An alternative POV of a scene in a WIP crossover for Conclave and something else :)
---
It's so obvious it would be comical if the situation weren't so serious. The woman is looking around the office, noting everything, seeking, lifting pages
"Come si Chiami? Cosa stai facendo qui?" Agnes challenges, and she steps out of the Sister's passage. The woman jumps, spins to face her, and in a commendable show of quick thinking begins to speak "Mi Dispiace Sorella, sono.. perdu."
The last word is actually the French, but anyone would understand it for it's Cognate.
"Strange," she replies in the woman's native English, "to be lost so far from the revised tour route. To happen to be lost in the room where a murder occurred."
The woman nods her head once, acknowledging her ruse has failed.
Although it was a good effort.
"You're right, Sister," she says in English "In truth, I'm not lost. I'm looking for evidence."
"Evidence?"
Well, I don't believe the Archbishop did it, somewhere in this room, I hope," Signora Fletcher looks around, assessing the room, the desk the walls "I'll find the proof."
Officially Agnes knows, she should shout for the Gendarmerie (and why have they left their posts in the first place), less officially she should herself take the Woman, Signora Fletcher, back to the tour group. But - She doesn't believe he did it, no more do I -. And the image she had seen, when brought to the scene by a Gendarme at a run. This woman with her arms wrapped protectively around Sorella Cristiana who had found the body, sheltering her in her embrace, one8 hand high on her young Sister's shoulder, ready to stop her looking back to the body. This was a Good woman, not just a famous one.
"I don't believe it either." She moves forward, "what are we looking for?"
"I don't know exactly, but something that shouldn't be here." Signora Fletcher glances at her, even as she's turning back towards the desk, "Perhaps you would know better than I."
Perhaps, perhaps not. She moves to the desk, beside the other woman, pulling her glasses out of her habit pocket, setting them on her nose.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial and also inspired by a dream I had last night. It's time to go to the science fair!
The first annual United Republic STEAM fair almost didn’t happen. As Asami gazed across the rows and rows of colorful booths she was all too aware of just how close it had been. Not everybody wanted Future Industries involved with public schools. When Tenzin had to withdraw as the second judge due to a nasty bout of the flu Asami had worried she’d need to call the whole thing off. Having one of the judges be someone prominent, trusted, and most importantly not part of the company had been key in making it all come together. Where was Asami expected to find another well-known civic leader who wanted to spend five hours with a bunch of teenagers with only one day’s notice?
As if in response her eyes rested on a set of broad shoulders leaning over one of the booths across the hangar. Asami hadn’t ever seen him in civilian clothes before and in truth still found it a little odd. Not bad, though. Just different. General Iroh was the kind of handsome who looked good in everything.
Almost like he were reading her thoughts the general looked up from student he’d been talking to. Their eyes locked. Then Iroh gave her a little wave. Asami’s heart skipped a few beats and she subtly waved back. As a thank you, of course. She hadn’t been staring at him.
It was Pema who’d suggested General Iroh replace Tenzin as the judge. Asami hadn’t even known he was in town. She herself hadn’t seen Iroh in years, not since her father’s funeral. After Future Industries and the United Forces had established their supplier relationship there hadn’t been any need to. But Iroh certainly fit the bill of a high-profile figure and when he’d agreed Asami hadn’t questioned it. How a top general had managed to clear his entire schedule for a science fair was his business.
True to his word, Iroh had arrived that morning promptly at eight with an extra cup of coffee—black as jet fuel, just the way she liked it—then immediately dove into directing the children and their anxious parents as they arrived to set up their booths. It seemed Iroh had a knack for organization. He’d even brought his own pen.
Asami flipped to the next sheet in her clipboard and carefully wrote the number of the next booth, which contained a series of colorful interconnected tubes. The title painted on the cardboard backing read, “Pygmy Pigeon Rat Training.” The tubes, however, were empty. Horribly empty. Asami’s stomach sank. Instinctively she looked up, perhaps hoping to see a pygmy pigeon rat sitting idly by waiting to be scooped up. Instead, she caught a pair of bright gold eyes staring back at her. Iroh’s mouth ticked up into a little awkward half smile, the kind with a few teeth but that wasn’t quite yet a grin. He stuck out two fingers and waved again. Asami returned the gesture. Here in this sea of teenagers it felt incredibly silly in a way that fluttered across her midsection as if she’d swallowed the pygmy pigeon rat herself.
“Why do you keep waving at General Iroh?” asked the boy without a pigeon rat.
“I’m not,” Asami lied, suddenly guilty for no reason at all. “Now, can you tell me a little about your project?”
It wasn’t until she and Iroh had finished their evaluations that Asami finally got a break. The pigeon rat was found, and the teens were funneled through a line past stacks of bento boxes—courtesy of Future Industries, of course—before being seated together at several long tables. Meanwhile, a half dozen eager parent volunteers sorted through the evaluations to tally the joint scores. That left Asami time to grab her own bento box and the cold remains of her coffee and retreat to the registration table for a little peace and quiet.
“May I join you?” asked a voice. Asami looked up to find General Iroh with two lunches and a somewhat uncertain expression on his face. “I didn’t want to be near the scoring,” he added.
“No, no, please sit,” Asami said. Iroh smiled and pulled out a chair, then set down the two bento boxes.
“There were extras,” he explained sheepishly.
“Have as many as you’d like," said Asami. "It’s the least I can do after you stepped up today. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.”
He shrugged one shoulder, then gestured to her coffee. “Can I heat that?”
“What? Oh. Thank you.” Asami pushed the cup across the table and Iroh wrapped his hand around it. Nice, large, practical hands. “So what brings you back to the United Republic this time?” she asked, pulling her gaze away.
“Actually, I’m here to stay.”
Asami scrunched up her nose. “You are? How?” She didn't think foreign princes could do that.
Iroh gave his one-shouldered shrug again and pushed her steaming coffee back across the table, then opened the first lunch. “My position with the United Forces was transitional. Ten years from the shift from the international council model to home rule to build up a cadre of Republican officers to take over from any foreigners still in command. I did that. Turns out I liked it. I’ve never been in much of a hurry to return home. So instead I put in for a transfer to the Academy. I start teaching next month while I get residency. After that, I’m not sure. I’ll be eligible for command again but there’s no guarantee.”
“That’s incredible,” said Asami, genuinely pleased. “I’m glad you figured out what you want, even if it might not work out. When I took over Future Industries it was a complete gamble. We almost went under so many times. But I’m glad I took a chance.”
“And look at you now,” Iroh replied. “Sponsoring the next generation of talent. These kids aren’t that much younger than you were.” He smiled again then, a little shyly, then stabbed at a tempura squid shrimp. “Speaking of taking chances," he said, "I’ve always admired you, Asami. And I was wondering if you might consider having dinner with me. Now that I'm here I’d love to get to know you better.” The corner of his mouth quirked up to reveal a single adorable dimple. “But only if you want to. You don’t owe me anything for volunteering today. I was happy to scrap my lesson planning to interact with actual students.”
Asami smiled back as her chest filled sudden warmth. “Well, what are you doing tonight?”
There's the tramp-tramp of feet ahead of her, approaching.
She drops down to a kneeling crouch, reaching as if to tie her shoe, holding her breath, straining her ears, not to the feet approaching but behind her, to the bushes lining the road.
Only the wind brushing the leaves. No footsteps, nothing that could be out of place. As if there weren't four men standing in the cover, hopefully still as statues after her signal. She scrambles up and moves out of the way as the patrol marches along the road, left-right left-right, stiff dark shapes dominating the road.
Please don't sneeze, please don't move. They hadn't seemed too impressed when she turned collected them from their hidey-holes, the twists of their faces, general skepticism. But the fact was a young girl wouldn't attract notice. Even now, the odd soldier cast her a look as they marched, gave her a smile: fatherly, or Uncle-esqe.
She keeps her head down. I am not a Collaborator. But the fact is, she also passes without notice, and she’s grown up on this ground. A perfect Passeur.
To call the Curia, indeed the wider Vatican a rumour-mill would be a mis-speaking. It is not one mill, but a river of them, waves overlocking. Egos, mixed with sharp eyes and ears, and grudges and Ambition are a potent combination
Which makes it all the more remarkable that The Secret stayed secret for so long -Ray muses to himself - although His Holiness did choose the least Gossip-prone to tell it to. Sister Agnes, Janusz, Aldo all loyal.
There's a noise, and he glances reflexively over from hid papers to the Chaise where His Holiness sleeps, apparently peacefully -for now. A medically prescribed siesta to aid his recuperation from the injury.
And the breaking of the Secrecy had not, in the end, even come from one of the Church. Instead a nurse, or a doctor had 'made a buck' by tattling to the journalists, or at least being wheddled into talking.
Still, it hadn't gone too badly, all things considered. Many people rose in support, Catholics across the world, and even most of the traditionalists hadn't rocked the boat too badly.
A strange world, but perhaps a warmer, kindlier one, in time. Especially with this man at the Helm.
Warnings - Jealousy, thoughts of murdering your cousin
Words - 1,094
A03 link here
Summary - Thorin had invited Bilbo's relative to Erebor. Bilbo was ecstatic about it, of course, he was. Apart from where he wasn't considering his cousin Rorimac fit in so much better than he did. Considering Thorin was standing so close to Rorimac, it made Bilbo's blood boil, and his heart hurt. Considering Bilbo knew he would never look that comfortable in dwarven dress as his cousin did, and he would never fit in as well, no matter how he tried.
Bilbo looked at his cousin and had to clench his fists to stop himself from doing something so unhobbitish that he would be exiled from The Shire, even if he never lived there again.
To Bilbo’s utter astonishment, Thorin had invited some of Bilbo’s braver cousins, aunts, and uncles to visit his regrowing kingdom to prove that Bilbo was thriving in his mountain.
It had been almost 2 years since the Battle of the Five Armies, and Bilbo had seamlessly slotted into all of his dwarves’ lives as he had always meant to be there.
He spent time with them all, but he especially adored it when Thorin would come to him in the evenings after his duties were done for the day, and they would share a freshly brewed cup of tea, speaking about everything.
Bilbo felt more and more in love with the dwarf each moment he spent with him, and how Bilbo wished Thorin would be more than just his friend, how he wished Thorin knew he was his everything.
Bilbo hadn’t said anything, of course. He was, after all, just a hobbit and Thorin was not only a dwarf but the king of dwarves. King of Erebor. And for all Bilbo’s silly titles that The Company liked to shout at him jovially, he was and would always be just another hobbit. He wasn’t extraordinary in any way. Wasn’t even considered handsome for hobbits, sort of how all hobbits were round and red-faced. He was nothing special, and so any ideas he had ever let stir in the back of his mind about there being something more between himself and Thorin would stay just that, ideas and hidden dreams. A longing he would hold tight to, just as he held tight to Thorin on that dreadful day, had kept the dwarf tethered to both Bilbo and the living world long enough for real aid to come to him.
And that would have been enough. Bilbo would never truly be as happy as he had once wanted to be, dreaming foolish dreams about having a love the way his mother and father had with one another, but he had been here, in Erebor. The only hobbit this side of the Misty Mountain,s but now that was no longer the case.
Brave, daring, younger hobbits who were related to Bilbo enough to have some of his mannerisms but who were much more open-minded about all the new experiences they were willing to try.
Whilst Bilbo was odd by hobbity standards, he was still a hobbit, and he preferred books and a well-stocked kitchen to the more dwarvish aspects of his friends' lives.s He joined in, learnt as much as he could, of course, after all, they were his friends, his family, but whilst he would sit through Gloin’s long explanations of the different cuts of gems, or he enjoyed learning about the history of the dwarves from Balin, the amount of battles they ended up in as a race hurt Bilbo’s very heart to hear. So no, he adored it here, and he adored his friends, and he adored everything about his new life, even if he somehow found it hard to relate to them and they him.
What he didn’t adore was Rorimac Brandybuck in this moment. Rori was one of Bilbo’s friends and favourite cousins, though he was almost 15 years Bilbo’s junior. And Bilbo loved him, he really did but if he cocked his head like that once more, if he twirled his curls that were both lighter and fuller than Bilbo’s as he spoke to Thorin one more time, Bilbo would not be held responsible for anything that happened to the younger hobbit, such as him accidentally falling down a mineshaft for the rest of eternity.
Bilbo shook his head to get such cruel thoughts out of his head. He didn’t want to and wouldn’t actually hurt Rori, really, but well …
Bilbo looked down at his own clothes, clothes that Dori had painstakingly made for him to Bilbo’s hobbity standards, beautiful clothes that were made in the best of fabrics but that were still very much as stuffy as the hobbit himself, Bilbo supposed.
He then looked at Rori who Bilbo thought looked quite absurd, b ut from the dwarves faces and the comments they were saying in Kuzdhul, he appeared to look quite fetching in dwarven clothing an with a sort of modified boot on his fee,t ones that would protect his feet in Erebor’s forges but wouldn’t squish his foot hair, footwear that Bilbo wouldn't be seen dead in and yet he had seen Thorin as he gazed upon the contraptions the first time and he had seen the interest int he dwarf’s eyes, apparently not just at the footwear, but at Bilbo’s cousin too.
It wasn’t fair, Bilbo bemoaned to the Valar. He had done all the hard work at getting his dwarves to actually give a fig about him and hobbit sin general, he had been the one to save them time and time again, he had been the one to keep Thorin alive and in his world until healers could get to him and yet it was Rori getting all the looks Bilbo wanted, getting attention Bilbo so desperately craved form the dwarf his heart called for.
Bilbo forced himself to take a deep breath before putting on a fake smile as he bid good day to his cousin, whom he so desperately wanted to be his dwarf. He couldn’t stand here as Rori fit in this life Bilbo had carved out for himself better than he could. He couldn’t watch Thorin smile at the other hobbit in that soft wya of his without wanting to scratch Rorimac’s eyes out like a feral cat.
Bilbo turned to walk away, unable to see what was before him and break his own heart all over again.
What he didn’t see as he turned was the look Thorin rested on him as he walked away. He didn’t see as those ice blue eyes stared into Bilbo, trying to stare into his very soul, trying to claim it with nothing but the intensity of Thorin’s want. What Bilbo didn’t see that everyone else could was how desperately Thorin wanted him to, how he was all but begging the other hobbits to help him court Bilbo properly.
Bilbo didn’t see what was right in front of him, but Thorin did, and he swore to himself that Bilbo would know he held the key to his heart and he alone.
I don't know if this writing fits the theme and I didn't know how to end the story, but I hope it is still good. Now, lets go to the writing...
It was almost three in the morning when Leonardo picked up Valquíria to take her home. She got into the car and remained silent. The young man immediately found her behavior strange.
"Did something happen, Val?"
"I just want to go home," Valquíria replied.
"Is everything alright? You always talk a lot. Why are you so quiet?"
"Nothing happened. I already said I just want to go home."
The young woman had left a nightclub in Recife. While returning to her cousin's house, she kept remembering a specific moment from the party.
"Where have you ever seen a model wearing an outfit like that?"
"They are so fake..." Valquíria thought.
Two days later, already at her home in Olinda, Valquíria looked at the dress she had worn to that party while putting it in the wash. It was a customized piece with some embroidery that she had done herself. The young woman felt proud of having managed to complete that project. Shouldn't she feel so proud?
"Wow, that embroidery is so cool." "Could you do something like this for me?" Valquíria said aloud, or rather, she repeated what she had heard days before. "How could I have been so stupid to believe them? I shouldn't even have gone to that party."
Valquíria put the garment in the wash with a mixture of anger and sadness. She questioned whether she should continue embroidering or not. After all, wasn't embroidery "something for poor people" as those models had said? She couldn't even consider that possibility, as she had to help her grandmother, Deolinda, with the embroidery work.
The young woman returned to embroidering some time later, but it was noticeable that she didn't have the same enthusiasm. At the same time, she stopped talking to the models from the agency who had invited her to the party, and they found the situation strange. One of them called Valquíria over to talk.
"What's going on, Val? Since the party you haven't talked to me or Liana. Did something happen?"
"I think you know better than I do what happened, don't you?"
"I don't understand what you mean." said the model
“Oh, you don't understand? Where have you ever seen a model go out wearing an outfit like that? Wasn't that what you said to Liana and Elena? Are you going to deny it now?” The model was speechless with astonishment.
“I heard very well what you said behind my back that night and I didn't expect this level of falsehood from you. I'm very disappointed and I don't want to talk anymore.” “You're making a drama out of this? Let's agree that that outfit wasn't the best, was it?”
“That outfit was customized with all the care I had...” Valquíria began
“Even so, it was nothing more than a rag. Do you really want to be a model wearing rags like that? Girl, good luck because you're going to need a lot of help.”
“I didn't ask for your opinion.” Valquíria replied, shaken “In fact, I didn't ask for any of your opinions, but you still talked badly about me behind my back. Do you want to be models with this kind of behavior? Good luck, you already needs a lot of help.”
“Watch how you talk to me, girl! Otherwise I'll...”
“Otherwise what? You're the ones who started this mess. You've already said things you shouldn't have, and now you want to complain about what you heard? Don't you know about karma?”
“That's enough, girl! It's over for you! No more help, no more party invitations, and everything else, understand?”
“I understand perfectly well. Who said I need your help? And now excuse me, because I need to do my job.”
“You won't last here for a week...”
“Keep your words to yourself.” said Valquíria, heading to the fitting room.
Entering the room, she could undo her armor and burst into tears. She stared at the mirror in front of her and could only hear in her mind the insult to her customization. “Still, it's nothing more than a rag... Well, let's see...”
When she got home, she looked at the dress drying on the clothesline. Quite nervous, she took the dress off the clothesline, grabbed a pair of scissors, and would have destroyed the dress if she hadn't been surprised by someone.
"Valquíria, darling, have you arrived yet?" asked Deolinda.
For years, so many years he's longed for this. For nothing more than the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls, the saltiness in the air. Home... Peace.
Yet now he has it
His mind seeks in lacunae for what is not there. The crump crump of shells, which even behind the lines in rest areas were either distinguishable or rolled into Thunder, a constant music.
The morning barked orders and taste of overstewed tea. The waiting for the early morning "Hate", which made sure no-one, even the night patrols, got more rest.
The flash of star shells, lighting flashes through the dugout door.
None of that - never here in Hastings. Never again with any luck.
He wakes in the night, but it is to a blanket of softly sighing wind, or pain in his shoulder, or the cries of little Andrew, wanting to be fed.
And the sentries of his mind remain unanswered at watch. No more.
No more mud, no more stink of blood and death. No more shells.
War is over, War to end War is over. Now to find his way in Peace.
Happy @flashfictionfridayofficial ! It's been a while, but I've been wanting to get back into writing so pulled something out the bag - a silly little story
A Demon vs Fine Craftsmanship - 510 words
“You sure this will work?”
“Positive.”
Sam and Mick stare at the pavement in front of them. Paint is dripping on the ground beside them, splatters brightening the cuffs of their jeans. They'd begun in chalk, creating a skeleton of precise markings for the paint to adhere to, and now, for better or for worse, their work is complete. Wiping his forehead, Sam ducks into a squat. He eyeballs the two front lines, closing one eye and then the other, squinting against the midday sun.
“Exactly parallel?” He says, cocking an eyebrow.
“Exactly.” Mick promises, “Look.”
To illustrate his point, the man pulls out his measuring tape and slides it along the tarmac.
“240.” He announces before lumbering over to the farside. “240”
“Could still bow out in the middle…”
Mick marches back and smacks Sam's arm. “Lighten up, it's fine.”
“But if we get this wrong…”
“We won't get this wrong.” Mick interrupts. “It's a ritual we've done a thousand times before.”
Sam shakes his head.
“But not with the stakes this high…”
He lifts the brush to his free hand, painting his fingertips white just to feel the rough hairs scratching his skin. He'd bought these brushes special - didn't want to risk any gapping caused by crusted bristles. Or see dried old paint bubbling the lines, ruining the magic. There is only one chance to achieve this and perfection is paramount. A hand falls on Sam’s shoulder and his ruminations scatter like spiders exposed to the sun.
“You won't lose her.” Mick says firmly, squeezing to punctuate his point.
“You haven't met her father.” Sam says. “He’s a demon. Worst I’ve met. Would do anything to be rid of me.”
“But she likes you.”
Sam sighs. “I know but… what if he convinced her to leave me? Find someone else? I need him to believe I'm good enough so he won't… turn her against me.”
Mick hums, standing back up. “And how's any of this going to change that?”
Sam scoffs.
“If this is perfect, he’ll know I'm good enough! I mean look!”
Sam jumps up like an electrocuted hair, suddenly jumping around and gesturing wildly at their work.
“Perfectly parallel, perfectly painted. Who wouldn't look at this and think ‘damn, this guys got craft!’ I mean he’ll see this and be so impressed he'll tell Celia to propose to me!”
“Mate.” Mick says, rubbing his forehead. “It’s a parking bay, not black magic.”
It’s Sam’s turn to smack the other.
“A parking bay directly opposite his office window that he will see everyday and I’m gonna let him know just who painted it.”
“You’ll sound like a kiss ass.”
“Alright, yeah…” Sam calculates a moment before pinging in the result. “I’ll get Celia to tell him!”
Mick shakes his head, picking up the paint pot and moving to the next chalk bay.
“If she's not left you yet no father’s gonna convince her to.” He mutters.
“What?”
“I said,” Mick cries, turning with a wry smile. “you must be doing witchcraft to keep that girl dating you!”
