JT. Weaver of stories, singer of songs.

[writing-prompt-s]

There was once a daughter of peasants cursed to have tears that hardened into diamonds. Her loving family took pride in their poverty as it meant they had never made their daughter shed a drop. But…

[jtstoryweaver]

"Hello?"

Rafe straightened up too quickly, banging his shoulder on the corner of the wall cupboard. "Who's hurt?"

The owner of the polite voice stepped further into the herbalist's shop, drawing her patched hood back from her face. "No-one that I know of. I apologise, I didn't mean to worry you."

Rafe huffed out a heavy breath of relief. "Well, that's a nice change. What can I do for you?"

"I want to learn how to cry."

Rafe looked blankly at the earnest young woman. "Learn how to -? Crying's just a thing you do, if you're hurt or scared. Listen, what's your name?"

"Irina."

Rafe nodded to himself. "Irina, then. What's the actual problem?"

She stared at him steadily. There was something a little unnerving about those pale grey eyes, but Rafe convinced himself that it was simply her exceptional focus. "I want to learn how to cry. You're a herbalist, a healer. You've seen lots of people cry. You've cried for people. Will you teach me?"

Rafe's mouth opened. Closed. "Um. Well, if you can't cry, that sounds like a magic problem to me."   

Irina nodded to Rafe in perfect formality, a polite smile curving her lips. It didn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, and goodbye."

The door closed behind her, and Rafe did his best to put the odd encounter out of his mind. Definitely a magic thing. There was nothing he could have done to help. Right?

~

Maddie dropped a pinch of sage into the cauldron, frowned to herself, and added another one. "Now, was it thyme or basil? Where did I leave that book?"

The shop bell tinkled as Maddie reached for a lopsided pile of spellbooks, and she bit her lip in frustration. The cauldron would have to wait. "Coming!" she called, pushing aside the beaded curtain that led to the shop-half of the tower's bottom floor. Given the rain outside, she hadn't expected anyone to need her help tonight. "Spells, potions, curses, or basic supplies?"

The grey-eyed and slightly damp woman in the middle of the semi-circular room looked at her steadily. Must be some kind of magic-user, Maddie decided; most people, on seeing the shop for the first time, couldn't stop staring. The carefully wired bat skeleton on the ceiling was especially good for a lot of stares.

"Good evening. Are you the sorcerer?" asked the woman who was staring only at Maddie.

Maddie kept up her smile, although the idea of having to go disturb her teacher made her want to run in the opposite direction. "I'm the sorcerer's apprentice. Can I help?"

To Maddie's great relief, Grey-Eyes nodded. "I want to learn how to cry."

About to give the standard polite 'no' regarding love spells, Maddie's words stuck in her throat. "And you came to a sorcerer?" she asked dubiously.

One shoulder lifted in an indifferent shrug. "The herbalist said that it 'sounded like a magic problem'."

Maddie couldn't stop herself from snorting. "Rafe sent you? Of course he did. If it's not bleeding, coughing, sneezing, or herbal, then he doesn't know how to deal with it. Right. Let's get those tear ducts working, shall we?"

Half an hour later, Grey-Eyes—who had given her name as Irina—had undergone every curse-check that Maddie knew, and then prevented that night's dinner from boiling over. There was some kind of magic linked to Irina's tears, yes, but it shouldn't be stopping her from crying.

"Onions," Maddie decided. "No-one can resist onions. It's not a curse, which means it's physical. Onions should work. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

As if prompted, thunder cracked overhead, audible even though the double-walled stone of the tower walls. Irina, blinked, then shook her head. "I thought I'd stay at the inn tonight."

"Nonsense," Maddie said briskly. "We've got plenty of space, you can stay in the guest room. Here. Take this knife and start cutting the onions. Thin slices, if you can, my teacher has texture issues."

Irina simply nodded, taking the knife in one rough hand.

As Irina chopped onions, Maddie started on the carrots. "So, you're not from around here," Maddie said leadingly. "What brings you to our town?"

A pile of sliced onion formed rapidly on one side of Irina's knife. "My village doesn't have a herbalist. Or a sorcerer. I came here because I need help."

"And have you always had difficulty crying? Or it is a new problem?" Maddie's carrots joined Irina's onions in the cauldron.

"I can't remember crying. My parents taught me not to. I—I was never unhappy enough to cry."

Maddie glanced up at Irina, whose eyes were perfectly dry. "Well, I suppose that's good?" Maddie said weakly.

Irina nodded, and continued to chop onions.

Maddie set her knife aside. "Once you're finished with the onions, can you chop that garlic clove too and add that? I'm going to rouse my teacher from his studies, so I may be gone awhile."

Maddie escaped up the stairs, both to fetch her teacher and to get the guest bed ready. Maybe stronger magic would help?

~

The doctor shone a light into Irina's eyes, then nodded to himself. "You're perfectly healthy. I wouldn't worry about it, crying doesn't have a purpose other than to gain sympathy for the crier. You don't need sympathy. That will be five copper coins, thank you."

~

If Irina could cry, she would.

The doctor had been her last hope. She was tired, nearly out of money, and very far from home. The last innkeeper had demanded the kind of coin she didn't want to give, not even for a bed for the night. Not if it was his bed.

Now, outside the city, with twilight drawing in as the day faded, she had nowhere to go. The farms were set back from the road, and not always easy to see even if the sheep fields suggested a shepherd somewhere nearby.

A brisk bark interrupted her misery, and a whitish-brown shape bounded into the lane. Smiling a little, she crouched down in the hope that the dog wouldn't see her as a threat. She'd never had a dog as a child, but the shepherd in her village had introduced her to their dogs and sometimes let her curl up with them after the sheep were safely in the barn. "Never interrupt a working dog," they'd said sternly.

If this dog was out in the fields, with the sheep nearby, then they were still working. If she was lucky, the dog would let her pass. "Hello," she said softly, letting the dog come up to her and sniff her. "I don't mean any harm. See? I'm on this side of the fence."

The dog sniffed her more and then, to Irina's surprise, grabbed a mouthful of her old cloak.

"Hey—whoa! Okay, I'm coming!" Irina stumbled at the first pull, righting herself only for the dog's insistent tugging to increase. "Wait!"

The dog didn't wait. Irina followed the dog's guidance, hoping that she could beg a needle and thread from whoever the dog was bringing her to. There were enough holes in her cloak already, and another would only let more wind through.

Onwards through the fields she followed, weaving among sleeping white fluffy bundles and towards a faint rectangular glow. The glow resolved itself into an open door, and Irina tucked her cloak around herself as tightly as she could. Perhaps she could ask to sleep outside? It was still warm enough outside, if she curled up in the leeward side of the cottage . . .

A silhouette obscured the enticing warm light of the open door. "Nip?" Is that you?" called a strong voice, and the dog let go of her cloak to bark in response.

Irina's steps slowed as she approached the little stone cottage, one so very similar to the one where she'd grown up. Maybe she should just leave?

"And a stray lamb, I see. Would you like to come in?" asked the tall person in the doorway.

In the end, it was Nip who made her decision for her. The dog pranced up to his owner, demanding pets and scratches and giving licks in return, and sauntered into the cottage as if he owned it.

Another piece of advice from her village's shepherd echoed silently in her ears. "If you ever find a dog who is unafraid of their owner, that's a good sign."

Irina nodded cautiously. "Yes, please."

The weathered face smiled at her. "You're a polite child. Come in, there's enough for two. Nip usually has the leftovers, the lazy thing, so don't give in when he begs. I fed him earlier."

Once inside and with the door closed, the shepherd took their coat off to reveal a shapeless multi-layered outfit of shirts, smocks, and skirts. "Thank you," Irina offered.

"Sit down, child, you're skin and bones. Here." Half of the soup in the pot went into a wooden bowl, to which the shepherd added a carved wooden spoon before passing it to Irina. "You're not the first hungry lamb Nip's brought home. He's a good lad, he is."

Irina nodded, abruptly too tired to make conversation.

The shepherd must have understood, because their shared meal passed in silence. Irina's bowl emptied steadily, the warmth settling into her stomach, and she yawned as she bent over the well-scraped bowl.

The shepherd stood, and before Irina could blink, she found herself curled up in front of the stove and wrapped in a dog-haired blanket.

"Sleep well, lamb," the shepherd said gently.

~

A waft of cool air and the scent of pease porridge roused Irina from her sleep. "I'm awake, Mama," she mumbled, sitting up and looking around for the broom. She had to sweep the floor to stop the mice coming in, and—the broom wasn't there. It was over in the corner, and that wasn't the broom Irina had made herself, with the nice straight ash handle that had taken days to smooth properly. This one was made of an oak branch, with the bark still clinging to the shaft in places.

She was in the shepherd's cottage.

A shadow fell across the door, the shepherd stepping through as she stamped mud off her heavy boots. Nip followed her in, much of his earlier exuberance dimmed. "Morning, lamb. Move over, the porridge should be just about done."

Irina duly moved aside, the blanket bundled in her arms and questions on her tongue.

"My name is Nora," the shepherd said unhurriedly. "The locals call me Aunt Nora. I've been shepherd here for forty years or more, and I'll probably be here for twenty more."

"I'm Irina. I—I've been travelling."

"Looking for something, hmm? Well, you might be lucky and find it. Here you go, breakfast. Village is thataway, if you want dinner come back here this afternoon."

Come back? "You won't mind?"

"Aside from the boys who watch the sheep, I don't talk to people much. I'm a little starved, for company, and Nip likes you. I don't mind."

~

Days settled into a pattern. At first, Irina intended to earn enough money to pay her way home, but somehow the need to go back to her old village never felt urgent enough. It wouldn't hurt to have a little extra money, she told herself, and then autumn rolled in and every hand was needed to help with the harvest. After that, it was winter, and the roads were made of mud and not fit for travelling. Not long after that, the snow fell, and Irina realised she'd been here for half a year.

She'd planned to work at the inn, scrubbing pots and washing sheets, but that plan took a sideways step on her first day in town. Irina had been passing by the blacksmith when he'd leaned out of his forge and shouted, "You! Lass! Can you run to the well and bring me some water? There's a copper in it for you if you're quick. Here's the bucket!"

She'd taken the bucket he'd thrown at her feet and returned in what she considered to be a respectable time, and the blacksmith had smiled as she'd lugged the bucket back to him.

"Good timing, lass. Pour it in the barrel, will you?"

She'd done as he'd asked, and he'd dumped a long piece of iron into the barrel. The clouds of steam had made Irina jump back, her wide eyes fixed on the barrel.

"That's going to be a scythe, lass. Terry over at Riverside Farm wants a new one for this year's harvest, and about time too. If he sharpens his old one much more there'll be nothing left of it."

By the end of that day, she'd earned six copper pennies and a lesson in different types of metal. He'd told her to come back, and she had; first to run simple errands, and then as apprentice. She spent that night and every night after at Nora's cottage while Nora stayed out with her sheep.

When she'd asked if the blacksmith didn't have an apprentice already, he'd raised an eyebrow at her. "None of the other youngsters have the feel for the forge," the blacksmith told her in his abrupt way. "You're a good lass, and you respect the metal and the fire. Strength is a thing that grows over time."

Nora had no advice about smithing, but she'd listened when Irina excitedly described the new things she'd learned that day. And she had her own advice, when Irina had admitted why she'd been on the road.

"Crying's a good thing to learn," she'd said. "It's healthy to cry sometimes, when you need to feel something strongly. It helps to wash things clean."  

Months later, with her arms aching from filing points onto the nails she'd made the day before, Irina headed back to Nora's cottage. Fresh-fallen snow crunched under her feet; a thin layer now, but sure to get deeper as the winter wore on.

With her head bent against the wind, Irina didn't notice Nip until the dog was bouncing around her feet. "Nip? Where's—oh, Aunt Nora!"

"You don't think I stay all winter in that house, do you?" Nora called, her heavy boots leaving deeper tracks than Irina's. "The sheep are safely closed up in their barn, and we don't let them out until the snow melts and the fields drain. There's a nice loft in the barn, we'll be staying there until spring."

Relief and joy so great that it was physical almost knocked Irina over. We. She wouldn't be kicked out now that Aunt Nora was living somewhere else.

The wind cut icy tracks against her cheeks, and she smiled through her drying lips. "It'll be a shorter walk to the blacksmith's forge."

"And a good thing, too. A nice warm place in winter, is the forge." A frown shadowed Aunt Nora's brow, and the older woman leaned in. "Don't cry out here, lamb, your tears are freezing on your face."

Tears?

Irina lifted one gloved hand to her face. The wool came away sparkling, diamonds glittering against the brown fabric.

"It's okay," Irina said, closing her hand on the gems before wrapping Aunt Nora in a hug. "I'm just happy."

Aunt Nora patted her gently on the back, and Irina luxuriated in the hug for a few chilly minutes. Nip, however, did not approve of being left out, and he butted his head into her side.

As Irina leaned back, Nora's jaw dropped in shock. "Lamb, your eyes."

"My eyes?" Irina parroted, biting her lip in the hope that Aunt Nora wouldn't change with the prospect of infinite wealth.

As it happened, it wasn't the diamonds that Nora was worried about. "Irina, they're brown."

Irina hiccupped another sob, the corners of her mouth hurting from how wide her grin had grown. Brown. Her eyes were brown again. "How about I tell you about it when we're nice and warm in the barn?"

Nora laughed. "I knew you were a sensible girl. Let's go. If we're lucky, one of the lads remembered to bring us dinner from the inn."

~

Years later, when Irina had taken over the forge and was well known for producing beautifully engraved metal, traders often wondered how she managed to etch such fine lines. She always gave them the same baffling answer.

"With joy, of course."

[jtstoryweaver]

Child or Double, Part 2

(Part 1 of this story is here.)

You pull the old children's clothes out of your dryer and hold them up critically. They'll be a bit big for the girl, but they'll do well enough for now.

"Little sister, are you around?" you ask the empty hallway.

There's a shuffle behind you, and you turn to see two young girls behind you, hand in hand. The one on the left is warier, while the one on the right is flickering gently—here one second, faded the next. You offer the clothes to the child on the left.

"Could you please take these to your sister? If she wants to come out of her room, I'll be making breakfast in a minute. If not, you can take her breakfast up to her."

Little eyes squint at you, and the girl on the left takes the clothes silently. The pair vanish, clothes and all.

As promised, you head downstairs and start clattering around with plates and pans. Pancakes, you think; even if the terrified child in Alan's old bedroom doesn't want any, the rest of your children will happily clean them up. They don't <em>need</em> to eat, but some of them enjoy it anyway.

There's a shuffling noise on the landing above, and light footsteps pad hesitantly down the stairs. You make sure to pretend you haven't noticed, moving to the far side of the kitchen before looking towards the door.

Two wide brown eyes peek back at you from around the door frame, and you smile. "Hello," you offer.

"'lo," she whispers.

"What would you like to eat?"

Her gaze darts towards the heaped platter of fresh pancakes. "You made pancakes."

You nod, setting the plate on the kitchen table and taking the milk out of the fridge. "I did, but you don't have to eat them if you don't want to. My kids are very happy about finishing off any leftovers."

Tiny white teeth dent her lower lip. "Cereal?"

"You can absolutely have cereal," you agree, opening the cupboard so that she can see the selection. "What kind?"

She points at the rice pops, and you pour them into a bowl and add milk.

A little more of her is visible now, and her bright red top tells you that she's wearing the clean clothes you sent. There's a pang in your heart, pain mixed with pleasure at seeing Alan's clothes on another child. "Are you comfortable eating at the table, or would you prefer to take them back to your room?"

Her eyes widen even more. "What if I get milk on the carpet?"

You smile, putting her cereal on the table and then backing off. "I promise you, that carpet's been through worse than a little spilled milk. I can always scrub it later."

Her lips press together in determination and she marches out into the kitchen. You half expect her to grab the bowl and spoon and scurry back to her room, but she pulls herself up onto the chair and digs in.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. So brave, this little one.

A moment later, part of the reason for her courage walks through the kitchen door. It's the girl's Doubler, still hand in hand with the child who used to look like Alan. "Is there room for us?" the girl's Doubler asks.

"Always, sweetheart," you tell her. The girl scrambles up next to her sister, the still-flickering child perforce taking the next seat along. You're almost certain that the additional child is Duncan, the Doubler who haunts your attic.

You're proved right a moment later when Duncan looks up at you. "M-mom? Is it okay if I look like this?"

"Of course it's okay," you reassure the most nervous of your children. "You can look like whatever you want. Did you want a new name?"

"N-no." Wonder of wonders, Duncan smiles tremulously at you. "I like being Duncan. I just like being a girl too."

"I'm proud of you, my daughter," you assure her.

Not being particularly demonstrative, Duncan looks away shyly. But the little smile is still on her lips, and she stops phasing in and out of reality.

The girl, who's about halfway through her cereal, pauses to stare at you. "What's your name?" she asks.

"Elaine," you say, leaving it open as to whether the girl tells you her name in return.

She nods. "I'm Diana."

From across the kitchen, you nod in acknowledgement. "I'm pleased to meet you, Diana."

Duncan nudges the Doubler sister. "Do you have a name?"

"No," she says, her lips turning down in a pout.

"Sara!" Diana declares. "I always wanted a sister called Sara."

The newly named Sara lights up. "I like it!"

Milk splashes on the table when Diana drops her spoon to hug her newly named sister, but you're not worried. Like the carpet in Diana's room, the table's seen much worse than a little spilled milk.

~

(Okay, breakfast went on longer than I expected and I have more story to tell, so keep an eye out for Part 3!)

[writing-prompt-s]

You are working the gate in the afterlife and for the first time ever, something the humans built has shown up to be processed. You’re not sure what to do, this… entity shouldn’t have a soul, but here it is in front of you, freshly dead and awaiting the next life.

[jtstoryweaver]

Most of the time, you love this job. You were always a people person in life, so volunteering for the Departure Halls seemed like a natural fit. Some people come and go, trying it out and discovering it's not for them, but you're happy exactly where you are. One day, they'll find something they love too.

In the – years? Decades? – since you started here, you've seen the Departure Halls change. At first, it was a series of ticket booths at a train station, but these days it's more like a line of airport check-in desks. One day, perhaps, it will change into something else.

Some really interesting people have come through your check-in desk. Kind people who were never famous, famous people who were never kind, musicians and maintenance staff, cleaners and corporate businessmen. They all have stories. Best of all, if they start screaming at you, then you can shunt them to the Eternal Supervisor.

They rarely come back after that, and if they do then they're far more polite.

You pass the energetic old abuela her ticket, and she beams and hands you an empanada. "You need to eat more," she scolds cheerfully, and you're grateful for the Babylon Reversal that means you can understand any language in the afterlife. Spanish hadn't been among the ones you spoke when you were alive.

She bustles off cheerfully and you smile as she wanders away, your eyes on your paperwork and not on the unending queue before you. "Next, please!"

There's a whir, the sound of heavy-duty wheels tracking smoothly across the floor, and you look up to see a pair of cameras staring quizzically at you. "Hello," it says via whir and squeak.

"Hello," you say, blinking. Leaning forward, you glance down over the top of your desk at the winged hexagonal base and the six sturdy wheels that carry it.

"My name is Opportunity," the machine says.

Before you, the history of the being unfurls on your screen. Built to explore, and they did. They lasted and lasted and lasted, and spent nearly fifteen years all alone on a faraway planet, and learned so much, and talked to the people who loved them. So many people loved them.

"Was I good?" they ask.

"You are very good," you say, tears beginning to form in your eyes. "I haven't met someone so good since Laika."

You pick up the Gold Phone on your desk, biting your lip as you smile. Beside you, your nearest neighbours turn to look, awe in their eyes. In all your time here, you've only picked up the Gold Phone twice.

"Boss? There's someone here who finally came home."

[seananmcguire]

Hi there!

I don't need a reply if you're busy; I just wanted to tell you how thrilled I am that you saw my Child or Double story and thought it was worth reblogging. I'm a massive fan of your works, especially the Wayward Children series, and finding out that someone on my bookshelf saw my writing feels like being paid a massive compliment.

Thank you.

I want the next part!

[jtstoryweaver]

Thank you for replying!

I'd better get writing it, then. Good thing I already had some ideas . . .

[writing-prompt-s]

The King of Darkness has died to a sudden illness. His lackeys are tearing his realm apart in a massive anarchic free-for-all. The Heroes are now sent to his castle - not to kill him, but to find and actually bother to read his will.

[jtstoryweaver]

(cw death, cw murder, but no worse than most fantasy novels).

~

Marvin the Magnificent, Dark Heir to His Majesty Stevarathus I, the King of Darkness, took a deep breath. His minions–the ones who'd followed him after the Dread King's unexpected passing–looked up at him attentively, the pedestal under his feet raising him up high enough that they had to crane their necks. He'd have more subjects soon, he promised himself, and then they would rain terror and destruction upon this pathetic land!

"My loyal followers," Marvin began.

Whatever he was about to proclaim went unsaid as three grey-fletched arrows buried themselves in his throat. Marvin's body tumbled from the pedestal, crumpling to the floor like a particularly attractive sack of potatoes.

His 'loyal followers' promptly scattered, a few enterprising minions looting his campaign tent on the way out.

*

Ewna the Evil Enchantress pursed her perfectly painted lips in the mirror. "Queen Ewna," she mused to herself. "Or perhaps Empress Ewna? Hmm. I like that."

She stroked the brush through her long hair once more, more for the satisfaction of feeling the silky strands slide through its bristles than for any real need. Her attendant was due back any moment with another bucket of hot water for her bath, which even now was steaming nicely in the corner of her room. Steaming, yes, she thought critically, but too shallow for a good luxurious soak. A few more buckets would do the trick, even if she had to wait for her maid to trudge up and down the stairs.

Something skittered in the corner of her tower room, and she perked up. "Oh, is that a little mousey? Come here, little mousey!"

Tiny feet scampered towards her, scrambling up the leg of her dresser and hiding behind her mirror. Something glittered in the shadows – a bit of silver ribbon, perhaps?

"Are you shy, mousey? It's alright, you can come out now," Ewna coaxed.

Something moved from behind her mirror, and she held out a hand.

The mouse leapt to her hand, and Ewna barely had time to notice the stiletto dagger tied firmly to its back. Frozen with shock, she saw it run up her arm and dive headfirst into her breast, the dagger sinking between her ribs and piercing her heart.

Her last thought was that she'd been partially right. The dagger had been tied on with a silver ribbon.

*

Lord Terror, Fell Advisor to the Late King of Darkness, flung himself through a shadowy doorway and panted as the mob ran by outside. By the gods great and small, he didn't know how much more of this he could take! How did the inhabitants of these narrow streets ever find their way around?

A match scraped to life in the room beyond the door.

Terror's heart galloped into a spirited attempt at escaping his chest, and he clutched the plain-hilted dagger at his waist. Not now, not now, not when he was so close to -!   

"Nine Aligned Gods, Ter, how long have you been running?" The owner of the match lit a dim lantern, enough to illuminate her face and that of her companions. She shook out the match as Terror flopped back against the wall in relief.

It took him a few seconds to get his breathing and heart rate under control, and then he smiled at the woman in sensible in travelling clothes with a quiver slung at her hip. "Fee. You got my message."

Fee scoffed. "As if I'd leave my twin brother to get murdered by rioters. The Council of Rulers wanted to let this kingdom fall to infighting, but Gark persuaded the Council that, uh . . ."

"I merely suggested that an orderly transfer of power to someone who might be a willing trading partner was far more desirable than a neighbour who would, at best, begin looking outwards for conquest." Gark shrugged enormous, muscular shoulders, a small smile barely visible through his prodigious beard. "Once I had reminded them of the resources available here, they shooed us out of the door almost before I'd finished speaking. I was charmed."

The third human member of the party snorted. The cut and quality of his clothes was, while equally roadworthy, several notches above his companions'. "I wasn't. Diplomats are cheaper than armies, and the Council is a pack of penny-pinching toads."

Fee tilted her head at the finely dressed man. "Not much in their pockets?"

"Two gold pieces. Two! In seven purses! I've robbed richer secretaries!"

A tiny, brown-furred face poked its nose out of the self-declared thief's left pocket, and squeaked imperiously.

The thief's shoulders relaxed as he looked down at the mouse. "A good point, Miss Mary. Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb your nap."

The mouse squeaked in reply and vanished again, and Terror briefly wondered if he'd imagined the rather petulant note to Miss Mary's response. Possibly not, given the people his sister tended to hang around with.

"So." Fee moved closer, and Terror definitely wasn't imagining the eagerness in her eyes. "Did you bring it?"

"Did I–of course I brought it!" Terror hissed. "Do you think I'd leave the Dark King's will unattended? It was the last thing he entrusted to me, I've carried it-"

"-in the left inside pocket of your jacket, folded over for concealment," the thief finished absently, moving closer to the lantern so that it cast better light on the vellum. "First place anyone would think to look, if they knew you had it."

Betrayed, and too exhausted to protest at being pre-emptively pickpocketed, Terror stared mutely at his sister until she gave in and tucked herself under his arm. The position was a little awkward, given their identical heights, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Under cover of darkness, Terror turned his head to murmur into her ear. "You look good. You finally finished the second potion?"

Fee preened, as much as she could with a brother-shaped weight hanging off her. "Finally. Took forever to find the last two ingredients, then I got them both at once. And now I look amazing."

"You always looked amazing, but now you look happy," Terror countered.

Fee's smile softened. "I am. My body fits me now."

Terror would have liked to continue, it being the first time he'd seen his sister in too many years, but they were interrupted by the still-unnamed thief. "Hey! Fear! Gark! Come look at this!"

Fee steered Terror over to the thief, who had Miss Mary perched on his shoulder. The mouse seemed as intent on the will as her human friend, peering down at the finely legible script of one of the former palace scribes. Together, they clustered around the document that Terror had sworn to protect with his life, Fee pulling out her spectacles to see better. (Terror's own glasses had been lost in his escape from the Dread Palace.)

The thief tapped his finger on one line, and the five of them (mouse included) bent to read the words.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

"All possessions, properties, and powers that are mine at the moment of my death shall be inherited by my wife, or by my daughter should my wife predecease me," Terror read aloud. "Signed, Steve Cooper, a.k.a. King Stevarathus I."

The silence went on a little longer, broken eventually by a rumbling voice.

"I was unaware that he was married," Gark said thoughtfully. "Lord Terror, where would the copy of his marriage document be?"

Terror's face turned towards the wall, looking in the precise direction of the Dread Palace. The thief cursed low under his breath, his words followed by a yelp as Miss Mary bit him reproachfully.

Privately, Terror agreed.

[writing-prompt-s]

After a short dizziness you pick up your head to find yourself in seventh grade. The teacher looks at you and asks derisively, “Are you having one of your ‘I’m somebody else’ incidents again?” Behind you, someone begs you not to answer. The teacher continues, “then answer the question already!”

[jtstoryweaver]

(Trigger and content warnings: consciousness transfer, body horror, medical experiments, cruel teacher, unethical corporation, Black Mirror style technology.)

~

His teacher gestured at the board, movements wide and flourishing, and the boy (boy? He was a full grown adult five minutes ago) squinted at the whiteboard. It had been a long, long time since middle school algebra, but he'd always been good at math.

"X equals seven," he answered dutifully.

The teacher narrowed her eyes at him. "X equals seven, Miss Bramley," she said the emphasis on her name soaked in contempt. "I'm giving you detention for rudeness, Liam."

When she turned back to the whiteboard, wiping out the previous equation with short, vicious strokes of the board eraser, a hand reached out to pat him on the arm. Startled, he glanced to one side, where a girl gave him a sympathetic smile and then flicked her eyes back to the front.

Taking her hint, he did the same. Just barely in time, as it happened; Miss Bramley whipped back around and immediately handed out two more detentions for failure to pay attention.

Well, at least it wasn't just him?

Or rather, it wasn't just Liam.

Aside from the immediate issues, he had a major problem. His name wasn't Liam; he'd never been to this school, never had a Miss Bramley teach him, never seen any of Liam's classmates before.

He scribbled down notes in Liam's math book (even his handwriting was different from the previous owner of this body), and somehow got to the end of the lesson.

Even when the bell rang, everyone stayed in their seats. Miss Bramley glared at them all, then slammed down five detention slips (five? Had she handed out more before Eric had woken up?) onto various desks. One of them was for the girl who sat next to him.

"You may go," she barked eventually at the silent students.

The students filed past her, heading for lockers or lessons, and Eric followed them. As he passed her desk, her hand shot out, and Eric jumped as she gripped his upper arm in her narrow fingers. Focused on his intention to check Liam's lesson plan, he hadn't noticed the grab.

"I don't want to hear any more about your fantasies, Liam," she said, emanating the same kind of calm that his boss showed before he fired someone. "You will pay attention in my lessons, or you will fail math this semester. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Miss Bramley," Eric said, not needing to fake the nerves that seized Liam's adolescent body.

"Hmm." She looked him over, then pulled him towards her with a jerk. Eric, who hadn't expected it, barely stopped himself before he hit her desk. Her other hand came up and wrapped around the back of his head, and cold fingers probed at the base of his skull. Eric jerked, but Miss Bramley still had his arm in her grasp, and Liam didn't have an adult's strength. "Ah. Yes. Good." She released him, and smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "I'll see you for detention later, Liam."

"Yes, Miss Bramley," Eric repeated. Before she could change her mind, he escaped her classroom, the door swinging shut behind him.

The other four who'd received detention slips turned from their little huddle in the corridor, and the girl who'd comforted him beckoned urgently. Having no better ideas, he joined them, the corridors still busy enough that the other students camouflaged their movements.

"Did she find it?" the girl asked urgently.

"Find what?" Eric asked, entirely lost.

The tallest boy spat a curse. "Another newbie. Dammit, I told Gideon not to start staff trials yet!"

"Gideon? Wait, Gideon Haversmith?" Eric asked. Gideon was Eric's line manager at Helle-Ryn Technology, one step below the boss who took so much pleasure in firing people.

"That's him," the girl said in disgust. "We haven't even got the request for volunteers out yet, and Giddyup goes and – never mind."

The other girl, shorter and darker, shook her head. "We can explain later. We – look, who are you?"

"Eric Danvers," Eric said, his brain beginning to put together the puzzle clues. "I'm one of Gideon's coders."

The last boy, who hadn't spoken yet, spat out a curse nasty enough that the passing children glanced at him in shock or admiration. "Right. 'Miss Bramley' actually works for our rival Mortland Inc., she's been trying to figure out which children have the CT implants. This is the first time she's got all five of us. If we go to detention, these kids aren't going home tonight. Or ever."

Eric swayed on his feet, and the tall boy rested a supportive hand on his back. Eric chose to focus on the lesser horror, not wanting to think about that. "I didn't know the cerebral transfer implants were working yet."

He also hadn't known that his adult body had one.

"You didn't need to know yet," the second girl said practically. "Come on. Everyone's at lunch, we can get away. I've already triggered Dawn's emergency signal, her dad will be here soon."

The four hustled Eric out of the doors, past the gate, and towards a big black car that bore the discreet logo of Helle-Ryn Technology's more publically facing branch.

Admit it, Eric, it's the branch that doesn't carry out morally questionable experiments under a shell of corporate secrecy.

The five tumbled into the broad back seats, three and two on the bench seats behind the driver.

Eric only had time to notice that the driver was behind a sealed panel before his eyes slid shut.

~

Eric groaned, blinking up at the light above him.

"Ah, Mr. Danvers. Welcome back to your original body," said a warm voice. He twisted his head to look up at the woman beside him, who wore a lab coat and carried a computer tablet. Her attention was all on the screen. "We apologize for the inconvenience. You should be well enough to return to work in a moment, after you've had some coffee and cookies."

Finding his limbs unrestrained by straps or IVs, Eric swung himself up to sit on the edge of the medical bed. "I did not consent to have technology implanted in my head without my knowledge," he gritted out.

She blinked at him. "Of course you did. It's all in your contract. Now, please don't cause a scene, or you'll upset your roommate."

"Roommate?" Eric echoed.

"Yes!" She smiled, and waved to someone behind him. "Eric, this is Liam. Liam, say hi to the man whose body you borrowed!"

"Hi," said a voice which had only just begun to crack. It sounded different from when he'd been inside that head.

As Eric turned around, the scientist leaned in and whispered in his ear. "And Mr. Danvers? I'm sure I don't need to mention the importance of . . . discretion, when you're among your colleagues."

 Eric swallowed, throat dry.

[writing-prompt-s]

“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”

[jtstoryweaver]

You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. “All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.” Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, “Yes, Duncan, that includes you.”

You don’t see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you’re used to that. You know they’ll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.

As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you’ve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.

“It’s okay, none of you are in trouble,” you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You’re so proud of their progress.

One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.

“Are you new?” you ask carefully.

He nods, and you drop to one knee. “It’s okay, sweetie,” you tell him firmly. “I love all of my sons, even ones I haven’t met before. Ask your brothers, they’ll tell you.”

“’m here because I heard you were nice,” he says in a tiny voice.

You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That’s good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they’ve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.

Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. “Why do we look like this?” he asks, curious.

“Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?”

A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.

“Wilson took on my son’s form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.”

Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.

“When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.” You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don’t mind.

“It’s not like you need to feed us!” calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don’t have a Lucas yet.

“That does help,” you admit. You put steel into your next words. “However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.”

You’d say more, but there’s a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.

Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.

“Please,” the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. “Please. She needs somewhere to stay.”

Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.

Your son’s bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he’d have been okay with that.

[smol-feralgremlin]

[jtstoryweaver]

adsfjklj;ljfkdj;lkasfd

*be JT*

*see that you suddenly have many reblogs, likes, and new followers*

*check tumblr*

*see that QUEEN OF MODERN FANTASY SEANAN MCGUIRE reblogged my Doubler story*

*scream into pillow at pitches so high that only dogs can hear it*

[jtstoryweaver]

I really loved the multiple children/Doublers piece you wrote! I'd love for there to be more if that's in the cards. Either way it was a lovely read

Thank you so much!

I don't have any immediate plans for further adventures in this universe, but you never know what might happen when the plotbunnies attack!

[writing-prompt-s]

The spell of the fae forced you to tell them your name. The fae looks at you with pure horror, while you look at them confused, because that was definitely not your name.

[jtstoryweaver]

She gritted her teeth, trying to prevent her name escaping "F . . . F . . ."

The fae leaned forward eagerly on their tree branch, their glamour wavering as her resistance pulled power from them and they sacrificed beauty for her True Name. She'd managed to inconvenience them, at least.

Her breath rushed out of her, carrying the words the Fae desired. "Fairest of All." 

Wait. What?

That wasn't her name. Her name was Felicity, not that she was going to tell the Fae that.

The Fae's glamour collapsed entirely, and something that looked like a cross between a viperfish and a furless ferret stared up at Felicity with horrified goat eyes. "Forgive, Your Honour. Forgive foolish Fae," they babbled, bowing a neck that didn't look designed to bend.

Okay, there was something going on here, and all the lessons she'd learned about the Fae said that it was a terrible idea to show weakness. "And why should I forgive?" she asked idly, as if she already knew and was debating the depth of the punishment she would bestow. (How? How could a human punish a Fae? She was out of her depth and out of ideas, in this moment of panic.)

"Your Honour is Fairest. Your Honour will not cast judgement for a greater crime than this small Fae has committed." Those too-blue eyes looked down.

Hold on. Your Honour? Judgement? Crimes? This – by all the willing deities, was 'the Fairest' the title for their judges? Legend came down pretty solidly on the Light and Dark Fae Courts, but no-one had even hinted at the possibility of Fae Civil and Criminal Courts!

Felicity took a breath. She could work with this. If she could wrangle twenty seven-year-old children into learning about multiplication, she could handle one snivelling lesser Fae.

"You will swear to answer this Fairest truthfully regarding the wrong you have done against her," Felicity said, giving the little Fae no option but to agree.

"This Fae swears!"

She locked the Schoolteacher Glare on them.

"This Fae swears on mother's magic and the Great Tree," they amended.

Felicity decided that would do. "Tell me what spell you cast on me."

"Cast One Truth, Your Honour. Asked the question before anyone else could do so."

Felicity's knowledge of judges was mostly from TV shows and that one time she'd been a juror, but she knew that the evidence should be as clear as possible. "Tell me what question you asked me."

"Asked the True Name of the Fairest of All." The Fae huddled down into the wood of the branch it had chosen to perch on.

"No disappearing on me before I pronounce judgement," Felicity said sternly. It unfolded slightly, blue eyes with kidney-shaped pupils looking up at her in entreaty. "What did you plan to do with that information?"

Her query dragged the words out of its unwilling mouth, just as it had done to her only minutes before. "Play and pester, tease and taunt. Bring human to Fae lands, twist and turn and lose them and loop them."

"How long would you have done these things?"

"A year, or two, or three. Three for the Fae and thirty for the humans."

Felicity swallowed her exclamation of horror with the willpower honed by dealing with tantrums and playground injuries. "Why would you have done this?"

"By rule of the King and Queen, and for this Fae's fun."

Felicity breathed in. "How much of your plan was by rule of King and Queen?"

"Allowed to play with True Names in the mortal lands."

"And how much was not?"

They buried their nose, with its mouth full of needle-like teeth, in the tree bark. It made no difference to the confession she drew from them. "Not allowed to force True Names, only to trick. Not allowed to fetch humans to the Fae lands, only to deceive."

 There it was. "Then a fair punishment would be to –"

"No! No!" they shrieked. "Not to bring before King and Queen, no, Fairest!"

"A fair punishment," Felicity repeated patiently, "would be to give me your True Name. Despite your plans, you did not carry out any of the actions you described."

The Fae's claws raked the bark, but it nodded. "The punishment is fair, Your Honour," they agreed grudgingly. "This Fae's true name is Glitterwings."

Felicity choked back a laugh. The Fae's true, wingless form was about as far away from glittery as you could get. "Glitterwings. You will not seek my death, injury, or any means of harm, against me or other humans."

"Yes, Your Honour," Glitterwings agreed miserably. "But how can Fae be Fae without mischief?"

"I never forbade you from benign mischief," Felicity pointed out. "I'm sure you can think of something."

The Fae brightened, then slumped back to their branch. "This Fae is not clever."

Well, given their law-breaking attempt at ruining her life, that was fairly obvious. "Listen - do you have another name, one you would prefer me to use in front of others?"

That startled them, their head snapping back up and their eyes fixing on her. "No. This Fae is this Fae."

"I shall call you Sparky," she decided. "Do you have a home to go to, Sparky?"

They sat back on their hind legs, their previous glamour beginning to weave around them again. "No home. Sparky sleeps in trees, when sleep needed."

Felicity fought the urge to coo over the little mischief. They'd nearly wrecked her life – but, fair was fair, they hadn't managed it. "Then you can come home with me. I baked a sponge cake yesterday, there's still plenty left."

"Human food?" Sparky asked eagerly.

"Human food," Felicity agreed, holding out one hand to the ethereal little winged thing sitting in the tree. "Come on, hop up. I'm sure that between us we can find something for you to do."

Sparky leapt gracefully onto her hand, ran up her arm, and settled comfortably on her shoulder. "Fairest of All is truly fair," they declared.

Felicity chuckled. "Careful with the True Names there, Sparky," she warned. "Miss Trent will do."

"Yes, Miss Trent," Sparky agreed.

Felicity moved off down the path through the trees. Her voice was audible even when she moved out of sight, Sparky's high, sweet glamour-voice answering her.

From among the shadows, a man stepped onto the path. His exquisite beauty alone would have marked him as Fae, although no-one who saw him would have been able to agree on a set of features. "A fair judgement indeed," he murmured, and the trees rustled at his voice. "You have a long road ahead, Fairest of All."

[writing-prompt-s]

“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”

[jtstoryweaver]

You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. "All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now." Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, "Yes, Duncan, that includes you."

You don't see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you're used to that. You know they'll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.

As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you've long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.

"It's okay, none of you are in trouble," you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You're so proud of their progress.

One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.

"Are you new?" you ask carefully.

He nods, and you drop to one knee. "It's okay, sweetie," you tell him firmly. "I love all of my sons, even ones I haven't met before. Ask your brothers, they'll tell you."

"'m here because I heard you were nice," he says in a tiny voice.

You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That's good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they've seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.

Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. "Why do we look like this?" he asks, curious.

"Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?"

A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.

"Wilson took on my son's form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me."

Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.

"When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen." You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don't mind.

"It's not like you need to feed us!" calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don't have a Lucas yet.

"That does help," you admit. You put steel into your next words. "However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it."

You'd say more, but there's a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.

Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.

"Please," the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. "Please. She needs somewhere to stay."

Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.

Your son's bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he'd have been okay with that.

~

(Part 2)