little bird

to be, always, a waxing, a waning, and, in waxing again, not ever the same.

[askboxmemes]

Even More Drabbles

[xuebird]

genevieveschubert:

Leave a “Amuse Me” in my ask, and I will write a funny drabble about my character trying to cheer your up.

Leave a “Break Me” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Call Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character asking for yours [ be it at the brink of death/in a battlefield/knocking on the front door wounded, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Drink Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character taking shots with yours.

Leave a “Enamor Me” in my ask, and I will write a fluffy drabble about my character trying to woo yours [  or vice versa, be it out of the blue/Valentines Day,feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble out my character fighting with/or against yours.

Leave a “Get Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character saving yours.

Leave a “Haunt Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours [ as a ghost, watching from a distance, or otherwise, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Invite Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character asking your character to [ specify. ]

Leave a “Join Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving your character an offer [ be it a proposal for an alliance, asking them to join them in an activity (you can get dirty if you want), feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Kill Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character killing yours.

Leave a “Love Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a fluffy drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Mourn Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character mourning your character’s death.

Leave a “Nurse Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours.

Leave a “Offer Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving yours a gift.

Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character drawing a picture of yours [ like one of your french girls~ be it painting them or drawing them, maybe offering a picture of them as a gift, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Quiet Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to calm yours down [ be it from crying, from lashing out, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Remember Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to get yours to remember them [ be it from an accident, meeting them after years apart, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Shag Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a dirty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours [ be it a love confession, a secret, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Unbind Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character freeing mine, or the other way around, or something among the lines [ be it freeing them from jail, from handcuffs, from a trap, from a curse, feel free to specify. ]

Leave a “Value Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character telling yours how they feel about them.

Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our character under the subject of wedlock [be it my character proposing to yours, or vice versa, or marrying yours, feel free to specify.]

Leave a “X Me” in my ask, and I will write whatever it is that you wish, [ specify. ]

Leave an “Yahoo Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our characters celebrating something [ feel free to specify. ]  

Leave an “Zip Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character dressing mine, or the other way around [ this can also be used for shutting them up as well, but feel free to specify. ]

[llenore-blog]

malachileclair‌:

He doesn’t watch her trace her fingers over the furniture, but he thinks he can feel it, thinks he can feel her hands over his arms, back to cupping his cheeks, wipe the dust away from his skin. He almost thinks it looks like her room for a moment, all the things collected - wonders if she’ll take something to keep, to remember, almost wants to guess what, wants to guess what she’d like. Keep it for him. Keep it safe. He leans into her when she’s there next to him. He thinks he sees his son running in the corner of his eye, and for a split moment, he forgets reality.

He doesn’t say it, but perhaps she can see it in his face that he wanted her to stay too. (Perhaps any needs to stay once in a home near where family once slept, even if it no longer feels right, at least when they can’t remember what right would feel like.) He takes a moment to speak, words slow, a bittersweet reveal, “As a kid, the store across the street, I’d steal the Peter Parker ones. These, they’re all bought so he wouldn’t do the same. Knew he thought about it once, could see it in his face, when my brothers told him about us.”

And he turns to her then, to see her eyes, he’s not lying, see that too when she looks into his, bittersweet too, but the latter isn’t due to a mother, “No - if I did, you’d know,” a pause, “But she did die, right above where we are now, one of my brothers found her, he was going to give her her mail. Her things may still be there, or in a closet somewhere.”

“Tell me anyway, what’s your order for breakfast then,” already planning to beat her to the market the next morning, before she wakes.

(Malachi had asked her once, how she remembers their stories, how she doesn’t forget. The answer is in the way her eyes trace over him; his hands, his mouth, watching how his expression changes. It’s in the way she rests her arms across his shoulders when he leans into her, hand rubbing slow circles along the side of his arm.) 

What will she keep from this place? For now, Lenore doesn’t know. She’ll know when she finds it. 

“Were you a troublemaker?” She asks him gently, a small smile on her face, sad all the while. “That’s good though, that you got these for him.” Lenore is sure Elias loved them. She can tell by the worn edges of the comic books, telling of little hands flipping through pages again and again. 

Malachi mentions brothers. How often had he mentioned brothers? She bites the inside of her cheek and nods, leans forward to touch her forehead to his. 

“It’s strange, I never knew her—and my dad never talked about her. But sometimes he’d look at me like... I don’t know,” Exhales, lets her eyes close for a second before opening them again to meet Malachi’s gaze, “Like he was looking at a ghost.” 

(How much pain was her mother in when she died?) 

Lenore’s smile widens. She presses her face closer to his, their noses now touching. If either of them were to lean closer, their lips would touch, too, “Hashbrowns, and pancakes. But let’s say I beat you there. What’s your order?” 

[lgcjinwoo-blog]

DATE & TIME: 21 FEBRUARY 2018 & 21:43 LOCATION: VENUE HALL STATUS: CLOSED @llenore

      There was no warning. Rain tapped along the terrain, soil breaking with grass sparse failing to defend the earth. Grey clouds glooming the day, darkness forecasting the setting. A roar of thunder a shiver along his spine, but no movement came from the man that stood staring at the scene ahead. Stiff as mundane was his posture, arms to the side with fists clenched, but not for long. Defeated. No warning. Fists came undone, and the male felt his lesser lip quiver in the sense of betrayal that overcame him. No warning. Another clap of thunder, and no longer did the storm hold himself back. Rain harder, the wind a force to not be challenged. Nothing to see ahead. She was gone. 

      “Leaving again?” Passive his tone, his steps gentle as he centered his position to where the chandelier dangled above his figure. His hands were not clenched during this scene, though, for, instead, his body was more relaxed. Already the person has betrayed and disappointed him formally; therefore, his body does not hold any expectations. All tired his muscles were. His hands were stuffed into the depth of pockets, spine bent as attention was soft and hesitant toward her. 

      When Lenny returned, desperately Nian Zhen wanted to approach her and embrace her. Foolish, though, he was, for he instead approached her with crossed arms and cold behavior. There was no smile, nor did he support her as she cascaded tears due to her father’s death. He could only shame her with the stone-cold behavior he shared to everyone else. Once upon a time he was only soft for Emmeline and Lenny, but now only one person holds the privilege of his softer nature. 

      He should have admitted that he missed her, that he worried about her, that he could not sleep because he was terrified of what could have happened to her. He should have admitted that he cared about her more than he should… that he did have feelings for her. It does not matter now, though, for all is gone. Lenny and he cannot even share a conversation without an argument ensuing. She hated him because he ruined it. He should have embraced her that night.

[llenore-blog]

Lenore doesn’t want to have this conversation with him.

But, even relaxed, she sees the stubbornness in his shoulders, the look on his face, and knows there’s no avoiding this.

“Yeah.” She doesn’t move closer—doesn’t move further, either. Still, she’s reaching for him, even if it’s only with her words, “You should come. The city is beautiful, Nian. And you deserve to see it.” They all do.

Nian Zhen had turned away from her when she needed him most; their friendship was irreparable after that. Perhaps, it fell apart the moment she decided to leave for Paris the first time, photo of her father and mother tucked close to her chest. She had wanted to tell him why, but it didn’t feel right. 

“Or are you going to stay behind?” (As much fondness she still holds in her heart for him, after all they’ve been through, she’s still a little angry with him.) 

Lenore glances from him to the venue hall’s exit. It would be better to just walk away. 

Her knuckles are still bruised from her stunt earlier, anger still rattling around in her bones like a vengeful ghost. It would be better to just walk away, but she can’t. Instead, she takes a few steps closer to bridge the gap. “We never talked. You stopped talking to me.”

[llenore-blog]

malachileclair‌:

vicente-deleon‌: 

When Vicente had told them that after St. Petersburg he wanted to be so drunk that he couldn’t remember anything the next day he had mostly meant it as a joke, but three shots in he thinks that with the way their night is going he just might get there. Which will either put a giant hole in his plan to get someone’s number tonight so he’ll have somewhere to go when Malachi and Lenore decide they want to do something benign and vaguely domestic or prove his earlier point that he is in fact just as charming as he thinks he is.

He’s about to suggest that maybe that they should head out, would have even offered to pick up the tab from the bartender, when she cuts him off with an insistence that she’d like another drink. And though Vicente runs his thumb over the back of her hand in confirmation that he is listening, can feel her looking back and forth, he looks at Malachi. Because for a man insistent on his independence, wherever they go, Vicente will go. And where they go next comes to do if he’ll cave. 

But for good measure Lenore seems to push his buttons as well. 

“You can’t bait me, Leonor.” Vicente isn’t a lightweight, he just knows his limits. Tipsy him is loose limbed and fun; he’s attentive and laughs at all your jokes, and he’s the right amount of talkative where he can keep track of he’s saying while he’s saying it. Still, he turns to to Malachi and says, “Yeah, order her another drink.I’ll take three shots.” He lifts his eyebrows at her as if to say, now who’s the lightweight.

He’s not drunk, but he doesn’t share what’s in the dark glass on the table, the only alcohol as some sip from Lenore’s drink when he was carrying it to her. (He’ll have to walk them home; he’d know these streets drunk in the dark, but he doesn’t figure they do.) 

And he’s something silent here, something watching, but he can be a presence too in silence, in the he holds himself here, never slouched, always something tall, quirked eyebrows with Lenny’s question toward Vicente, something all daring in his, but doesn’t let it speaks, let it be all felt. Lenore is felt, all angles; Vicente is all that’s in his level line of sight when he looks forward.

And he doesn’t mind how he takes space, Lenny’s space, as much as she takes of his. He speaks low, tilting a head down as if it’ll help her to hear, as if speaking secrets, “You’ll have to move for that,” teasing, when her head is hear his shoulder, but legs almost ready to stand.

“Here I thought you two would be more interesting than that, did you forget how to take a dare, Vicente?” A hand on the crook of Lenore’s arm, moving gradual to her waist to move the arm from his, to stand. “It matters how you prove you hold your liquor.”

@vicente-deleon

“Oh, I can’t?” Lenore asks him, eyebrows lifting. There’s a telltale grin slowly pulling at her lips; crooked, charming in the way it’s almost wolfish. It’s at his order that she leans back and whistles low, “Ay, ahora sí. Bueno,” She tilts her head and without breaking eye contact with him, says, “I’ll have two shots of whatever he’s having, then. Just to be fair.” 

Even silent, Malachi still carries his presence. Her smile doesn’t turn sheepish at his words; it widens, eyes gleaming. 

“He didn’t forget how to take a dare, Mal,” She tells him, looking back to Vicente with her head cocked right, “Solamente no sabe cómo tomar uno.” (He just doesn’t know how to take one.)

“Baby, are we not interesting enough for you? Do you want us to have more drinks?” False shock on her features: a widened mouth and eyes, a smile that still threatens to break through. As if all the smiles that failed to appear today are coming to the surface. She gives Vicente’s hand a squeeze. “Vicente, how about we do this round of drinks, and then...” 

Her eyes move to the stage at the far right side of the bar, currently occupied by a person singing rather off-key (and loudly) to a song in French. “We do that.” 

How Malachi is going to reign the two of them in tonight, we’ll have to wait and see. 

[llenore-blog]

skyandwave‌:

She didn’t mean for the music to end, didn’t mean to cast silence out into the fathomless sky, before shuffling over to rest her head on Lenny’s shoulder. She finds she can’t say anything, doesn’t want to break the crystal of the night around them, so she glances up to the sky with Lenore.

Then there are tears, and painful recollections, but there’s nothing that she can say in response. She wouldn’t want attention drawn if she started crying, so she breathes out and traces foreign constellations with her eyes. There’s no Orion’s belt, or Kereru tonight, so it must be visiting her home right now.

The stars are with her people, but not herself.

She shrugs her shoulders to the question, before letting out just more than a whisper. “It’s a good song. Its purpose is good. When do you normally sing them?”

(She ignores the question of whether, if she died now, she would ever end up in her family’s urupā. Whether there would ever be a tangi for her. How her spirit could ever find it’s way home. Could Lenny’s song guide her, or only take her some place else?)

Lenore rests a hand gently atop Ata’s head, fingers absentmindedly tracing through dark hair, “Funerals, I think.” A pause. “Sometimes, when you just needed to say goodbye. Or on nights when the sky is clear and the stars are out—makes it easier for the spirits to find their way back home.” When she looks at Ata out of the corner of her eye, she thinks of her friend’s wings, how she wishes they could ride ocean waves together.

“Once the spirits come, you’re meant to sing the rest of the song and point them in the right direction.” Her gaze lifts upward again. Perhaps, this isn’t directed at Ata, or perhaps it is, “But it’s up to them to get where they’re going, I think.” 

The living can only do so much for the dead. It’s something she still struggles to grasp.

“I can keep singing it for you?” A question she asks when she looks to Ata again, her eyes curious, “If you’d like. It’s almost done.” 

[llenore-blog]

josiephines‌:

Through the night she finds that her attention isn’t all there; she’s stuck somewhere in a pool of inertia. Every so often, she’s bathed in some acute awareness, but she returns to the initial feeling, as if the stasis had become her new default. 

She’s aware of the depth of the situation, but the words exchanged don’t exactly touch her. And while she could commend their attempt at democracy, Josephine isn’t sure how much a simple vote can do. It doesn’t seem plausible. Or maybe she’s just jaded.

Still, if it made any difference, the room was in favor of the man with no past. 

The feeling of inertia makes her movements languid, if only to show that she had nothing to run from. She doesn’t rush to move as the other patrons of the bar ease out of the room. Instead, Josephine stays in a small bubble, all too aware of her own inadequacy. 

It’s the hand that makes contact with her skin that pops her bubble. 

And it’s a familiar face…Josephine would go as far as to say Lenore’s face was one she welcomed. Lenore was friendly, charming even, perhaps she asked one question too many, but Josie welcomed her company. 

Josephine smiles, and when Lenore brings up the vote, Josephine forces the smile not to falter, “do you want to talk here, or go somewhere else?”

Lenore doesn’t miss the way Josephine’s smile seems forced once the vote is brought up. When it comes to trying to keep a smile from wavering, despite the subject at hand, she knows plenty. Her head tilts a little, gaze leaving Josie momentarily to scan the room. “Let’s go out in the hallway,” She tells her, jerking her chin over to the door. 

Once out of earshot from others, she gently rests her hand on her friend’s elbow, concerned, questioning, “What do you think of him?” Lenore doesn’t need to say ‘Volkov’ to be specific; he’s been the topic of conversation. 

“Metzger always talked about him like he was some... ghost. More of a fairytale than a living person.” More dark fairytale, more nightmare, perhaps. The man who presided over the Starlight Carnival; a crumbling dream. “I saw you didn’t raise your hand, I guess I thought—I don’t know. I guess I want to know what you’re thinking.” 

Let’s say Lenore is almost always curious about what Josephine is thinking. (It’s why she asks the girl so many questions.) 

[malachileclair]

DATE & TIME: February 21ST, 12:30AM LOCATION: Malachi’s Old Apartment TAG: @llenore

It’s a place he knew, somewhere deep within him, as a place he’d never return, not even in dreams, beyond here in person. And never so with Lenore - even with the promises he planned to keep. They never strayed as far as the old apartment left, somehow, uncleared of everything.

The kitchen still as he left it, though food had to be cleared out and he told Lenore not to go near the fridge (not staying here long enough to clean it - and that too is a thought strange to him). The living room still full of the mess Elias left behind him, comic books laid open, on the last page his son read, two pages until the end. Malachi dog-ears the page, and closes it, wants to put it in his back pocket, wants to never see it again. 

It’s the same apartment building as in the photo Lenore once showed him, quiet in the way he speaks in the darkened rooms, not looking at her, but at the comic book, in his hands, Miles Morales swinging through New York. Leaving room on the couch for to sit. “The room, I’ve heard about, she lived a few floors up,” and then, “I’m not sure who lives there now anymore.” Because he doesn’t know how long he’s truly been away from the world. 

What do you become after being ripped open, by his own hands, back in the home he did it in, back in empty home where there is no son he did it for. We call it a void, different from an emptiness. We call it a cavern. He says it simply, finding out he’s chosen without thinking of it, “I’m staying here tonight,” says it like an invitation.

[llenore-blog]

Fingers trace over dusty tabletops, reverent, heart a tight thing in her chest. How easily everything can grow so old, so lost. Lenore’s eyes are on Malachi. On his shoulders, his face, recalling a man with his son’s hand in his own on a street corner. When she comes to sit down next to him, Lenore’s arm moves to wrap around his back, movements slow. 

This was the building in the picture. There’s magic in that, but Lenore doesn’t say. Grief doesn’t feel like magic.

There’s a pause before she leans forward, enough for Malachi to look at her if he wants, “Then I’ll stay with you.” Her eyes move to the comic book and she slowly reaches forward to trace the black lines with her fingertips. “These are all over the apartment. He liked them, didn’t he?” 

Seeing where someone lives, or lived, is like reading a book to her. (Her own room is a testament to her life and the lives of others.) “Do you know what happened to her? To the woman who lived upstairs?” To her mother—one of the rumors said she bled out in the tub.

Lenore leans over to gently press her lips to his temple, saying against his skin, “I won’t leave you.” A promise. There’s a sad smile in her voice when she says, “I can stop at the market early in the morning, and you can make breakfast.” 

[llenore-blog]

fcxxes‌:

“like hell you will. why do you think i’m here - just t’watch you cry? not even i’m that much of an asshole.” that’s about as much empathy as she’ll get, they both know. there’s no pretending that what happened didn’t, that there’s a part of him that missed the man she weeps over too. understands, but not quite. “here, which one ‘f these eyeliners did y’use? i’ll fix you up after, hm?”

(arturo was a good man, he knows. perhaps that why he didn’t stay. he doesn’t tell her this, but fox boys have gotten accustomed to good meaning only temporary things)

he beams when she does, becomes the picture of boyish glee at his friend’s laughter despite the tears falling. “mm, had some spare time while we were travelling here - thought i’d be productive or whatever the shit is that metzger tells me to be instead ‘f fucking around, y’know? couldn’t really remember how many n’s there was in lenny so i had some kinda liberty in it, if ‘s alright with you.”

“You’re not?” Lenore answers him in turn, and even though her gaze is teary, there’s a playful smile on her face all the same. She knows more sharp teeth from Soren. Both in smiles and in leers. Has known teeth on skin and loved him just as dearly, especially now. (And knows, too, that this is about as much as he is capable of giving her.) 

She wipes under her eye, trying not to smudge already smudged makeup, and gestures to the eyeliner sitting on the far corner of the vanity. 

And there it is, that smile she loves so much. Fingers trace over messily scrawled letters on the card, stopping at her name, she quietly counts aloud the number of n’s until she reaches the final, “Four. You put four n’s.” Says it with a smile in her voice, because how could she not love this boy?

And in the same way someone so relieved becomes a dam breaking open, she starts crying. “I’m going to keep this forever, you know that, right?” Holding it to her chest with one hand, she reaches with the other to pull him close to her, “I’m sorry I’m crying, you know, it’s just—”

How can she put her ache into words? “I’m sorry. Thank you. I love it, I love it so so much.”

[oogs]

February 20th. The Louvre. @llenore

It’s a beautiful thing, watching something he’d believed to be so delicate break apart, shedding her skin to reveal a much darker truth underneath. How he’s been so blind to her allure this entire time, he doesn’t know, but late is always better than never and he makes his way towards her, slow and steady, wondering if he might be able to weave a string into her back, too.

Water drips onto the floor and Omari finally steps into her view, pressing one hand against the glass as he keeps his eyes on Lenore. It’s almost admirable, the quiet fire in her eyes and if this had been another life he might have even considered a different option.

But he’s in no position to save anyone else, so the story continues as is.

“I can’t imagine Metzger will be too happy to see this,” he starts, running one finger over the wispy cracks. “And look,” same hand finds its way towards Lenore, taking her hand gently, running a thumb over the angry knuckles, torn and bloody. “May I offer a word of advice?”

Slowly, he pulls her away from the tank, makes sure she’s facing him so he doesn’t miss an words exchanged - after all, she could be the key to his survival.

“Spending your anger here is only giving him power. I know you have seen the most, and I know you don’t want my pity so I won’t offer it.” Other hand slowly lifts her chin towards him, holding back his smile only to show that his words can be trusted. “But freedom is just around the corner and there are only two men in our way.” Turns her back towards the tank, two hands now on her shoulders as he stands behind her.

“You can have so much more than this, Lenore - all you have to do is help me.”

[llenore-blog]

“He won’t be happy with any of this,” Lenore tells him, gaze adjusting from the crack in the glass to the reflection of the man now standing beside her. Her head turns quickly when his hand finds hers, birdlike, inquiring, the anger still residing in the darks of her eyes. (Too trusting. She’s always been too trusting. When he runs a thumb over her knuckles, she doesn’t pull away.)

Her father had warned her of people who carried string in their back pocket. String to tie around people’s wrists—puppetmastery, of some kind. 

Eyebrows furrow a fraction at his words. Hand on her chin, then hands on her shoulders, are things she should pull away from, but doesn’t. 

But, Omari doesn’t pity her. He said so himself. Then what does he want?

“Help you.” She repeats, watching his reflection before she turns to face him, “How many times have you and I talked before today?” Lenore always tries to be friendly, always tries to bring them all together. It’s what she was taught. But she’s seen Omari with Rafa, knows when to stay away. “It just sounds like another contract. You want something, too. To be free.” 

There’s a pause before she says, “No one has ever asked for my help before. Not with this—why are you asking me for help?”

[llenore-blog]

 xuebird‌:

It’s become a habit to make rounds before the official performances, making sure they were well enough for the night. Oftentimes, she would sit with some of the newer ones, help work them through the stage fright.

Lenore doesn’t move at all when she enters, and she hesitates, unsure if she should call out or let her be. The dilemma is solved when she seems to come back to herself, though the brittle smile is indication that perhaps not entirely.

“ Not long, I wasn’t sure if I was disturbing you, ” Grabs the nearest chair for herself, the similarity of such a situation suddenly occurring to her.

( How often do you do the same? Shifting the focus to others is all too easy. )

“ Thank you, as do you. ” Such words are often said out of obligation, but every compliment that passes her lips are because she truly means them, truly believes in them. “ Checking up on everyone before their performances, have to make sure you’re all well enough for your acts, and speaking of, how are you feeling? ”

“Oh no, not at all,” Lenore reassures her, trying to widen her smile. It’s true; company is better despite part of her wanting nothing else but to be alone. “I’m happy to see you.” It isn’t a lie; Xue has a kind, calming way about her. She’s always found her to be beautiful. 

She tilts her head a little to rest her cheek along the back of her chair, any precious second to stall used until she finally answers, “I’m alright. Everything from Shanghai’s all...” Gesturing to her shoulder, she finishes, “...s’all healed up. You don’t need to worry.”

A pause. Dark eyes flicker over Xue’s face for a moment before she continues, this time the answer coming into focus, “I’m okay. Really, I am.”

There are others for Xue to evaluate before the performances begin, and she doesn’t want to keep her here longer than necessary. “We should walk around the Louvre together if we have the time. It’s beautiful. This place, it’s—it’s lovely. But I just...” And there it is, words caught in her throat, hummingbird with a broken wing. She shrugs. “Being here hurts.” 

[llenore-blog]

anoracle‌:

“His hair’s gone white,” and in another context, for another moment not in the dark, not with tears in her eyes, not with her gaze to slightly trembling hands, these words would be a jest, if they didn’t see the white of Lenore’s hair when she returned from Paris. “And he didn’t speak, once - he didn’t speak. The boy’s almost ten, I think. He called him, ‘Abuelo;’ French accent." 

And then she turns to Lenore, gaze a scatter across eyes, to cheeks, to hands, "I didn’t know him. Did he ever mention a boy?”

“You know what it means,” voice softer than it’s ever been, perhaps. Voice barely a dream. Barely a whisper. “You know what it means?” An odd dichotomy of hope and fear; a walking cycle. Fear, hope, fear - hope. If you cling to it enough, if you dare to feel both at once. 

He’s alive, and she can feel that hope in her chest, like man being born again. But it means too, grieving again, grieving over and over every day now, for man still alive. And there’s more than she could ever feel, but it’s there anyway, welling in her chest, not knowing how to feel it all at once, how to not let it show on her face all at once. There’s tears, real weeping, and half a smile. Call her thinking she’s still asleep, perhaps. 

“It was his dream - not mine.” She doesn’t say it outright that he’s alive, because she doesn’t have to. “I don’t know how close he’d have to be, I-I can’t think of anything, where he’d be, I don’t know.”

Lenore did this to him—to Emme, to their family. The more the trembling girl next to her talks, the more the color begins to drain out of her face. Hope can be a wonderful but terrible thing. With the idea that Arturo had died, there was an ending, a period on the final page of the book—his suffering was over, no matter how much their chests ached for him to be with them. But if he’s alive...

“When I was in Paris, I met Malachi. And he had a boy with him. He couldn’t have been older than ten, and his name was Elias.” When she finally lifts her head to look at Emme, she’s crying. Out of relief or sadness is yet to be determined. 

“Malachi barely told me what happened the night he came to the Menagerie, the night he lost his kid. Maybe our dad...” 

Her throat catches suddenly, a breath not taken, curled inward. “He’s alive. I don’t know how, but—” 

It’s too much. Too much. For him to be so close and not here with him. “Metzger said—” Said he hadn’t come back, said he was dead, said, you know what happens to people like you in this world. Lenore cuts herself off. Voice darker when she finishes, “—but... Metzger’s said a lot of things. He lied to us.”

[lifeinpoetry]

and / I’m here waiting for something to happen to me.

Ada Limón, from “The Visitor,” The Carrying

[princesconsuela]

[skyandwave-blog]

Februrary 17 / in the early morning

@llenore

The train has nearly arrived at Paris. It’ll still be a day, but for now, the train is idling, silent under the bright moonlight. It nearly washes out the stars, the resplendent canopy of them that can only be seen when in between places, when floating apart from the rest of the world.

Ata catches a glimpse of them through her window, and decides that tonight isn’t going to be for sleeping. At least, not yet. Instead, she goes to knock on Lenny’s door, wonders if the two of them could go sit on the roof together. (Midnight is much better than sunrise) But she’s not there, so Ata heads to the ladder herself, steps out from the insulated warmth of the train and catches the faint tones of someone singing.

It tears at her heart, the melancholy notes drifting into hearing, and she swears its the sound of the moonbeams themselves.

She steps up onto the roof and a smile automatically fits itself onto her lips, seeing Lenny there before her. Silently, she steps closer, not wanting to disturb the music. Closer, before sitting down on the roof near to where Lenore sings. 

[llenore-blog]

This language is ancient, her father had told her. It’s like water. It never ends. 

Lenore almost jumps when she feels someone sit down close by—if she didn’t know any better, she might have called it a false breeze, a ghost, the feeling of being watched. She looks over her shoulder and relaxes when her eyes trace Ata’s familiar face. 

She waves and then gestures for her friend to come take a seat next to her. “It’s nice out tonight,” Voice quiet, still somehow melodic.

There’s a pause. She looks away from Ata and focuses on the stars above them. The closer they get to the city, the dimmer they seem. It’s only in the countryside where they shine brightest. 

“My father taught me these songs when I was a kid,” She doesn’t look at her friend when she says this. But even with her head tilted up, it’s easy to tell her eyes are bleary. “They’re meant to guide spirits home.” Shoulders rising and falling with a breath, she makes quick work to wipe the tears out of her eyes before she looks to Ata. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

[llenore-blog]

malachileclair‌:

(Oh, he knows what he would do. He knows what he would do if he wasn’t this hungry. He knows that it would be the same somehow, even if worse, it feels all the same, for better or worse, it all feels the same. Silently, barely there at all, he wonders if Lenore would taste just as golden, even without the type of ichor, taste gold just because it’s her.)

He thinks he could live forever with her hand on his face, with touch like that, even if he doesn’t know how to think it, but it shows on his face, that smile he dons like he made it for her, tired now, but feels almost the same.

And there’s only a quick pause with her words, the confirmation, him staring at her deciding if this is what’s happened, but only for a moment, because his bones feel like they’re going to abandon his body, his throat escaping him - and the rest of her words drown out for now as he settles into the fold of her neck, fingers trailing over a vein, a quiet to the touch, before lips meet skin. And for a quiet moment too, it’s just this, as if savored, the closeness, before he shifts so he can look at her face too when lips become teeth, biting down, when a hand slips behind her neck, cradle the bottom of her head.

And then there’s blood and teeth and soft hands still at her neck. And he can feel her heartbeat in his mouth, against lips as life returns to a body, feeling her hand on his spine and he almost copies her, a hand moving to her back. And it feels like a taking as it always does, but now from Lenny, and it’s a need, something to stay alive, but it’s also lips on a neck, and when he’s not even close to full, he retreats slightly, weak but something alive in features. And still looking at her, he follows a tug of the chest, and thinks this is something she’ll rather hide, just the bites, but anything else, what’s the shame? He leaves the bite as a hickie, a purple mark made still with lips and some teeth to cover holes, looking at her as he does so, “If you want it as something to hide.” (He doesn’t plan to take more, he doesn’t know the trade, and it still will be one, no matter what she says to him, because he doesn’t know how to feel about a simple giving.)

Lenore doesn’t know what to expect when Malachi makes the shift. Only, that her mind suddenly goes blank—everything is underwater-muffled. She melts into his hands, finds herself somewhere far away for a few moments before it’s his lips replacing teeth, drawing her back into the world again. 

She touches her fingers along the outer edge of the hickey, catches a glimpse of it in the mirror on her closet. “I like it,” Lenore tells him, a small laugh in her voice. (Her way of saying: it didn’t hurt.)

There’s still something tired about him, about the way he carries his shoulders. Her hands move to rest along the length of his neck. He looks more like himself, but not quite. Her eyebrows furrow. 

“You should drink more,” She tells him, and even though her voice is soft, there’s stubbornness in her eyes. “You still don’t look like yourself.” A pause, and she leans closer to him, hands on either side of his face. This intimacy sends goosebumps down her arms—it’s something she’s never known with anyone. “We don’t know what’s going to happen next; you need to have your strength.” 

(They hadn’t known about what would happen in Shanghai, or the Starlight Carnival. If something similar happens at their next destination, what would become of Malachi then?)

Lenny makes sure to look him in the eyes when she says this, head tilting, hair skimming over the purple bruise on her neck, “Mal, I want you to.”  

[llenore-blog]

anoracle‌:

Lenny brushes away Emme’s tears, and their skin almost feels the same texture, almost feels like her own skin, feels like a reminder of light, but it makes too something tug in the middle of Emme’s chest, breaking open flood gates, the tears flowing more, and too many reasons for them to be born. 

Mourning, fear, warmth, like all emotions at once being reminded to her, like someone tell her she’s feeling them, from Lenny. The only break is when the other speaks in one of her voices, a short burst of a laugh, sinking into Lenny’s shoulder. 

She nods in the end, when the story turns to her again, voice almost hard to hear, “Yeah - yes, I remember, but it was and wasn’t a meadow, because that’s what they called the small garden under their window sill, shielded enough that the only water it saw was if it was given from a pail. But they found that last. The first thing they sought were the tears. That, took days. Lost in a forest and in trees, traveling until they forgot which direction home was in at all and the last of their food from home was gone, and they almost forgot the old woman’s promise at all, thinking it was a dream sometimes. 

“They found the hawk in a cave where they slept, trying to sleep too, and they didn’t notice it at first while they spoke of their mother and their worry they won’t get home in time, if their parents know they left at all, and when they turned around, they found the hawk crying at their tale.

“Do you remember, if they made it home in time, to see their mother?”

“They did,” Lenore whispers to her, like a promise, “They made it back just in time. They gathered the blades of grass from their windowsill and pricked their fingers with a sewing needle, and they quickly prepared the items into a potion.”  She has to stop for a few moments, her chest threatening to burst if she doesn’t cry—finally, she does. The knot in her throat loosens.

She brushes her tears away with her coat and continues, “The children almost thought they were too late; when they finally saw their mother, she was thin and pale. She hardly looked like herself. Their father was overcome with grief, believing he had lost both of his children, and now his wife.” 

“‘Please don’t cry, father,’ they said to him, ‘we’re sorry we ran away. Here—give this to mother so she can be well again.’ He almost didn’t believe what they said; he had almost lost all hope.” (When she tells the story now, she imagines the father as their own. Tired. Weary. Like something had been taken from him a very long time ago, and so much time has passed, he’s almost forgotten what that was. All he remembers is the ache.)

“Their mother drank the potion, and when morning came and the sun broke over the horizon, the frozen sea melted and flowers began to bloom all around their home, and their mother was well again. Her pale cheeks turned rosy and her heart beat strong in her chest. She smiled fondly at them and said, ‘Why, my dear children, what took you so long?’” 

Her voice cracks finally. She can’t hide it from Emme; never could. “And the family was together again, safe and sound, never to be separated.” 

[llenore-blog]

DATE & TIME: February 20th, 11:30PM LOCATION: The Bar (after the meeting)  TAG: @josiephines

They’ve been divided for so long. It seemed like every time they came close to showing some semblance of unity, something would happen that would leave them shattered again—but not tonight. Tonight, Volkov actually seems sincere. The vote leans towards yes.

Lenore is with the majority vote. 

Maybe, that surprises some people.

She finds herself drawn to the other side of the room once the group starts to clear out of the bar, stopping to gently wrap her hand around Josephine’s wrist before she can go, “Hey,” Said softly, eyebrows lifted, questioning. “I haven’t seen you all day.” (Josie’s hand hadn’t gone up in favor of trusting Volkov. This isn’t lost on her.)

“We should talk—about what happened just now.”