherent tagging system for fanfiction on our blog! thank you so much for helping us with this.
important note: for now, not following this rule will not lead to us ignoring your entries, but we will bug you about it! ✨
you can use absolutely whatever tags you want and need as usual! we just want that sweet, sweet extra tag in our format somewhere in your tags so we can steal it for our blog :)
it really saves us a lot of work and we'd be super thankful if you helped us with this <3
Warnings: blood mentions (vampire au), mentions of harassment (no details, just vague), and suicidal ideation(?)
Wow finally a glimpse at the New Teeth AU lol. Basically last wolf! werewolves + a bunch of other supernatural creatures. Newly turned Vampire! Julia and Witch/Lycan hybrid! Carmen. Anyways enjoy this snippet of Julia struggling to hunt and Carmen helping lmao
The would-be “blood donor” started to panic, but Carmen tossed some of that amnesia-powder-magic-stuff into their face as they turned to run. They looked confused for a moment, forgetting the last fifteen minutes, and Carmen gently steered them back in the direction they were going, telling them to go home.
Once they were out of earshot, Carmen returned her attention to the New-Fang.
“Hey, that try wasn’t half bad!”
Julia groaned, burying her face in her hands and sliding down against the wall of the alley.
Carmen sat next to her, eyes reflecting silver in the dim light. “You almost had it. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
That was the problem, though. Every time Julia got close to feeding on someone she froze. She couldn’t do it. Part of her was glad she couldn’t; that nobody was getting hurt.
The other part was hungry.
She tried to ignore it.
It didn’t work.
Carmen had gotten almost scarily good at reading her over the last few weeks of knowing each other, and could apparently sense when Julia’s thoughts went in that direction.
“Look, I know this can’t be easy. Your entire world was flipped upside down last month, but none of it was your fault. Besides,” Carmen bumped their shoulders together, getting Julia to look at her. “It proves that you’re still ‘you’. I won’t pretend to know everything you’re going through, but I do know that if you don’t get fresh blood soon, it’s only going to get worse.”
She was right, Julia knew that. She could feel it getting worse. Eventually she was going to have to bite the bullet (ha) and figure this out. She can’t survive on Carmen’s stolen blood bags and animal blood from the butcher forever. And she already felt bad for the couple times Carmen had had to offer her own blood.
Carmen had explained that those solutions would stave off the hunger, but were only temporary fixes. They didn’t have enough of the correct proteins, or something, she couldn’t remember. Fresh, human (or close to it) blood is best.
But Julia was done for the night. She wanted to go home and burrow under all the covers in her bed and sleep for a week. Or more.
“..’m tired,” she mumbled, leaning her head on Carmen’s shoulder.
“Yeah, that’s the hunger talking,” Carmen nudged her, standing and offering a hand to help her up. “C’mon, I think we’ve got enough time for one more try before the sun comes up.”
If it were anyone else, Julia would’ve told them to piss off, but one look at Carmen’s reassuring smile and the softness of her eyes had her dig into any remaining energy and take the outstretched hand.
Tempting as it was to simply lie down and wait for the sun to come up and end the issue once and for all, that’d probably make Carmen sad, and the thought of causing that kicked puppy face was enough to get her legs moving.
.
.
.
“I have an idea,” Carmen said, pulling Julia into an alley with the bar they found still in view across the street.
Julia watched as Carmen shifted her hands to paws, using sharp claws to scratch lines and markings into the pavement. It must not have been a pleasant feeling, given that the Lycan kept pulling a face and shaking her hands out periodically.
“There,” Carmen finished with a circle and some symbols Julia was starting to recognize as Wolfspeak in the center, stepping away to admire her work.
“When we find someone, we’ll lure them here, and this,” She tapped her foot near the center, careful not to touch it and start whatever spell she’d drawn. “Will help keep things quiet.”
Julia must’ve made a panicked face, because Carmen quickly clarified, “It’s a cone of silence, basically. No sound should escape the outside lines I drew.”
Julia nodded, understanding, but was still wary of the whole thing.
How could she not be?
Being dragged into an alley in the middle of the night had been how she wound up in this situation! Who was she to inflict that on someone else?
A surprisingly soft touch on her hands and a soft voice snapped her out of her spiral.
“Remember, if it goes sideways—which, I have a good feeling it won’t this time—it’ll be okay. I’ve got healing stuff, memory-wiping magic, all that,” Carmen tilted her head, dipping a bit to get Julia to look her in the eye. “You’re not gonna lose control. And if you do, I’m right here.”
Carmen gently squeezed her hands. “Okay?”
Julia’s eyes flicked up to meet Carmen’s.
She squeezed back.
“..Okay.”
The lycan-witch smiled, and Julia hoped Carmen couldn’t hear her heart skip a beat.
They turned their attention back to the bar, watching patrons slowly exit, stumbling down the steps, hailing Ubers and trying to find the most sober among them. At first, Julia had been unsettled by the fact Carmen had searched for a bar, as this seemed pretty messed up to go after people that were already impaired.
But Carmen had simply grinned, canines glinting in the moonlight, and explained it wasn’t necessarily the drunks they were after.
Carmen whispered, “Jules,” and pointed her attention to the curb, where it looked like a group of friends, probably waiting on a ride, was approached by a man they didn’t seem to know.
Julia’s hearing had gotten an upgrade since the Incident, but Carmen’s was far better. Julia only caught bits and pieces, and could guess what was going on based on the girls’ body language. Carmen, on the other hand, looked absolutely disgusted, but had a look of determination behind her eyes.
Now Julia understood.
They weren’t after hammered bar patrons.
Alright. One more chance.
Without saying a word, they nodded at each other.
Carmen approached the group, placing herself between the other girls and whoever that was, effectively shutting the guy up.
He stalked off, miffed, but noticed Julia on the other side of the street, leaning against the wall of the building, looking disinterested at her phone.
The girls’ ride arrived, they thanked Carmen, and drove off.
She crossed the street, casually stepping over the spell line into the alley where the guy was currently trying to stand over Julia, and stomped a paw into the center to activate it.
.
Safe to say, they figured out that a Lycan “pack” hunting style is much more effective than a solo vampire.
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "one more chance"
Darling had very nearly managed it this time. He had been on the verge of asking, the words fully formed in his mind, merely waiting for him to take the final step to bring them to reality.
And yet, his courage had failed him. It was not something which customarily happened. In matters of research proposals, requests for increased budget, and indeed dabbling with paranatural items which could vaporize him if handled slightly incorrectly, he knew no fear whatsoever. Strange that in this matter, he continued to lose his nerve.
As today was nearly over, he had thought that Trench’s visit to his office would be the last chance for now. However, he’d had another idea. If he hurried, perhaps there was one more chance.
Darling exchanged his lab coat for his regular jacket, then sprinted through the House. The words which he had intended to use earlier would no longer be suited for this situation, and he devised a new approach while he ran.
When Trench came to the exit, overcoat wrapped around himself and a preoccupied frown on his face, Darling waited with an umbrella. “Good evening, Director!” he called over the rain. “Where to?”
Trench stopped. He stared at Darling, then at the FBC car waiting in the downpour. “Where’s my driver?”
“I’m your driver!”
“No, you’re not.”
“Well, I am tonight! I may have intercepted your usual driver. I-I am aware that I don’t customarily drive myself, either—New York City, and all—but I do have a license.”
Judging from the deepening frown on Trench’s face, he was either considering making Darling show him the license, or consulting his considerable memory for the details of staff qualifications. Darling, knowing better than to interrupt, simply waited.
“You do have a license,” Trench finally said. “Okay. You can drive me.”
“Excellent!” Heart racing, Darling jogged to him and held the umbrella to cover them both. “I believe it’s customary for you to sit in the backseat when being driven?”
The corner of Trench’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. He strode to the passenger side, but to the front rather than the back.
“As the Director wishes,” Darling said with a chuckle. He opened the door, and Trench slid in.
Rain lashed down, bitter cold. Darling wasted no time whatsoever in climbing behind the steering wheel. He certainly had no wish to stay out in that weather any longer.
“My driver usually just takes me back to my apartment,” Trench said. “I suppose you have other plans.”
“Guilty as charged!” Darling had not actually thought past this point, but he had always been skilled at improvisation, which served him quite well when an experiment went wrong. Hopefully, this one would go right. “I had, perhaps, thought you might like to go out. To dinner. With, um. Me.”
That was hardly the most coherent way to initiate a date. Darling had intended something much more dramatic, a full presentation of his idea in his lab earlier. He’d intended to unveil it in a dramatic fashion, just as he usually did his latest inventions or discoveries.
This was hardly that. And yet, Trench’s usual look of preoccupation gave way to a fond smile. “Darling.”
“Mm?” Darling asked faintly.
“You’re asking me on a date?”
“I-I am, yes.”
“I see.” Trench’s smile broadened, and he held out his hand. “Do you have a relationship clearance form ready?”
“Oh! Um.” Darling grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. He opened it and pulled out the form, which he handed to Trench. “Indeed, I do. It’s already filled out, and merely lacks our signatures.”
Trench stared at the form for a moment, brow creased. Then he gave a quiet chuckle. “I was joking, Casper.”
“Oh, I know. However, I also happen to know you exceptionally well in general, and I’m quite aware that you would have been anxious through the entirety of dinner if we didn’t fill out the appropriate paperwork beforehand.” Darling leaned over and planted a quick kiss on Trench’s cheek. “I am also willing to run the form back into the House once we’ve signed it, if you feel it’s necessary.”
“No. That’s not necessary. I can file it tomorrow. That’s still proper protocol.” Trench reached up, touching his own cheek with something like awe. “You really want to date me?”
It was a sweet, almost innocent question, if a little sad. As if Trench couldn’t imagine that someone would wish to be with him.
“I absolutely, one hundred percent want to date you,” Darling said at once. “I have always thoroughly enjoyed everything we do together. I’d like to do this together, too, even if I’m not quite certain what ‘this’ entails. I am quite inexperienced in romantic matters.”
“Well, I’m divorced. So that tells you how good I am at relationships.” Trench shrugged, but he was smiling in earnest now. He reached out, cradling Darling’s cheek. “Let’s go. We’ll start with dinner. Then we’ll figure out what else we want from ‘this’.”
As that sounded excellent, Darling beamed at Trench, then turned on the car. Availing himself of this final chance had indeed worked out quite well. And no matter what direction he and Trench decided to take ‘this’, dating one another would undoubtedly be a wonderful experience.
Khi adjusted his rifle sights and squinted into the lowering sun. All day he’d been waiting at the crest of these cliffs, crouched among the scrub and staring out at the glare off the sea until a harpoon headache pierced him between the eyes. Verune had said there wasn’t enough cash for more time, so this was it: his last shot…
A loud bark interrupted the silence. Khi glanced down the shore. Two bodyguards marched down the beach, two spear-lengths apart. Only two.
Behind them, ambling with a nobleman’s genteel nonchalance, came Prince Sounder— his target. Khi hunched lower.
The prince’s dog, a medium-sized, long-coated beast, trotted over the sand, bouncing between the surf and the prince’s side. Backlit by the setting sun, the prince smiled. Khi levelled his rifle.
The dog would be a problem. The prince had been deaf since childhood, and though he wouldn’t hear any missed shots, his pet would. So Khi had one last shot, to bring down the man who had ordered the invasion of his homeland…
He took aim.
~~
“So,” the interrogator says gruffly, “why’d you do it?”
The palace dungeon has a rhythm. Good days, bad days. Today is a good day. They gave him a comb, a bowl of water, even some bandages to bind his wounds, and they took him to this small room, the flickery electric lighting supplemented by a lantern on the table.
“Fuck you,” Khi says, enunciating clearly around his swollen jaw.
The interrogator smacks him across the face, and Khi’s head snaps back. “No need to prove to me that your people are troublemakers,” the man snarls, and Khi cups a hand to his cheek and swallows his scream. “Come on. Who sent you?”
“I could’ve shot him,” Khi mumbles. “I was merciful. You should thank me.”
“If you won’t cooperate, we’ll send you back to your cell,” the interrogator warns, and damn it, Khi can’t help it if he starts shaking at the thought.
“I know nothing,” he whispers, his voice suddenly deserting him. “I’m a pawn. Nothing more.”
The interrogator snorts. “Sure. A pawn who tries, all of a sudden, for checkmate.”
~~
Between the dog’s butterfly-like darting and the sunset behind the sea, Khi couldn’t hope for an accurate shot. He couldn’t aim at the prince, either— if he missed, the dog would take swift action to protect its master. And it was likely he would miss.
No, the dog would be his first target. He’d take it out while it frolicked in the surf, out of sight. Then, when Prince Sounder noticed his favourite beast’s absence, he would hesitate. And Khi would fire.
The party was moving farther down the beach now, away from Khi’s spot on the cliff. He had but a few moments— the sun would only get more distracting as it set. This was his one last shot.
The kickback drove the stock into his shoulder; ringing split his ears. The dog, ankle-deep in surf, whined and fell, the white-and-scarlet sea foam submerging its muzzle.
Khi reloaded. A moment later, Prince Sounder turned.
The prince’s eyes landed on the dog, on its side in the bloody surf steps away, and he screamed: a long, high, keening sound like a steam train off the rails, steel scraping steel. Khi levelled his rifle and—
Fire, he thought, staring at Prince Sounder. This close, he could see the seething grief on the prince’s face, outlined by the setting sun. Fire, damn it!
His trigger finger was frozen. The bodyguards ran back over the damp sand, their pistols drawn— but one paused to scan the cliffs.
The sun was behind him. He didn’t need to squint.
“Assassin!” he shouted, and suddenly all three figures were in motion, one dragging the prince to his feet, signing urgently, the other making for the cliffs. Khi could shoot him, could reload— he had his finger on the trigger, he was a good shot…
He did not move as the second bodyguard reached him, hauled him from his hiding place, and yanked the still-loaded rifle from his hands. He did not move as he watched the expression on the prince’s face: shock and blunt agony and a desire for revenge as deep as the sea that lapped at his heels.
~~
In the dark, Khi hears, rather than sees, the bolt on his door sliding aside. Should he run? No, he’s too weak to make it far; today was one of the bad days. Better to take what they have in store for him.
In steps Prince Sounder. The light from his lantern glints off his shoes and the buttons of his coat. Khi can’t bear to look at him.
He can’t bear to look away.
The prince passes Khi a stiff pad of paper. A few words— in Khi’s own tongue— are written across the top in elegant script. Who do you work for?
Khi looks up at him. Wordlessly, the prince places a fountain pen and a jar of ink on the table.
Khi could refuse. But he’s been tied up for so long, been beaten and burned and bled so many times, he’s not sure what the point is anymore. By now, Verune and Shona and the rest have almost certainly moved to another safe house, their ties with the would-be royal assassin irrevocably cut. He is just a pawn. And a pawn should recognize a king.
He thinks of the prince’s dog, lying dead on the shore. He thinks of the expression on the prince’s face, how perfectly it captured how it felt to feel chains snapping around his wrists, to know this was his one last shot at seeing a sunset.
But if this man tries to seek out his employers, all hell will break loose.
Khi picks up the pen, dips it in the ink, and starts to write his confession.
He took deep, centering breaths, the type his grandfather had taught him to take before loosing an arrow, and willed his hands to still and his face to impassivity. Mages needed to be stoic, committed, and firm of purpose, or else the magic would devour them. The Academy lost several student mages every year, even with their rigid and grueling application process. Some reached too far too fast and called down forces they could not control, some cracked under the pressure of their studies and let their desperation fuel them until they became the fuel themselves… And some grew careless, glutted on the ease of their previous accomplishments. They learned too late that magic was a tool that, when carelessly discarded, took on its own purpose.
Rumour held that even worse things happened to students at the Academy. To those that might question the Mage’s Council. To those that did not bow deeply enough before High Archmagus Elena. Things that turned charismatic and engaged young men and women into puppets of their masters, or disappeared them all together.
Arnold’s grandfather had warned him of the mages, repeated all the stories he’d ever heard in an attempt to convince him not to go, but Arnold wasn’t fooled. His mother hadn’t disappeared, she had run away. She’d been too proud to tell her powerful family that she’d gotten pregnant by a farmboy with more life than anyone she’d ever met in her cold and shuttered city. She’d simply left, and the Academy had never attempted to find her.
She’d been happy with his father. Arnold remembered them. They had been dancing in the kitchen, laughing and so very happy when her magic, purposefully bred into her line generations ago, had attempted to fulfil her careless wish. It had encased them both in crystal, a crystal which swiftly spread through the kitchen in an attempt to preserve everything… A crystal which had shattered, his parents with it, when he had felt his own magic swell for the first time, summoned by sheer terror.
Arnold understood the Mage’s Creed very well indeed. The truth was the Academy didn’t need to dispose of young mages, the magic did that itself. Mages were cold, calculating, and indifferent because they had to be. Anything else was death.
Arnold’s death, if he couldn’t manage to pass this blasted entrance interview! He’d scraped through the written theory, bluffed what he didn’t know in the ethics interrogation, and was now on his fifth practical demonstration. Only five in his cohort of hundreds had even had two practicals, and in his opinion it was just to give a few with family backing but a poor showing a second chance. And then there was him.
The farmboy. The bumpkin. The grotesque dullard who haunted these accursed halls, his face telling the story of his magic only too clearly.
The only one in the whole history of the Academy to have the entire Great Working theatre full of mages judging his fifth practical.
He knew they didn’t want him in. It was obvious to everyone. But he couldn’t let that stop him. He could feel his magic growing within him every day and if he didn’t get at least some guidance in how to harness it, it was going to consume him.
This was his last chance. There were no more people they could bring in to judge him. It all came down to this. If he failed, that would be the end of him. The spells he was planning for this demonstration would assure it. And if he passed… It would be a beginning, at least. The beginning of a life of logic, of coldness, and of caution. But at least it would be a life. So long as he could keep that, perhaps one day he might even get to see his grandfather again.
*
“What did I tell you?” High Archmagus Elena crowed as she swept her heavy mantle off in the privacy of her own chambers. “Isn’t he just the best? That vision! That grace! That cleverness! I’ve never even heard of someone using Tel’noth’s Whispering Wind like that before and he not only attempted it, he pulled it off!”
“I’m surprised.” Her best friend admitted, settling into the chair by the fire and summoning her cross stitch project. “I have to admit I wasn’t sure what to expect. I really wasn’t expecting someone who managed to do that to their face to still have magic that strong, let alone to have that sort of control!”
“He didn’t do that to himself.” Both Elena and her lover, who was helping her with the ties on her robes, chorused. He paused, allowing her to continue alone. “Cassandra did.”
Isabelle sputtered on the tea she’d just sipped in complete shock. “Your sister did that to him? How? When? Those are old scars, she did that to a child?”
“Not on purpose.” Elena replied, growing more serious. “Cass was my twin. I felt it the moment she died. Felt all of it.”
“I investigated on Elena’s behalf.” Jonathan continued, picking up the story with ease. “Her magic tangled itself up with some very powerful emotions, and she didn’t practice enough to be able to separate them. The boy was able to save himself, but not his parents. The scars on his face are not the only ones he carries from that night.”
“It’s best that he keep those scars.” Elena commented, shooting Isabelle, an accomplished healer, a pointed look. “Without them he’d attract far too much attention of a sort he cannot afford. My father would hear of him, and he’d recognize him as blood in a heartbeat. He never forgave Cass for running away, and he’d feel entitled to the lad. While I only want what’s best for him, Father would just want him. And he wouldn’t care how he got him.”
written for today's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: one more chance
relationship: Jayce Talis/Mel Medarda
rating: G (word count: 1,077)
summary: a runaway knight and a queen in the midst of war. A chance at deliverance
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
The ache in the cavity of Jayce's chest threatened to tear him from the inside out. Breath shallow by that and the slim possibility he'd suffocate under the burlap sack. Clumps of hair, damp, clung to his forehead.
So far everything had gone to plan, though he hadn't thought much on the rough nature of these soldiers getting a few rounds with him before turning him into their queen. The bag over his head was also excessive in his opinion, but he held his tongue, lest they take it.
A dense grunt burst in his chest, escaping gracelessly as he’s tossed to the ground. He already had bruises dectorating his rib cage and hip bones, what's two more on his knees?
The light above was blinding and he flinched, narrowing his eyes until they could adjust. Then his jaw went slack.
The opulence of the throne room paled in comparison to the one who sat high on the throne. A crown that looked like sunrays decorated elegantly laid locs.
"State your business," she commanded.
The queen's exposed shoulders were adorned with gold tattoos designed not too dissimilar to the paladins of his own armor he abandoned shy of a week ago. When she adjusted her posture, tucking one ankle behind the other, the hem of her dress followed accordingly, moving as water.
A blunt jab at his back startled him to his current predicament. "Y-Yes?" he stuttered.
She chuckled lightly, though it lacked mirth. "If you had any intention on assassinating me, bringing a dagger would not have been sufficient for the task."
"That wasn't—"
"Oh?" Elegant brows lifted at the reply and she rested her chin in her hand. "Then pray tell, why you, a knight of the Artashe Kingdom, would tresspass enemy soil if not for assassination?"
The beatings in his chest quickened, travelling higher and higher until they breeched his throat, threatening to suffocate him there on the spot. Jayce felt every eye in the throne room burn holes in him, especially the fierce and hardened ones of the one with royal blood. He forced the feeling down, steeling himself.
War was all he'd known. For generations such had been the case. Jayce had always done what was instructed of him— that was his duty as a knight to his kingdom. But his leader… sometime… somewhere… he had lost their way. Jayce could no long in good consciousness follow their path.
The war needed to end. And soon.
He could not do it without her help.
"Why should I trust you?"
Her tone didn't give anything way. Though it did make him acutely aware of the dryness and subsequent split of his lower lip. His tongue poked out to wet it.
"You can't," he finally admitted. "While there is information of value I can offer you to help in accelerating this war's conclusion, I know it is a risk to you. And so—" he started, hands clutching at his linen underpants, heavily dirt-stained by the journey of his defection. "I offer you this—" and he bowed low, the thick tresses of his hair sweeping his ears along the way.
At the humble gesture, she regarded him. For a long while no one moved.
Not the knight.
Not the Queen's aide and personal guard.
And not the rest of her audience.
The sweat started to run down the grooves of his spine and the back of his neck felt searing hot. Should he try to touch it, he imagined he'd burn himself. But he held still, waiting.
"Alcetas," the Queen finally said.
There was a gruff yes in response.
"Lend me your sword."
Jayce fought a cold flinch as he imagined the weight of a long sword being transferred from guard to queen.
And inevitably, to his neck.
Before that, though, he felt icy steel resting underneath his chin.
"Raise your head," she said firmly, all the while coaxing him to look upward.
He obeyed; the sheen of the blade blurred in his periphery as his eyes matched hers. Hardened by the toll of war, yet a fierce and unwavering brightness remained.
"I could kill you. Right here and now," she said coolly; almost appraisingly.
"And it would be deserved," he replied. There had been so much sacrificed. Blood and water have become inseparable, staining the earth equally.
Her eyes narrowed and angled chin tilted up sharp. "State your name."
"Jayce. Of House Talis."
"Jayce Talis…" She savored his name on her tongue, then sharpend. "Elora! Alcetas! Clear the room. Sir Talis and I shall commune privately and discuss the terms of his stay."
A soft gasp and grave hum from them, respectively.
The soldiers who turned Jayce in started; one of them opening and closing his mouth as a fish starved for air.
"You doubt my judgement?" she hissed.
He stiffened straight, then fell to one knee. The other followed suit. "Of course not, your Highness," he said.
"Never, my Queen," the other echoed.
"Good."
Only when the room finally cleared did Jayce take it as a sign to stand. "I promise to not disappoint, Queen Medarda."
He was suddenly overwhelmed by a light spirit and something close to secular salvation, her presence a breath away. "I know. For you have no choice but to follow through."
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Long after the sun disappeared into the horizon, Mel rolled over from under the sheets resting her head on top of a firm chest. A hand travelled lazily down the side of a core strong yet soft and she frowned.
A large hand covered hers, bringing the inside of her wrist to his lips. "It's only makeup," Jayce whispered.
"And stubborn to come off," she mutttered. "Removing your shirt was also not in the script."
He shrugged before wrapping his arms around her, bringing her even closer. "Improvisation was always on the table."
She pouted. Fair enough.
"Frightening work today," he praised, kissing her forehead. "Though I can't help but wonder—"
Mel craned her neck up to him.
"Channeling that performance," he continued. "It couldn't have come from anything… personal, now could it?"
The bright laugh bursting from Mel illuminated the darkness of their bedroom. When it settled, she kissed him fiercely on the lips. "Come now, darling, all that matters is we made it on the other side." A brief peck for good measure and she rolled off him towards her side of the bed. "Goodnight, Jayce, we have the river scene tomorrow."
Polly Exhaled, relieved to finish the call. As soon as his lens adjusted back to the room, he began to pull up the feed of bureaucratic documents he now had to work his way through. Before he could start, Jules caught his eye. She was sitting by the window, lounging unprofessionally on the pale yellow cushion attached to the seat. She was throwing what looked like a datashard into the air, catching it again before it could hit the floor. If he'd seen anyone else, including himself, doing this on company time, he would have reprimanded them without a second thought, but not Jules. Jules was special.
Polly smiled as he watched her— fascinated that she could entertain herself with something so simple when she was surrounded by interfaces. To an outsider, it would be clear that Jules, lounging by the window, was the CEO; and Polly, laboring away at his desk, was the assistant, but the opposite was true. While Jules' was technically a personal assistant, most of what she did consisted of reminding Polly to be present— grounding someone who would otherwise lose himself in his work.
Hearing his lack of movement, Jules caught the datashard one last time and turned to face him.
“Ya' doin' okay, Polly?”
Polly smiled hearing his own name. Among her other duties, Jules was also the only person in the Union who Polly had trusted with his true Identity— in fact, she was the first person Polly had met capable of understanding gender.
“Yeah, I'm fine, Jules. I suppose the monotony is getting to me again, that's all.”
“Then stop working. It's not like anyone would know if you let a 'pseudo fill out those forms. You should work on something fun, like that liminal space research.”
Had he really forgotten to tell her what happened? Or, maybe, his unconscious mind just didn't want to disappoint her.
“Project got shut down,” he explained, not making eye contact with her as he did.
“What?! Why?” Jules stood up, walking up to his desk like an angry investor.
“It was pointless, Jules. Leenad set up hundreds of stations in liminal locations, none of them found anything.”
Expecting disappointment, Polly averted his gaze. When Jules didn't respond, he looked back up at her, hands on the front of his desk like an angry teacher, though her expression told a different story. She looked at him like he'd just said something magnificently stupid in that way only she could get away with.
“What?”
“Polly— if the key to falling out of space time is liminal spaces, you can't set up research stations inside them. If a space is a destination, it is no longer liminal.”
“I don't think spacetime is that sapiocentric—”
“Who says it is? Just because this sort of thing only happens in areas we perceive as liminal space doesn't mean our perception causes it. Come on, give it one more chance? For me?”
Polly never even tried to resist Jules puppy dog eyes— he just stood up, letting her drag him by his wrist to his office door.
“Come on! Let's go get Leenad,” Jules said, dropping Polly's wrist just before they entered the hallway, beginning their charade once more.
Thanks for reading! Once again, this story takes place in the same universe as my main project, as well as The Red Jacket (FFF 317, Lead the way), Failure (FFF 346, Monolougs and Monoliths), and even features the same characters as Gender Envy (FFF 342, Envy's Attire).
(TW: mentions of death; timeloop/deathloop-adjacent tropes linked to memory loss)
As I walk into the cave, my cracked leather boot kicks over my own skull. It goes chattering across the stone, chips and flakes splintering off as it does. The beginning of a spine flaps along behind like the flopping tail of a fish out of water. I don't know where the rest is, and I don't want to look.
I haven't a lantern- those ran out long ago, I'd guess. But there's a flask of oil in my pocket, so I find one among the detritus that's not too bent out of shape and get it lit. Amber flames filter through murky glass, dancing against the cave walls. They're wet with a slimy substance like algae, even though I'm nowhere near the sea. Upon noticing this, the stench of brine pervades my nostrils, so strong that it reaches down my throat and burns my sinuses. It's mixed with something rank, like pickled meat.
Somehow, that makes me hungry. The outpost isn't far, not really, but the climb up the mountain is nevertheless brutal, and I suppose whatever food there once was went the way of the lanterns. There's a little water, dripping through a crack in the ceiling to collect in a shallow dish left beneath; an empty glass medicine bottle leant against it, suggestive of what I ought to do. I've been here before, quite obviously. I just don't remember it because it didn't happen to the same me.
The rest of me is dust. Some of them still have a degree of meat on their bones or clothing not yet rotted away, so I borrow a jacket and wrestle a pair of acid-eaten trousers off of two different corpses, to cover my sunburnt skin. I don't have long, I know. Hours until whatever contamination was in that water races through my system and cripples me. Days until hunger catches up. But, most likely, less time than that, because something waits down these tunnels, among the brine.
I could be the last one ever. The bioslurry tank was well below minimal levels when I checked, and looked like it had been for a while: I could be the very last copy it ever squeezes out, the final attempt in what seems to be a line of hundreds.
I kick over another skull. Could well be thousands.
I don't remember ever coming this way before, and yet I did. In fear, in courage, hungry and thirsty… there were likely versions of my mind and body that never even made it this far, succumbing to the mountain. There are messages scrawled on the walls of the outpost, both from bodies too cowardly to make the suicide climb and those who eventually did. On the panels of old yew wood, I argue with myself- go, don't go. Turn back. Leave this place. Hold fast. Might as well fucking jump off the and someone else, presumably, had scribbled out the end of that last. I ignored them all and forged ahead.
The drop-off nearly takes me by surprise. Some past version of me dragged a line of ribcages across the ledge, presumably to warn anyone who made it this far without a light, and expended precious energy in so doing. I will never know whether they did it out of forethought or compassion, I reflect as my right foot crunches through a sternum and my arms pinwheel through space. The sucking gasp I make reverberates through the cave: it bounces back at me, mocking, even as I recover to a low crouch.
Someone's rigged up a rope of some knotted, plaited fiber- strange, that I likely gave my life to hammer a hasp into the rock and give us all a way down. As I descend, listening to the creak of the rope, the saline smell grows stronger still. I can barely think for it, and a mist now hangs over the stone when my feet find ground. My boots splash in the recesses of the rock. When I move, now, I displace a little water and it slops against edges and walls like the tide flowing into a rockpool.
I'm getting closer. I can feel it.
Light dances across the walls, almost dazzling, in refractory patterns. I'd be well hypnotised if I couldn't see the shadows of my own fallen self scattered in amongst the ever-shifting beauty; the reminders of why I am here are constant and stark.
My lantern gutters once, a warning, before the fog puts it entirely out. I backtrack a few steps so that I can place it in a recess just above the level of the mist. I doubt I'll be back, from the look of the outpost, but sometimes it pays to pay it forward.
As I ascended the mountain, part of me automatically turned away from the rock face to look out into nothing. I'd expected the landmarks of a thousand city lights to blink back at me but, stymied, I made believe they were hidden by the clouds.
I can hear it, the creature coiled at the heart of the caves. It breathes, and the mist surges. It growls on every exhale, snapping squealing alkaline sparks that flit from water droplet to water droplet.
The skeletons are all but gone, and now the floor at my feet is littered with swords. The first I try to take it rusted through, and falls apart in my hand. The second has melted fast to the floor. The third holds it together, just about, though the blade wavers in the pommel. I'll have to get a lucky shot.
I take a breath and nearly choke, wading ankle-deep in seawater. The swishing of my boots will announce my presence in advance. I'm truly not sure if it matters. In my heart, I know I am the last, and I know I am as likely to fail as to succeed.
I step forward, the mist parts, and I gaze up cerulean scales into the eyes of a dragon.
(I’ll make this all presentable later. Trying to get posted under the deadline. 😄)
Lin? I got the door open but these bags are about to break-”
Lin peeked out from the hallway in time to see Mako struggling at the door, trying to keep the paper bags of groceries from falling all over the place. She strode over to him and covered his elbows with her hands, unsure how best to help.
Their eyes met, and they both froze.
Flustered, she broke eye contact, only to find herself staring at his lips. When he parted them to take a breath, she startled and involuntarily clenched her hands around his arms.
Their eyes met again. This time, a blink was sufficient to help them juggle the bags and get everything into the kitchen.
The silence between them was only disturbed by the noises of the food she was cooking and the dishes he w was washing. Once, they both stepped backwards and brushed against each other, back to back. Their hushed apologies hung in the air between them… until they didn’t anymore.
Mako finished his task, and she could hear him using a towel to dry his hands and arms.
Then she felt it knock her hair into her face when he must have flung it over his shoulder.
“Oh, sorry for that,” he apologized.
She started to tilt her head, but stopped when she felt his hand alight on her left shoulder, and the closeness of his body against her back. She stopped stirring the food.
Slowly, he used his right hand to pull her hair back behind her ear, as if she were doing it herself. He squeezed her shoulder at the same time as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head.
The food sizzled, undisturbed.
Her mind whirled, caught in the feel of his solidity and warmth. She wasn’t quite sure where his right hand was, but suddenly, she wanted it on her hip.
She laid the chopsticks down and turned the gas down. Before he could move away, she groped behind herself for his hand, covering it with her own and pulling it gently.
Her hand was so much smaller than his, but he gave her no resistance.
On an exhale, she laid his hand on her hip.
He tensed, but didn’t move.
It had been so long since she felt the weight of making a decision like this, from second to second. Every moment she didn’t send him away. Every touch she allowed or encouraged.
Other times had been easier, with people closer to her own age. What was she thinking, letting this …
Man. He was no boy, fresh from school. He had fought for his life, for the life of others.
He had nearly died, more than once.
He had worked hard, and remained true to his ideals. The reports she had from the new chief were good. He had restored his friendships with both Korra and Asami, much as she had (eventually) with Tenzin.
They had both grown over the past few years.
At last, she moved the pan off of the heat and killed the gas.
Around her, above her, Mako remained still. Watching and waiting.
As if trained by an earthbender.
Lin tucked her elbows in close and twisted around to face Mako.
Maybe I can give it one more chance, she thought, her eyes coming to rest on his lips again.
When she looked up, he guided his hand down the back of her arm, rubbing his thumb up and down.
Silently, slowly, she lifted her hand to brush up his chest, brushing the backs of her fingers up the length of his throat. She paused as he swallowed and licked his lips.
The friction of her skin against his electrified her.
And with a wave of decisiveness, she pulled his neck down and began kissing him.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt: 358 One More Chance
[Summary: a family meal that has to go well]
She slicks her hair down in the mirror, like a stray hair will change fate. The scowl – she forces herself to lighten the new-natural set of her eyebrows. Affable is how she’s got to stay if she wants this to work.
A wrong foot from the start; she arrives to the family meal five minutes late, all that fussing over her reflection fucking her over. The disapproval hinting on lips already: her mother’s downward tug, her brother’s flickered eye. Better things to do than be on time, they’re thinking. Better people to be with. She might have done everything to free their city from tyranny but this is what’s realised too late: you can save the city easier than you can repair the relationship with your family.
She summons a smile, weak and weedy and just about enough to smear some hackles down. Her other brother’s brought wine, she notices, sat on her father’s old bureau. The bottle’s mid, probably a bit bland. She could have brought some wine too but the last time she’d brought one better and all it’d done was act as a reminder. A scream. That’s what this wine’s doing too. This is what we can bring and she’d shown them up without even meaning too. She’d demonstrated the gap between them. She, on different palates to what’s normal to them, what used to be normal to her.
At least she manages to sit without incident.
Dinner served to them all. So she’s made them wait. Five minutes but it’s a delay, and she feels it with the way one of her brothers looks at her, the way her sister clears a throat and declares how nice the food looks, how looked forward toward it’s been. She stares at the steam curling up off the ceramic. Almost lets her face fall into a scowl. But she doesn’t want an argument. The same patterns, she’s got to break them. So what if sitting here feels like being surrounded by strangers who look at her like an interloper? She’s got to remember what her mother clearly wants them all to. What it was before. Her, slipping teasing comments into a brother’s ear. Laughing at her father’s jokes with her sister. Dreaming big with her mother. She’s got to remember what she fought for: the ability to return.
The food is hot, the meat a little dry. She watches how her mother tries not to watch her. How her brother clears his throat awkwardly. He brings up a story from his work. Cuts off as awkward as his throat when the path winds to how different it is, working now, under these new systems. No one seems to know how to address that part, not even her. The new systems, better and still strange; she’s part of the reason it’s changed. She’s a hero. She’s got her name on a thousand people’s lips. Her shoulders carry the burden of it. It’s never easy to change something as grand as she did, and now it’s impossible for anyone to talk about. How, in the time before the success, she knows what her family had thought about her. About the things she’d had to do to get them to that success.
She chews on more meat. Her father eyes her. Says nothing. The absence maybe makes it worse. At least when he was prodding, asking things she didn’t really want to phrase into answers, he was talking to her.
Plates slowly emptied amid glancing looks, an atmosphere so thick a steak knife would be best to cut with. Her gut clenches. She’s stood before the worst people in the world and this might be harder. Sitting here and knowing she’s almost just a stranger wearing their loved one’s face. Knowing that when she tries to talk, she’ll ruin this last chance. It’s not explicit, the words her mother told her last time, that sad look that’d crushed, but it’d been clear enough. Too many bad attempts sours the connection. If they get a good one, they can build something up again.
In that vein, her brother asks a question. Small talk really, but it’s directed at her. She blinks, too many times, fumbles a fork. Reminds herself not to scowl, so hard when that’s her instinct nowadays. She answers it, holds a bated breath. Knows the whole table’s got their own lodged under their lungs. Maybe it would be better if they all went their separate ways. She, leaving them to their family and letting them memorialise the person she was, now dead. Maybe it’d be kinder. She wouldn’t have to look at them and know they don’t understand her anymore. Yet this had been her motivation the whole time, through all the things she’d had to do. At the end, there’ll be family dinners again.
So she can’t give up.
Not until they do.
A polite hum at her response. She asks a question in return, too hesitant on her tongue. A stilted performance from the woman whose subterfuge gained their city’s change. It’s apparently easier to lie to powerful dictators than it is to talk to her own family.
The conversation moves to another sibling for a response. She finds her eyes catching sight of the wine again, the light catching on the curve of its neck. It’d been hard to leave her family, but it’s so much harder to return.
Aaaaaaand we're back! @flashfictionfridayofficial day is here again! This time we're doing a brand new ship for me, Pipachel, courtesy of the one and only @wearingpants ! It was a REALLY fun dynamic to explore, and one I might visit again in the future, so thank you for your suggestion!
Words: 1000
Ao3 A Gift From Her Mother
To be perfectly honest, Piper had assumed the biggest shocks she’d be receiving that rotten December day was the information that the Greek gods were real, followed by the fact that her boyfriend could fly, possibly tied with learning that her boyfriend wasn’t her boyfriend, all of her memories of him were just a hallucination planted in her brain by the queen of the cosmos. For some reason. She liked to think she was rolling with the punches, accepting this massive paradigm shift with about as much grace as could be expected. Had she had a crying fit in the middle of the woods while a pretty girl she’d just met awkwardly stood watch to make sure all her noise wasn’t attracting the monsters that lived in said wood? Well, yes, but she was dealing with way more than one person should have to deal with and that but counted for something, okay?
However, somehow all of that just fell away when Piper walked into the Hera cabin and came face to face with the Oracle of Delphi. She wore heavy black robes, no shoes, and she stood before the statue of Hera, palms up as she quietly chanted some ancient. She had a massive cloud of messy bright ginger curls that she had tied back with a ratty bandana, and when she finally turned around, Piper’s eyes bugged. “Red?”
Rachel startled at the name just as hard and she gaped right back. “Piper?”
Annabeth cleared her throat and looked between the two of them. “Do you two, uh, know each other?”
Immediately, several months of memories flashed before Piper’s eyes. When she’d been fourteen, her dad had been called to film on site in New Zealand for about a year, leaving Piper behind with Jane, and the instant the school year ended, she’d been shipped off to St. Olga’s Reformation Camp. St. Olga’s was a prehistoric charm school that had basically gone out of business, other than rich people sending their daughters there when they became too much of a problem to deal with at home.
That’s where she’d met one Rachel Elizabeth Dare with her curly red hair, permanently paint-stained fingers, and mile-wide defiant streak. Apparently, she’d gotten tangled up with some kid at her school who set fire to the band room, so she’d been sent to St. Olga’s to reflect on her behavior, which she definitely did not do. What she did do was sneak out past curfew, laugh at all of Piper’s mediocre jokes, and kiss like her life depended on it. Piper could still feel the way her fingers had tangled in Rachel’s hair and the taste of the menthol cigarettes they’d smuggled in and promptly threw away when they realized how disgusting they actually were. On Piper’s last day at St. Olga’s Rachel had scribbled her phone number on Piper’s wrist and made her swear to call, and Piper did the same to her.
They hadn’t spoken since.
“We, um, we’ve met,” Piper stammered, awkwardly clearing her throat and looking for any kind of sign from Rachel, who was infuriatingly unreadable.
“Yeah, our dads, uh, run in some of the same circles,” Rachel added, slightly less awkward. She smiled at Piper and held out her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Yeah, uh, you, too.”
Unfortunately, as soon as Piper grabbed her hand, Rachel’s eyes rolled back and green smoke came billowing out of her mouth (which was not a thing when Piper was kissing her, by the way) and started yelling in some awful, distorted voice. Then, because she was almost as good at reunions as Rachel, Piper passed out.
Piper didn’t get a chance to talk to Rachel for the rest of the day, not until after she’d slept off her magical nap, missed dinner, sat through absurd campfire songs she didn’t know, and gotten claimed by Aphrodite in the most embarrassing public makeover imaginable. Rachel had been at the campfire, too, front and center with Annabeth and Jason, and she’d had her own little spectacle, getting possessed by an ancient spirit and reciting a prophecy that may or may not get Piper killed, but at least she’d done hers on purpose.
Piper was sitting alone now, unwilling to go deal with her apparent siblings in the Aphrodite cabin, but unsure where else she was allowed to go. She pulled Jason’s hoodie a little tighter around her, hoping to hide the awful new dress she’d been forced into, and desperately yanked at her hair, only for it to snap back into its perfect curls.
Piper just stared at her toes. “That obvious, huh?”
Someone sat down beside her, and somehow she was unsurprised to see Rachel. “No wonder I had such a massive crush on you, considering you’re mom’s the love goddess,” she joked weakly. When Piper didn’t respond, she winced and changed tactics. “I’m guessing you’re avoiding Drew?”
“Well, she’s pretty much a carbon copy of Roxanne and you hated her, sooooo.” Piper snorted, and Rachel grinned. “You want somewhere to crash tonight? I live in cave and I’ve only got one bed, but it’s a pretty nice cave. I’ve got a Switch.” She glanced down at Piper’s outfit and added “More importantly, I’ve got some dungarees that will probably fit.”
Piper laughed properly and wiped away her remaining tears. “That sounds beyond amazing, actually.”
Rachel offered her hand with a gentle smile. “Come on then. Let's see if we can do it right this time.”
Piper followed Rachel to her cave, which was just as nice as promised, and her one single bed. Piper didn’t mind, more content with life than she thought she’d be as her fingers got acquainted with curly hair and they traded kisses that tasted like burned marshmallows rather than cigarettes. Eventually, Rachel fell asleep with her head on Piper’s chest, snoring softly as Piper drifted off to sleep, too. She couldn’t help but smile, glad her mother had given her one more chance.
for this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt!
word count: 1,067 (lol)
this takes place a few days after this one :D
ao3 link (goes to the extended version)
—
The ambassador stared ruin in the face. It stood in corporeal form, a broad, imposing man whose influence outweighed hundreds of men, his hands having forged and crushed many a destiny.
Including his own.
“Namon Darüven, you have served me well these past few years.” The king leaned forward, his brutish arms interlocked on his lap, the puffed sleeves a trademark abundance.
“It is my honour to have done so, Your Majesty.” The words reeked of vomit, the king’s blunt, bored face an irritation akin to stomach sickness.
Namon worried of an outcome he feared inevitable. He braced himself for it, pulled strings for a new plan, assured he was ready.
All the preparation in the world could not quell the dread deepening with the king’s every word.
“You are my Ambassador, tried and true, my representative to the world. I trust you grasp the meaning of that?”
“I do.”
“Do you?” His voice took a graver tone. “Your stance on some of my plans speaks otherwise.”
“As your Ambassador,” Namon refrained from growling the words. “I seek what’s best for our nation, no matter what. In what world will war do us any good?”
“This is not about what you think!” He flinched when the king banged the table, his large fist not landing far from him. “These efforts are greater than you nor I, greater than this nation. This is to reclaim what’s been lost — our people, stolen from life or for labour — and give solace to those still here. Seldaika’s transgressions have gone on for too long, it is time it ends here.”
Namon stood alone on that table, bare, exposed, the surface devoid of anything else. “And what happens when some of those sent out die on your death wish? What will you tell their family members? Their friends, their neighbours? How can you emerge from the palace and look your nation and its people in the eye, while you declare that our men have died and suffered on foreign soil? How dare you.”
The king budged no further, his voice deep and deadpan, a simmer. “An ambassador of mine is there to vouch my terms and seek the best agreement, without personal opinion muddying the waters.”
Namon huffed, flexing his right hand. “I understand, sir. My opinions on the matter do not lessen my devotion to you nor our nation. I will continue to do everything for our betterment.”
“Your determination is a striking feature, a reason why I picked you.” He held his breath, dread rising, shuffling on the spot as he glanced behind him. “And now, it is a reason I must let you go.”
“I understand.” He bowed with shaky legs, his outstretched hands tingling. A cold pit gnawed at him, the king’s words a harsh sting.
If he blinked, this would be a dream, one where the words weren’t said and no souls bled.
If he blinked again, he knew who would be here, a great boon to knock sense into the king and perhaps change things for the better.
Namon turned on his heel and left, his reality cool and prickled, knocked as if the sky flipped.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The king’s words boomed behind him, useless noise.
If he wasn’t an ally to him, then Namon would rise to the role of his enemy.
And he would revel in it.
Two guards met him where the stairs flowed from the desk, spears aimed at him.
Namon took a step back, glancing behind him. “I need to leave.”
“Leave?” The king chortled. “Who said anything about you leaving? Namon Darüven, former Ambassador of the Crown of Feudrain, are under arrest for conspiracy against the nation’s interests. I hope you enjoy imprisonment.”
He gasped, taking another step back. To one side, the curtains were closed, no windows open. On the other stood the gilded door the king strode through, also shut.
The guards got closer, a long stride the difference.
Namon’s foot met the edge of the desk, leaving him to face his destiny.
He put his hands out, wrists upward, and hoped for the best.
The guards gripped him by the wrists, bound again in rope.
Daylight shone through the corridor they dragged him through, illuminating the elaborate paintings and gold detail to his left.
Each step upon the floor carried him a step closer to doom. The guards’ breathing a routine process for an unroutine order.
Namon writhed his hands. The note in his right pocket weighed upon his conscience, calling his name, urging him to escape.
High Councillor Darüven. Foreign to his thoughts, chilling to his being. A position he never considered, though the choice was laid bare.
A prison of four walls for a noble cause and a clear conscience, or a prison of obligation to exchange his conscience for the greater good?
Both a terrible choice, with the door coming fast.
Namon stopped in his tracks, dragging the guards with him. “Excuse me, gentlemen, may I trouble you to let me send a note?”
“You can do that when we’re down there.” One of the guards said. He tugged him forward, stopped by Namon and the other guard standing still.
“What’s the purpose of it?” The other guard asked.
“You wouldn’t deny a man the chance to let his loved ones know he was jailed, would you? I have the note pre-written.”
“Hmm, I suppose if we can see the note then why not?”
“What would the king say if he found out? This man’s no ordinary prisoner!”
“Don’t you think I know that!” The other guard let go of Namon’s wrists, gesturing. “The ambassador has enough scandal from the king without any note searches on top of it. It’s better that we see it than the king.”
“Ugh, would you just do your job already?” The first guard rolled his eyes.
Namon tugged at his bindings, shimmying his wrists until he found a loose part.
“I offer my gratitude for your grace, gentlemen.” He gave them a mocking bow, with a gleaming smile and sparkling charm in his brown eyes. One flick of the wrist brought his note to hand, the second flick sending it out the window.
“We said for you to show us the note.” The second guard clasped Namon’s wrist.
“You did see it, though.” He smiled, winking at them.
Feudrain’s fate rested upon the crows.
—
Tagging the General taglist for this: (ask/comment/reblog, etc if you'd like to be added or subtracted): @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @seastarblue @gioia-writes-and-others @rae-butter @corinneglass @rainbowsnowflake @fourwingedwriter @oddcryptidwrites @ark-inkweaving @bardic-tales @agirlandherquill @wyked-rebellion @oc-writing-corner @kingragnarok-writes @darkluminosity @the-narrator-plague @traderotales @lizardperson
