Hey how's it going i did an update on the hawke n varric post-canon fic. you can read it if you like reading things. if you don't, IDK, maybe you could print it out and eat it or something
haiii i come here to ask... whats the beetle and the crow about?
HELLOOOO
so the beetle and the crow is a wip with quillkiller, marauders ship with bellatrix black & rita skeeter. i have not touched this doc/note in months so i forgot for a second what it was about. BUT, i went back and took a look at it. before i start i called the doc "the beetle and the crow" because in canon rita can turn into a beetle and somehow bellatrix reminds me of a crow.
this is about the last time they see eachother before bellatrix gets thrown in azkaban (wizarding jail) for murder and also their last fight since they have a shitload of fanon created by the ones that finds them intriguing (myself included), but for bellatrix this isn't the last time she sees rita because she goes to "admire"/ see rita after she escapes. this is basically bellatrix's closure after not seeing rita for *checks notes* 15 years. And under a cut there is a snippet:
Bellatrix admires Rita just a bit longer while the latter finishes her cigarette. As Rita smashes her cigarette, Bellatrix knows it's time for her to go. Turning around, out of the corner of her eye, she can see the blonde, who was lost in thought just moments ago, looks right in Bellatrix's direction. For a moment, Bellatrix hesitates her decision about not talking to Rita for one last time. To maybe convince her to join The Death Eaters; to maybe...., convince her to love Bellatrix again. But, deep down Bellatrix knows she lost Rita a long time ago and it was too late now.
Oh hey, another draft that I have no idea where this was going. - The sequel
Yet another thing that I found in drafts that I have no idea where I was going with it. Based on the title of the document I know it was based on Gang of Youth's Do Not Let Your Spirit Wane. Past that, not a clue.
Steve doesn’t have the same dream every night, but three to four times a week the dream comes. Sometimes Steve is out on the waves with Kono, they’re between swells and waiting for the perfect wave. Steve knows it’s coming, can feel it in his bones. Chin is back on the beach, Steve can see his dark head moving back and forth as he helps Danny corral Grace. They’re preparing lunch, grilling something that he can almost catch a whiff of, layering over the smell of Kono’s sunscreen and sea brine. Grace is kneeling on the sand, she’d told Steve her plans to build an epic sandcastle, a task he’d agreed to help her with after lunch. She had sketched out what she was looking to build as she’d told him about it earlier that morning, the moat she planned to dig around it and fill with water. He can hear Danny’s laughter out here on the waves and he exchanged a smile with Kono. He’s happy.
He and Danny are moving around the kitchen doing an easy well-rehearsed dance as they prepare dinner. Grace is sitting on the counter, Danny’s daughter through and through, working on geography homework, asking Steve questions about the places he’s been. Steve carefully edits his stories so they’re safe for Grace’s consumption. He tells Grace about how blue the water is in Nassau, how green the jungle is in Vietnam, how the spice market in Marrakesh is still one of the best things he’s smelled and ignores the way Danny hip checks him when he knows Steve has edited the truth for his baby girl, the details he’s deliberately leaving out. He’s happy.
Steve and Danny are in bed, the sun just peeking over horizon; Danny’s back a long line of heat against Steve’s front. Danny bitches about being the little spoon but never hesitates to put himself into a position where Steve can curl around him. Steve’s nose is buried in Danny’s neck, breathing in the gentle smell of Ivory soap and laundry detergent. It’s too early to be awake but Steve is, and he’s glad for it, glad to be able to live in this moment. Danny mumbles something, words indistinct. Danny talks in his sleep not often, but a quirk Steve was delighted to discover the first time he and Danny had shared a bed. Nothing Danny says ever makes sense, but then Steve says that about Danny’s waking comments as well. He’s happy.
The dreams always, always turn. Drug runners bent on taking out Five-O storm the beach, bullets kicking up sand. Steve and Kono are paddling back into the beach as fast as they can, but it’s like the shoreline keeps moving further and further away. Steve can see Danny running for Grace, can hear him yelling for Grace to run, but they both know she won’t be able to outrun the bullets. He watches them tear through her little body and he wants to be sick. Sees Danny’s anguished face before he’s gunned down too and they’re still too far from shore. He’ll never get to them in time. There’s a knock on the back door that Steve answers, swatting Danny’s hand away from slice of carrot he’s trying to filch, Grace laughing at both of them for their childish behavior. There’s no one on the other side of the door, confused Steve moves further away from the house, calling out if anyone’s there. He heard the high-pitched whine just before the house explodes, the rocket coming impossibly from the water, a boat maybe, anchored just off shore. He knows that it’s impossible for Danny or Grace to have made it, but he still turns and tries to get back into the house, the heat from the flames burning his skin, ears still ringing from the blast. He’s pulling Danny closer, thinking about trying to slip back into sleep, just on the verge of it when he hears something from the floor below them. Glass breaking, footsteps on the stairs. Steve feels like he’s moving through molasses as he turns over to the bedside table, reaching for the gun he keeps in the top drawer, but he’s too late. He hears the small pop of the silenced round just as he feels the bed jerk and turns, still moving so slowly to see the hole in the back of Danny’s head. There’s no one else in the room with them and when he looks down he sees the gun in his own hand, silencer in place.
A/N 1: This fic is for my lovely beta/bestie @wowjeena Heyyo, would you be up to writing a soulmate au with Bucky? You can choose which type of soulmate au but can you make the reader a normal person (so not an Avenger or anything related)?? Thanks girl and if you don’t wanna that’s chill 👉🏼👉🏼 So... it’s not exactly a soulmate au, but I hope this is okay instead ☺️💜💜 I’m also so sorry it took so long. I hope you like it, my dear.
A/N 2: The Bucky Barnes Exhibit states he was born in 1916, but at the bottom where it gives his life span, it says he was born in 1917. I googled it to find the correct year, and it said 1917… I don’t know what to do with that information, other than to tell you guys there’s a mistake in the movie.
A/N 3: I apparently couldn’t make this a one shot, so it’ll be a multi part story. I’m aiming between 3-5 parts
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x single mom!reader
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1.5k+
~~~
Part 1
A Fallen Comrade.
James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes
Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom. Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.
Reunited, Barnes and Rogers led Captain America’s newly formed unit, The Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater.
He knew these words. He read and reread them dozens— if not hundreds— of times. He wrote them down in every one of his notebooks as he was scrapping, searching for his memories that were just out of his reach. He could nearly taste them. They fluttered teasingly in front of him: close, but not close enough for him to snatch out of the air of uncertainty.
He pulled a fresh notebook from his bag and a pencil, worried away from teeth and words.
Start with what you know…
My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was taken captive by Hydra and was used by them. I know a man named Steve. He was my friend.
He trailed off. This is where he always was left floating in a sea of not knowing. He was left grasping for more. He was a starved man, empty without his memories. The few he managed to uncover did little to tide him over from insanity. He bit at that familiar indentation on his pencil, trying to think of something, anything at this point that was more than those four simple sentences he’s written everyday for the past several weeks. Sighing and pulling his baseball cap lower in frustration, Bucky returned his supplies to his bag, stood, and swung it over his right shoulder. Eyes low, and clutching his bag, Bucky made his way towards the exit of the crowded museum. Ever since the Potomac, this section of the Smithsonian was more packed than usual.
Nearly there. Nearly there.
It was an understatement to say that Bucky Barnes didn’t like crowded areas. Too many bodies, pressing, and pushing against each other, loud noises, pointless conversations discussing mundane things.
Nearly there. Nearly ther—
“Oof!”
He wouldn’t have noticed the boy that ran into him if his bag hadn’t slipped from his hand, spilling out the contents onto the floor. Bucky hurriedly crouched to retrieve his precious memories. He barely registers the boy picking up the items that had strayed a bit further.
“Here you go Mister! I’m sorry for bumping into you like that.”
Bucky silently takes his belongings back from the little boy standing in front of him.
Bucky quickly retracts his fingerless-gloved hand.
The boy pulls his hand from his sweatshirt pocket. “Yours are cooler, but I have metal fingers too! Well, actually it’s a metal arm because the doctors had to get rid of my real one because I got hurt super bad, but I think it’s really cool.”
The boy said this all extremely fast, Bucky had to blink a few times to register what he had said. A compliment? For his hand? A hand that’s maimed, killed, and caused so many people to suffer?
“Uh… I… I have a metal arm too.”
The little boy’s eyes widened even more. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but Bucky took off his glove and showed it to the boy.
He took Bucky’s hand in his and stared at it, looking back and forth at Bucky’s hand and his. Bucky stood there stiffly, unsure how to respond. The boy looked up at Bucky solemnly.
“Do you have super powers?” he whispered.
Bucky couldn’t help but crack a smile at his seriousness, but before he could answer, a woman came running through the crowd.
“Noah!”
The boy turned to give her a lopsided grin. “Hi Mom!”
“How many times have I told you to stay by my side, young man?”
The boy, Noah, dropped Bucky’s hand and took a step closer to the woman. “Sorry. But Mom!”
A raised brow silenced Noah. The woman looked up at Bucky.
“I’m so sorry if he was bothering you. He’s very social.”
Bucky forgot how to speak for a minute. The woman standing in front of him was… well, he’d never seen anyone as beautiful as her. Bright, sparkling eyes confirming where Noah got his from, a soft voice, and a sweet smile.
“Oh, uh, no. I mean, he is. I mean‒” When was the last time he had gotten tongue-tied?
Bucky cleared his throat, forced himself to try to ignore the sweet smile that was widening, and tried again. “He wasn’t bothering me. We were just talking about‒”
“His metal arm! Look at it, Mom!” Noah hurries back to Bucky’s side and holds his mechanical hand. “Look how awesome it is! And it’s huge!” He started poking Bucky’s upper arm and gasps. “And so are his muscles!! I bet he could crush anything!”
Noah began miming picking up heavy objects or crushing imaginary things, complete with sound effects. Bucky doesn’t miss Noah’s mother’s eyes widen slightly when Noah pointed out how massive his biceps are.
“Noah, honey, why don’t we go check out the exhibit?”
“Oh yeah! Let’s go, Mom!” He nearly takes off again before giving his mother a sheepish smile.
“What did you do?”
“I… I turned our map into a paper airplane.”
“And?”
“And... it… flew out of my hands?”
“Mm hmm. I see. Well, I guess we’ll just have to come back another time.”
Noah gasps and clutches his mom’s hand. “No! Please Mom! Don’t do this to me!!”
Her laugh causes Bucky’s heart to skip a few beats, and it frustrates him that he doesn’t know why.
“Which exhibit are you looking for?”
Noah looks at Bucky and salutes. “We’re here to see the Mister Captain America exhibit.”
“I could take you guys there.”
What. On earth. Gave him that idea?!
“Woo! Let’s‒”
Noah’s cheer was cut off by his mother. “Oh, no that’s okay. I’m sure you’re busy and you probably have something to get to you.”
She’s right… Why did I even offer in the first place? I can’t‒
“It’s not a problem. I was heading over there right now actually.”
Jesus! What’s wrong with me?
Noah grabbed his mother’s hand and followed Bucky to the famed exhibit.
~~~
“So, I take it Noah’s a fan of the Captain?”
The beautiful lady standing next to him nodded. “Yeah, Noah loves him; really looks up to him.”
“Makes sense, he’s a good guy.”
“Sounds like you’ve met him before.”
“You could say that.”
They were pulled away from their conversation when Noah ran up to them, grinning.
“Mom! Look how skinny Steve was! And, and his friend? Um… Bucky? Yeah! Bucky! He would always help Steve out because Steve would always get in fights! So Bucky would come and have to save him!”
Noah then proceeded to animatedly tell his audience how Steve became the Captain and fought in the War. When he went to go read the display in front of Steve’s motorcycle, Bucky turned back to the woman.
“Is this his first time here?”
She nodded and smiled. “I promised I would take him when I had a day off. He’s been waiting for weeks.”
A pause.
“How ‘bout you?”
“What?” Damn that smile! He got distracted.
“I take it this isn’t your first time here?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her giggle caused his firm expression to slip into a small smile.
Bucky spent the rest of the afternoon showing Noah around. He learned that Noah and his mother had been in a terrible car accident two years before. The injuries Noah sustained to his right arm were irreversible, thus leading to an amputation, a prosthetic arm, and even though she didn’t say, expensive medical bills burdened on his mother.
When the museum closed, Noah was asking his mother when they’d be able to return.
“I’m not sure baby. How about next weekend?”
Noah did a little dance showing his affirmation. Then he looked at Bucky.
“Will you be here too, Mr. James?”
“Uh, yeah sure kid. I’ll be here.”
Noah fist pumped as his mother said goodbye to Bucky.
~~~
Holy shit. Holy shit!
You had been trying to keep your cool ever since you found Noah with James. You were eating dinner and you still hadn’t gotten over him. That man was fucking stunning. Blue, blue eyes that were filled with such sorrow, a smile that made your insides flutter, and a deep voice you were willing to listen to for hours on end. Soft and sonorous. And he was so sweet and kind with Noah. That alone had you taking a liking to him.
“Mom?! Mom!”
“Oh— sorry, baby. What’s wrong?”
“Thanks for taking me to the museum.”
You ruffle his hair. “Thanks for being so patient for me.”
hi friends :00 because this is something like a writing blog, i decided i will occasionally partake in six sentences sunday! basically i just write up six sentences and show them to you all, whether it be part of a wip, or a stand alone story in six sentences. feel free to join me in this trend that i definitely am not starting and has existed for a while
to start off, i'm actually gonna be posting 13 14 sentences, because it's only one two more than double 6 okay. :D
✩‧₊*:・six thirteen fourteen sentences below the cut ･:*₊‧✩
trigger warning: descriptions similar to that of an anxiety attack
~
edit: apparently a bitch can't count and its actually fourteen, i just really like this paragraph okay
The stupidest thing man has ever said is that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
Man also came up with the phrase ignorance is bliss, and at this moment, Jungkook was leaning heavily, heavily towards the latter.
Because if he had never loved, he would have never felt this tear in his heart.
Because if he had never loved, he wouldn’t be surrounded by shattered glasses; he wouldn't be wearing this tear-stained, no, tear-soaked, t-shirt.
He wouldn’t be having trouble breathing, nor trouble focusing if he had never loved at all- if he never knew what pure bliss was like.
If he never knew what he was missing out on, he could never miss it all.
Was the hurt worth the happy moments?
Were the tears worth their time together?
Jungkook pulled his shirt over his head- it was getting harder to breathe by the second.
He finally sat back and just let himself breathe- let himself go- or he at least tried to, more difficulty in the action than the description of doing so.
He heaved a couple times, had to pause to cough, to sob.
He continued doing so, and minute after minute, Jungkook was convinced that this heartbreak cost him his last proper breath.
It was almost fitting though, Namjoon had always been something like the oxygen in his lungs.
I haven’t done a WIP post for a while, at least partly because I think the horrible characterisation in S3 of Legends killed my muse dead. But she seems to be springing back to life a bit now, so hopefully I will get some things finished off and post some news stuff soon.
At the moment I have:
The Good, the Bad and the Unkillable - this is going to be a series of shortish fics to fix the finale of S3. Okay, we all knew he wasn’t dead, but this is how he’s not dead. It will definitely be at least three stories, the first of which is now up.
Stories for Rip Hunter Appreciation Week -
The Green Eye of the Yellow God - John Constantine meets Rip Hunter for the first time, because Rip has managed to get himself cursed. Half-written, so it will definitely be done in time.
Turn About is Fair Play - Turncoat AU that I’ve been working on forever, so I’m going to finish it finally and get it posted.
Un-named prison fic - How did Rip escape from prison? Well, here you go, this is how.
Un-named truth serum fic - This may or may not be done in time for Rip Week. Rip keeps lying to the team so they decide there’s only one way to get him to tell the truth.
Long multi-chapter fics -
The Lost Centurion - My Roman Briton AU. I’ve got a new chapter in the works for this. Hopefully it’ll be up in a couple of weeks, with some more revelations about Lacerius’ past and another appearance by King Meinitrekki (that’s Booster Gold for us non-Brittonic speakers).
Peace and Space - I haven’t forgotten about this one either, but the TimeCanary muse got up and left thanks to S3 and what they did to Sara. I’m going to do my best to finish it, but it’s proving to be very hard going.
On a cold New Year’s Eve night in New York City, two strangers meet. From falling– literally falling, into friendship, and into something more. They embark on a journey of a night to remember.
Word Count; 6,419 (quite a long one, I’m sorry)
A/N; Hello again! I know I’ve been gone a while, but today I’m bringing you a fresh New Year’s fic that isn’t an angst (finally!) and I truly hope it brings you all the happiness and joy. Also, excuse my mistakes if you find one, I’ve never been to New York City, let alone the Times Square on New Year’s, so mostly I’m just making this up. Hope you enjoy nonetheless!
Warnings; None (I think)
Disclaimers; This is my first fluff work, I still don’t know how to do it right, forgive me <3
Requests are still open as always!
3 hours and 47 minutes before midnight.
For four years in a row, Peter finds himself ending up in the same place, at the same time. Not a coincidence, though. He only wished it was.
It’s New Year’s Eve at about 8 o’clock, same as last year, and the year before that, possibly the year before that too. He doesn’t really like to think about it.
New York at this time of the year is always at its peak. It’s always the most alive and the most bright. You can hear people talking, laughing, being all cheerful everywhere. The billboards are blasting up colours. The weather is wonderful as well, if you think that freezing cold means wonderful– that is. He doesn’t really mind. He loves it. This city really does seem like it never sleeps.
From up above, he can already see people filling up the entire Times Square. They’re so tiny from far away, it’s like they’re not even real. They look like colourful specks moving along with the wind.
One would say that tonight is the loudest night of the year and he would wholeheartedly agree with it. If you’re down there, you practically have to scream to be able to have a chance at hearing each other. Peter’s never been so happy to have his heighten senses until now— if he only focuses, he could pick up some conversations from down below. It’s one way for him to feel like he’s being included when he’s actually not.
Peter’s now sitting on a somebody else’s balcony— could be a hotel or an apartment building, he didn’t really give it a thorough check. He’s sitting there up on the railing with his feet dangling up in the air, hair blowing in the wind and body trying to get familiarised with the cold air.
He can’t quite see anything from where he’s sitting– too many tall buildings blocking the way, but he could see enough glimpses to know what’s going on.
There’s still a few hours to go.
He’s been toying with the thought of staying at home this year, not doing anything– not doing this. He could just watch it all on TV and avoid all the firsthand madness, but that didn’t feel right– besides, there’s no firsthand madness from up here anyway. He’s been doing this for too long and he feels like it’s only right to keep doing it longer.
Peter just sits there, breathing in the wind, contemplating on his year. It was one of the toughest year of his life, but he’s made it out on the other side in the end, and that’s more than enough.
He closes his eyes, allowing himself to drift off for a few moments— he has plenty of that to spare anyway. He stretches his arms back, placing it on top of each balcony rails, and breathes out.
Nobody knows how much work comes with having heightened senses. Sometimes, Peter just wants to be left free in a world where everything looks and feels normal but he can’t– his ears can’t help picking up noises from an ambulance over a block away, his eyes can’t help focusing on the smallest details on an object, his nose can’t help picking up burning buns from a hotdog cart on a street sidewalk. It’s all too much. Peter learns how to control them over time, though, but he still doesn’t like to shut them off because he’s so afraid that as soon as he does it– something bad is going to happen, and it’d only happen because of him.
But right now, for a single moment– he just wants to feel nothing. So, he breathes in deep, and shuts it all out. No more noises, no more feelings, no more everything– just nothing. And, if the snow fell on his head, and melted on his face, he wouldn’t be able to feel it. His senses would all be working too slow to be able to detect anything in time. And, if someone were to be calling out to him right now, even if they were screaming, he probably wouldn’t have heard it.
And that’s true, because Peter didn’t hear it.
Someone is talking to him and he can’t hear a single thing.
“Better to be up here than down there, isn’t it?” Says a voice.
His brain doesn’t start registering the words until after a few moments, he’s about to let the them slip pass him and land on somebody else until he realises that there isn’t anybody else for them to land on. Just him.
His eyes blink open and he turns halfway to find where the voice is coming from, except that he turns all too suddenly and his hands slip from the rail while doing so— his body becomes disoriented. He just moved too fast– he shouldn’t have moved so damn fast. He didn’t even have time to locate the source of the voice before he loses the grip of his posture and feels himself falling.
The next thing he knows, he’s laying on the floor, splaying with his back flat on the balcony.
Smooth.
At least he didn’t fall forward.
“Ouch.” — is the only thing he could say. It doesn’t actually hurt that much but he feels like the sound was appropriate.
Peter can hear feet shuffling.
“Oh God— hey, are you okay?” That same voice speaks again. Peter almost forgot that the voice was the reason why he fell in the first place, everything happened too quickly, his brain still hasn’t turned on properly yet.
He tries to prop himself up slowly, shaking his head while he’s at it. Once he’s able to sit up properly, he slides himself back so his back would touch the wall, he needed a support for his body, and for his mind too.
Peter brings his hand up to ruffle his hair, rubbing his scalp as he answers back, probably a couple minutes too late, he doesn’t know “Yup, yeah— I’m good.”
A concerned voice, “You sure? I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startled you–”
“It’s fine. I’m okay.” Peter repeats reassuringly, holding up a hand, with another hand still rubbing his head. You mumble something in reply but he can’t quite understand it, so he just nods.
In the corner of his eyes, he can see you pacing back and forth on your balcony, holding something in your hands– and by the smell of it, he thinks it’s a drink– cocoa, maybe.
This isn’t how you thought the night was going to be. In your vision, you clearly didn’t see a stranger falling backwards, just because you thought it’d be nice to start up a conversation. You just wanted to come out here and sit in the cold for a while, clear your head. Let the world numb you up so you could forget about all the bad things that happened this year. Yeah, that was your plan. Hell– you even brought a cup of hot drink out here because you thought it would help with the process, but god knows how cold it is outside. Your hot drink now feels no different from an ice tray.
You set down your drink on the rail of your own balcony, eyes staring at the streets below. You’re too far away from where all the actions are taking place, but you can still see the lights, still hear the faint music. If you squint your eyes and focus, you can see the little ball about to be dropped from all the way over there.
There are some people below. Probably people who are second guessing themselves whether if they should go join the crowd of packed people or stay right here– observing from faraway.
That’s what you like to do. Not taking part, but thinking that you are anyway. It works.
But no parts of your plan include him, whatsoever.
“What were you doing, anyway?” You attempt to make a light conversation again. This time, he’s already standing up, arms propping on the rail, breathing out fog. No more risks of him falling.
He turns his head around, making you see him for the first time.
His curly brown hair is all muffled up, sticking out all over the place. There is even some snow on it. His dewy brown eyes look up, glazed with the possible tears from the cold. He looks to be about the same age as you.
It takes Peter quite a moment to reply. “Me?” This is the first time he sees you as well and he’s just– starstrucked. “Um–” He truly hates himself for being so bad with conversations, “I was– sitting?”
before I fell, of course. He thinks.
You chuckle lightly with a grin. Sitting, huh?
you were about to grip your mug and take a sip out of your cocoa before you realised that it’s most likely all ice cold now. What a waste. Instead, you just wrap your hands around it even though it doesn’t give you any sort of warmth, and neither are these layers of clothes you’re wearing.
“Well– yeah, sitting.” You begin again, “I meant–” You try to rephrase your words “What were you doing sitting on the edge of my neighbour’s balcony?”
Peter stops, “Oh–” Is there a possible way to reply to that question without sounding like a scary stranger? It’s like asking a thieve why they were stealing your TV as you see them carrying it out the front door.
So, Peter tries his best to be witty– which, he doesn’t do a lot, God knows why, “How do you know I’m not you neighbour?”
You chuckle, “Because I live here? And I know what my neighbour looks like?”
Oh, right.
“I could be her niece.” He keeps on going.
You hold in a smile and reply, “He’s 20. And he doesn’t look like you.”
Just like that, all the witty remarks of his went straight out of the window. “Oh.”
Okay, fine. There’s no point in lying anyway.
“It was a good spot.” He starts. “Um–” He should be clearer. “A good spot to both be involved and not involved?” He wasn’t sure if you understand what he’s talking about but it looks like you do, he keeps going.
“I always do this. Every year.” Peter darts his eyes to the far distance, through the skyscrapers, into the heart of the city. “You know– watching from afar.” Looks like it’s more crowded now in the Time Squares. People below are all heading in the same direction.
You nod your head. Of course, you know. That’s what you were planning to do as well.
You step back, bringing your mug with you and set it down on the floor next to your little chair before you sit down. It’s really cold. They said it’s the second coldest night of the year and you believe them with all your heart. You hug yourself tight, breathing out cold puffs of smoke.
You shouldn’t be out here, you’re sure that if you stay longer, chances are you’re gonna end up with a cold in the morning, and you don’t really want to spend your first day of the year that way.
But, you want to stay. You don’t really know why, but you want to stay. Maybe it’s because you’re tired of being alone every single year and being with one stranger is enough.
You look over at him– shivering. His arms are folded to his chest and he’s still looking out into the city.
“Aren’t you cold?” You ask again, making an observation. Comparing to you, he’s wearing a lot less layers but still looks a lot warmer.
“Huh?” He hums, looking back at you– adjusting his beanie.
“You’re not wearing that many– stuff.”
He’s wearing a shirt and a jumper over that. And a beanie, too.
Well, Peter can’t exactly tell the truth about this one can he? He’s cold, yes, but not unbearably cold. His body can adjust to the weather given time. And, he thinks he’s got enough time to adjust from wearing just his spandex suit and swinging through cold wind across the city, but of course– you don’t need to know that.
“I’m– I’m used to it.” He vaguely replies, but before he could go back to staring off into space he notices your teeth clattering. You seem to be the one who’s cold.
“Aren’t you?” He queries, nodding to you, “Cold– I mean. Aren’t you cold?”
God, is it that obvious?
“A bit, yes.” Lies. You’re a lot cold, “I’m okay.” You lie once more and smile, but it doesn’t fool him, he doesn’t buy it.
“Maybe you should go inside.”
“I said I’m fine–” You were about to bark his name back, insisting you were completely okay when you realised that you didn’t know it. You’ve both been here for what– half an hour? More? And you haven’t managed to get his name, nor have he managed to get yours.
You don’t know if you should, is the problem. Maybe he doesn’t want to give you his name, hell– maybe he doesn’t even want to know yours. But, he does look like a genuinely nice guy and what more did you have to lose?
“I don’t think I got your name.” You say, not necessary a question but you hope he gets what you’re saying.
He laughs softly. God, he’s cute when he laughs. “I don’t think I’ve gotten your name either.” He repeats you.
“Y/N.”
“Peter.”
Peter. You didn’t expect that.
You smile in response and sit back more comfortably in your chair. “Well, Peter. I’m fine. All jolly and good. Not cold.” You insist on your words, making a stand.
Peter nods with yet another soft smile, before looking back out again. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to you, because God, he wants too. But he knows that if he keeps on talking, then he’s going to go back to his babbly, awkward self in just a matter of time. So, the best thing to do is to avoid all the talking and keep on just standing. That sounds like a plan.
You both spend the next ten minutes or so being quiet on your own balconies, not really talking to each other but stealing glances from time to time. That keeps on going up until the point where you can’t stand it anymore. You take a deep breath in, gathering everything inside you and wish to heaven and gods above when you say,
“Hey Peter?” You utter, hoping he hears, “How do you feel about getting a cup of coffee?”
Oh, Peter heard alright.
2 hours 42 minutes before midnight
Let’s just say that the ‘getting down from a tall building to the street’ part the normal way isn’t as easy as he thought it would be. When coming here earlier he was jumping from rooftops to rooftops, and he has to say that it was quite easy, but now, after he’s said yes to your invitation and after you’ve gone inside, he’s stuck there with on lone balcony and a fire escape– which he had to climb down from, by the way. He considered shooting his webs down to the back of the building, but that would’ve gotten some questions asked as to why he came down so quickly. He had to choose the hard way and he’s now regretting it.
The moment he’s reached the bottom of the fire escape, he’s earned a lot of stares from people walking pass, and all he could do is smile apologetically and walk head down to the inside of the building, while brushing the dust and the snow off of his clothes. Do people even use the fire escape anymore? He swears he heard it creaked and groaned a couple times he thought he really was going to fall face first this time.
Peter tries to ruffle through his hair and make it not look like a mess as he goes in. He can see you already sitting there on one of the couches, holding another coat tight, eyes looking out of the window. It wasn’t so hard to spot you since no one else was really there except; you, the guards and some people waiting for the elevator.
This is the first time he sees you under real lights and not just reflective ones from billboard signs– you look different. Not in a bad way, of course. You just– look different.
Your hair looks shinier and your face sparkles under the lights even though it’s dark outside, he isn’t even sure how that is possible.
He walks over to you, face plasters with a smile. His hands feel too empty– he doesn’t know what to do with them, so he just tucks them inside his pockets and hopes it doesn’t look too awkward.
Your eyes move back into the focus of the room when you notice Peter. He looks different under the lights as well. Maybe even taller too. But, his hair is still messy and probably even messier than before from all that climbing down.
“Peter.” You greet
“Y/N.”
You stand up, smiling, and walking over too him. “You sure took you time.” You say, making him chuckle as a reply.
“Yeah, you try climbing down 30 stories next time.” He retorts.
“Told you to just go inside and go out the front door.” You reply back, suggesting him to head towards to door.
He follows right beside you. “That would be trespassing, wouldn’t it?”
“Only if they know.”
Peter pushes the front door open, and the cold air greets them, making you both shiver. He can see more snow falling down, not a lot, just a couple flying around, lifeless. The cold wind brushes both of your faces one more time as the door swings close.
You start down the pathway right before remembering something you grabbed for him before heading down– a coat. “Brought you something.” You say, smoothing the creases on the surface before handing it towards him. He grabs it and looks right at you, confused. “It’s mine, so excuse me if it doesn’t suit your taste.” You shrug, putting you hands in your own coat pockets to get rid of the cold.
He shakes the coat open and he swears that that surprised him even more. It’s green, and not a soft warm dark green, no. It’s bright green. Could’ve been neon in a different lighting. And not just that, there are these little colourful pompoms everywhere. You have to be kidding him.
“I’m not wearing that” He says, shaking his head and hand you your coat back.
“You’re freezing to death, you don’t have a choice.” You say, pushing it back to him.
He looks down at it again in disbelief, head still shaking, “I don’t even know why you would buy something like this.”
You huff, laughing. Honestly, you don’t even know why you bought it. It was probably on sale and you were probably in a very strange mood that day. “Hey,” You jab his arms with your elbow. “You don’t know what I like.”
He grins, still holding on to that bright green piece of cloth.
That’s true. He doesn’t know what you like, and he really doesn’t know you. It’s a miracle he hasn’t embarrassed himself and sent you running the other way yet. He can’t remember how long it has been since he’s talked to someone new and hasn’t made a fool of himself. The only people in his life that he hasn’t been a wrecked in front of are only his aunt and his best friend. No one else other than that.
There’s this something about you that makes him feel like he’s safe, welcomed, and confident– even. He feels like he could say whatever he wants and do whatever he wants without being judged. He’s only known you for a little over an hour at this point, but he trusts you. Maybe it has something to do with you not knowing who he is, too.
At school, he was always this loser Parker and he’ll always be that same person, but here– now, he’s someone else. Someone else that’s totally the same, but completely different and he thinks he likes that.
“Fine.” He mutters. “I’ll wear it.” He wasn’t even sure that it was his voice that just came out of his mouth, it took him by surprised. He shakes the coat open again and puts it on slowly. All you could do is gape at him.
When he finished putting it on, the first thing you do is laugh. Laugh and laugh and laugh. Oh, he looks ridiculous. “You look silly.” You state the obvious.
“Trust me, I feel ten times sillier.”
2 hours before midnight.
“Okay, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure most of the shops are closed today.” Peter finally admits after the walk doesn’t seem to be leading anywhere.
Your favourite coffee shop that you planned on bringing Peter to was the first place you checked. You were really positive about it being opened. But, with some luck of yours, it wasn’t.
That didn’t stop you, though. You promised Peter that there has to be some nice coffee shops that aren’t closed or overpriced and you were gonna bring him to it.
You went to three. Two were closed, and one was way overpriced, you could get a nice meal with that money.
You would’ve been cold and tired and begging to go home if it hadn’t been because of Peter– he is a great company. You two spend every moment talking about everything and nothing all at once. It’s been a while since you’ve connected with someone so much so that you start spilling your guts out to them, this is one of those rare occasions.
You were about to give up hope and tell Peter to find some other things to do instead before you noticed this green light-up sign in the distance that made everything inside you alive again.
You smile wide, “Starbucks’s aren’t.”
Peter joins you right behind as you peer into the coffee shop. Luckily, it isn’t so packed at the moment, there are people here and there but still enough spots for you both to sit down and you consider that as some kind of a miracle.
The door jingles as you push it open, Peter told you he’d get anything you’re getting right before going to find a place to sit.
Oh– his feet are both cold and sore, he can’t separate the two feelings apart anymore, he kicks his shoes off and leaves on his socks, letting it cool down along with the rest of his body.
You come back after a few moments, smokes coming out of your paper cups.
“Peppermint mocha, for the holiday spirits.” You say as you set the cups down, sliding one to Peter and sit you tired body down right across him. “Ah–” You groan.
Peter grabs a hold of his cup, his head turning left and right while doing so, “Don’t look,” He whispers “but I’m telling you that everyone over there’s been looking at my coat weird ever since I sat down.”
You sipped down your drink right in time before he finished that sentence, otherwise you might’ve laughed and spilled your drink everywhere. “Your coat, huh? Don’t grow too attached there.” You joke, gulping down the hot drink once more.
Peter grins back and takes a sip of his own drink. He holds on to his cup with both hands, letting the warmth from the drink seep through his skin and warm him up.
He can’t help but stares at you.
He didn’t expect his night to turn out this way either. He didn’t expect a night of usually sitting alone on stranger’s buildings– cold, to turn into a rather warmer night in a coffee shop with another human being, drinking festive drinks.
“How come you’re alone on New Year’s Eve?” Peter asks. He really wonders that. He didn’t expect any living person on this planet to be alone on a day like this, not if they could choose it– he didn’t expect a person like you to be alone.
Your eyes look up from your drink, questioning Peter, “How come you’re alone?”
He raises one eyebrow at you, stating that he’s asked you first, but you didn’t care. You won’t budge.
He sighs, setting down his cup, “Because,” Because. Another truth telling time, so it seems. “I’m not– I’m not the type of person who gets asked to parties a lot.” He replies, looking down at the floor, staring intensely as if something exciting was happening there. His fingers playing with one of the many pompoms located on the right side of the coat.
“I don’t– I guess I’m always alone on New Year’s Eve.” He keeps on going, “I don’t mind it.”
You can only nod, showing Peter you understand. You really do.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I hate parties.” You begin, looking at him even though he’s not looking back. You can see the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Too crowded, too many people, too much alcohol.”
“Too loud.”
“Way too loud.” You agree. Your drink is getting cold again– what a weather outside.
“So, is that why you’re alone?” He finally looks up from the floor, still looking at you in the eye, though, but he’s looking at you anyway. He didn’t mean to push, but he was curious. Maybe tonight is the only night you two have together, what’s the harm in wanting to know each other a little bit more?
It takes you a minute, or more, you’re not sure. Why are you alone? Great question.
“I wanted to be alone.”
“Wanted?”
“I like being alone.” You admit.
“But you talked to me.” Peter recalls earlier tonight when you spoke to him first, initiating a conversation than none of you knew would lead to this. That feels like so long ago, it’s starting to blur.
You smile again, “Yeah, but I talked to you.”
1 hour 4 minutes before midnight.
After about half an hour and 1 cup of peppermint mocha was gone, you both left Starbucks with no particular plans in mind. Staying inside felt rather boring, you had to get some air again.
You’re now outside, sitting on a bench on the sidewalk with Peter right next to you. This is the closest you’ve been to each other. No longer a balcony apart or across the table away. Just cold air separating the two of you.
Somewhere along the way, you asked Peter if you could swap coats. You felt like you wanted to wear the green one because you were so happy, you still are. So, you gave Peter your grey long one you were wearing and you got the pompoms one instead.
Peter felt much more comfortable he was finally out of that thing, he felt like a total clown wearing it. But you, on the other hand, look completely different.
It fits you perfectly, well– of course it has too since it’s yours, but it completes you. It makes you look more alive, more you. You look amazing in it, and you must know you look damn good in it too because you couldn’t stop smiling since. He’s certain he looks nothing like that when he had it on.
You look magical.
Suddenly, out of nowhere. Fireworks are being shot up in the sky.
Peter checked his phone for the time, he couldn’t have possibly missed midnight, could he?
No, it’s not midnight yet. Still exactly an hour away.
“God.” You mumble. Wincing at the sounds. You hate fireworks and the loud bangs. They serve no point in bringing the cheers on.
Peter turns his head and looks at you, worried. “You okay?” He asks.
You nod back to him.
“You don’t like fireworks?” He asks.
“No, it’s just– I don’t get the point of them.” You reply, looking up at the sky. “They’re nothing but fake stars.”
Peter smiles, looking up as well.
“I prefer the stars.” He says.
“Me too.”
31 minutes before midnight.
You didn’t spend time at the bench much longer because, like Starbucks– it was rather boring. So, you two starting walking everywhere. Taking every turn that appeared in front of you and wishing they would lead you in the right direction.
The time was being spent talking, laughing and jumping around with Peter. You felt happy. And Peter felt happy too.
“Are you taking me to the ball drop thing?” Asks Peter, as you walk the streets together, side by side.
You stop abruptly, looking at the area surrounding you. There are more people in the area, and more lights and noises. Are you?
“Are we heading to the ball drop thing?” You ask him back, not sure about the directions.
“I think so?”
Peter looks around as well. He doesn’t know much about where you both are, but from the looks of it, you two are definitely heading towards the heart of something.
“Do you wanna go?” You keep asking.
He shrugs, “Do you?”
If that question was being asked to you earlier on in the night, you would say no without thinking twice, but this is different. You’re out here in the city– with Peter, talk about taking risks.
It won’t hurt going.
“Yeah,” You nod, “Yeah, let’s go.”
You and Peter keep walking and walking, going where people are going, doing what people are doing. Blending in with the crowd for once.
There are more people in the streets now. Much more people. Everyone’s wearing these purple and yellow hats and glasses saying 2018. Everyone’s feeling the exact same feeling and wearing the same expression on the faces, it feels unreal.
You keep walking along together until Peter stops, craning his neck to see ahead.
“I don’t think we could go in any further unless you’re willing to squeeze into that.” He comments, nodding ahead for you to look. There’s no way you both could go and fit inside that. These people have probably camped out here since the morning, looking for the best spots to see the ball. This is the best you got.
“Not that dedicated.” You say. Giving up on trying to see anything.
“At least we could see the ball?” Peter speaks, unsured. He thinks he could see it, but he doesn’t know if anybody else could see it the same way he does.
“Could we?” You ask. “I think the building is blocking us.”
Peter slumps slightly. It’s just him, then. But says, “Good enough.” anyway.
He tries to move in, parting though some of the people. It works, but didn’t exactly help them with seeing anything better, and to be completely honest, making them more of a sandwich filling in the middle.
Everyone is trying to stand on the tips of their toes, in hope of seeing something– anything. Some people are even on the others backs. Is this what people of New York City usually do? Peter’s lived in New York ever since forever, but he never does this– whatever this is. It’s like he’s been missing out this whole time.
He brings out his phone to check the time. It can’t be too long now.
11 minutes before midnight.
He’s never been excited about New Year’s. It never feels like anything changes, never feels like a new beginning. Just another day that passes by. This is the first time he’s actually doing something about it.
Peter didn’t know when, but when he turned around to try to find you, he saw that your hands are intertwining– his and yours. It takes him a moment for that to register, and when it does– it makes him smile.
“Could you see anything?” You ask him, saying it louder than usual because otherwise, there’s no way for him to hear you through these waves of noise.
He shakes his head, shouts back. “Nothing.”
“How long?” You ask him again.
Peter stares back down at the time. “7 minutes.” He yells the answer.
You nod to him, gripping his hand a little tighter.
Peter really didn’t want to think about it, because he didn’t know if something like that is appropriate, but, what is he supposed to do at midnight?
Most of the people here came with their partners, most of them are holding hands or having arms around each other, and if you look at it from the outside, Peter and you are no different than them.
When the clock strikes midnight, there would be fireworks, confetti, glitters, and the unavoidable– people kissing. That’s what on people’s bucket lists, isn’t it, kissing at Times Square when it’s midnight? Is that what he’s supposed to do, too?
He tells himself that maybe you wouldn’t want something like that, and maybe by doing so, he’d be stepping over the invisible line someone has already drawn for them. And the magic of this night would die away. He doesn’t want to risk that.
But, on the other hand, what if that’s what you’ve been looking forward to as well? Is Peter supposed to make the move? Are you making the move?
Too many thoughts are rushing through his mind right now, he doesn’t have enough time to look through all of them anymore.
4 minutes before midnight now, he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do and you don’t know what you’re going to do either.
“You’re strangely quiet.” You observe.
“Oh,” He didn’t even realise that he’s been lost in thoughts all this time without uttering a single word. “Just didn’t want to miss it.”
You squeeze his hand back, sending thoughts through him again.
Whatever he’s planning to do, he has to plan it fast.
2 minutes.
The ball is going to drop, the rings and the horns will fill the space. People will turn to each other and doing whatever they do. Will he just stand still with in hand in yours, smiling?
Maybe it’s too early to do this, for God’s sake, you two just met a couple hours ago. A couple hours that seems like a lifetime away. God– he feels like he’s known you forever.
Or, what if when the clock strikes midnight, you’ll be thinking about someone else entirely? What if there’s someone else? Peter clearly didn’t think this through.
1 minute.
He could hear you saying something to him, but he wasn’t sure what you said, so he just smiled back and nodded. Didn’t even look at you in the eyes– didn’t even look at you at all because he’s so scared.
Why are you even here with him? You said you hated parties, which means you’ve been invited to one, or three, or ten. And you said no to all that and chose to be with Peter– a stranger on her neighbour’s balcony. Have you made the right choice? He wonders
But, there they are. Standing under flashing lights and among thousands and thousands of people. The question of whether what he should do still hasn’t been answered.
Are you thinking the same thing as him? Are your thoughts also rushing fast? Or is it just him who’s thinking too much when there shouldn’t be anything to think about in the first place.
10! – screamed out by the crowd.
“Oh God.” Peter says, he still won’t look at you, but he squeezes your hand– just to remind himself that you’re really there right next to him and he didn’t imagine all of this up because it sure feels like it.
9!
You look at him.
Why are you looking at him?
8!
Peter turns to the side, looking at you back.
7!
Your body is facing his, now. Can you see how stressed he’s feeling? Can you feel the dampness in his hand?
6!
You smile.
5!
You let go of his hand. Oh God, is this a bad sign?
4!
Seconds. Time. Thoughts. Bad combination.
3!
He can see your hands moving up, both hands. They’re brushing the hair away from his face.
2!
The hands are moving down, grazing the frame of his face. The skin, the bones. He feels like he can’t breathe.
1!
Your hands grab both sides of his face, pulling him in.
And just as that, there were no gaps between the both of you.
“Happy New Year!” You both can hear the world cheers. The ball has dropped. Fireworks fly up to the sky, sending loud bangs and noises everywhere, confetti pieces are also flying all around you like colourful flakes of snow, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing in this world matters.
The two of you kiss, letting your own world swallow you whole. You are being transported to your own personal space. A space with no one but you and Peter. The whole world is forgotten. Fireworks are nothing but dead silence. New York is gone.
Sealing the start of the year, Peter deepens the kiss, reeling in the reality. This is the reality, the reality of you and him and only you and him. The voices are all muffled up and there’s only you who’s alive. None of you know what’s going to happen next, not today, not tomorrow. You only know what’s happening now.
But, you know that for whatever it’s worth– whatever the continuation is, it’s going to be a damn good one.
You don’t know how long the time’s passed when you pull away– could be minutes, could be hours. The whole of New York City starts to come back into view again. You can hear voices and you can see colours, now.
You laugh as you see Peter’s hair is now a nest for all the rainbow flakes, he laughs too when he sees that your coat is now even more colourful than how it was before. This is happy– you two are happy.
This feels like you’ve lived, this feels like you’ve begin. This feels right.
You steal another kiss from him before reaching out to hold both of his hands with a big smile and say,
“Happy New Year, Peter.”
Another firework booms in the distance.
“Happy New Year, Y/N.” He smiles.
And you both believe it. It’s really going to be a happy one.
TAG LIST
(let me know if you want to be tagged in the future posts!)
well this was meant to be a little fanfic friday dribble-drabble, but just kidding it's actually 3.8k. So I guess I should actually put it on AO3. Hang on. Ok, I put it on AO3. Here's the link.
Andruil x Ghilan'nain, Andruil & Solas, Ghilan'nain & Solas, 3.8k T
Impossibly tall and twisted trees denoted Andruil’s camp deep in the forest.
As Solas wandered the wood, a spirit-home of wild fade currents, tendrils of magic and air brought him whispers from the gathering. They said the Mother of Halla, great benefactress of the mortals, had not deigned to greet the Huntress; there was silence from her den deep within the trees. This wood was the home of monsters, strange creations that appeared from the dark depths, some helpful, some vicious. Many had destroyed by the Huntress’ arrows, but some, like the proud halla, thrived among the people.
The halla did not bow her head; not even to the gods themselves.
An insult.
Even the Huntress’ lenient temper would be roused by Elgar'nan's order. When Mythal had heard she’d demanded the Mother of Halla be captured, Mythal had bid him come and see what was afoot. For as her husband loathed them, Mythal loved the halla, who were happy to serve her when they scorned Elgar’nan.
Perhaps a petty reason for him to leave her side, but Solas was curious, too.
What punishment had Andruil devised for the mortal who crafted beasts that defied the gods?
The grand camp, a temporary home crafted by an eager fade-sculptor among Andruil’s court, did not infringe upon the wood. A gentle shimmer in the air kept wildlife away, each root-woven archway blending into the world around them. But beyond that border, it was far from ordinary.
Without was autumn, but within was early spring. The air was crisp and breathtaking, sky bright with stars and a rippling aurora stolen from a place where night and cold still reigned. Solas gazed up at as he passed the outer court dotted with small shops and dwellings, each with their own unique design. It was a beautiful and impressive feat, to walk a portal from autumn to spring thaw. Wilderness to civilization.
Andruil preferred not to upset the game, her preferences visible among the ephemeral fade-sculpted fancies. This camp had been built around what was, not replacing it. Even the snowdrops were raised from the crude soil beyond their season rather than created, lured by beckoning magic. Solas walked the streets of the ever-changing and ever-moving city of Andruil, listening to the chime of breaking ice and the soft sounds of conversations muffled by the harmony of the Fade.
A light snow drifted down, dusting the carved ice path leading to a central camp surrounded by twisting cherry blossom trees. They shed insubstantial petals that melted at a touch, an ever-drifting veil that led into a tunnel of constantly melting and freezing wisteria wrought of ice, their droplets falling onto tuned stones that made a charmingly random melody. Trickles of ice-freed springs laid a soft ripple of sound underneath, rivulets of melt dripping from every surface as he passed from the tunnel to face the final ascent.
Most, if not all of Andruil’s court were within.
Solas made himself a wandering shadow, avoiding eyes and notice. He was welcome to travel where he would, but often found it best to avoid notice unless he was required– though the habit did rouse suspicion. Mythal had asked him to witness this moment. It was more convenient to do so without rousing attention. He would intervene in case of disaster, of course.
Andruil could be…impulsive.
Her followers held too much sway with her.
The path led to a hunters’ rest of filigree ice walls and woven birch pillars, a massive central fire blazing low with flames of silver and violet. The lights matched the aurora overhead, lighting the whole space with hues of purple, green, and blue. It was those dressed in scarlet and orange who suffered most of the choice in lighting, Solas noted. The natural stone stair had been given more gravitas with ice-wrought railings, the moss that sprang from every crack coated in perpetually-melting frost, the delicate carpet still autumnally green and brown despite the artificial winter.
Solas wondered idly if changing the seasons out of order would do some damage to the wood, unprepared for such cold.
The moment he entered the temple-like camp, open to the sky, his eyes were drawn to not to the vista above, but to she who required all this posturing. The Mother of Halla had been captured, herded into the presence of Andruil at last…whether she desired it or not. Andruil did not take ‘no’ for an answer.
Alone, Ghilan’nain stood shunned by the gathering of immortal and spirit, lingering in the shadow of a twisted sapling column wreathed in sculpted vines.
Yet once the eye found her, it could not leave her.
Eyes like strawflowers stared across the room, compellingly alien, too large for her elongated face. They were set oddly far apart, alert and wary, pupils a horizontal bar. And that was far from where her idiosyncrasies ended. Her face was nothing but flaws, her nose too long with a flattened bridge, her mouth too wide and too pale. Her ears were nearly clownish, turned outward proudly. Unforgivably flawed. Yet she was harmonious, wholly herself by design; this curious sculptress of beasts clearly considered herself a canvas as well. And so she drew the eye as to art, to be judged on some higher plane than mere attractiveness.
The Mother of Halla was unbound, and unwatched by the guards, ostensibly here of her own will. But Solas knew the lie. He could feel her frustration and distraction, her disdain for the feast, her unease with the celebratory crowd that gazed at her like she was yet another of Andruil’s bizarre trophies.
This is what he had been sent to observe.
In a sea of spring color she was wilted and faded, draped in the hues of skeletal fallen leaves. But it suited her, the odd fragility and simplicity of her dress, the richer palette. The truth of the world outside. And if she was barely dressed for the occasion, well, she was a mortal and it was appropriate for her to avoid outshining her betters.
She showed no signs of discomfort with her unfashionable iconoclasm.
Mockery flitted around the room behind hands, venomous butterflies flitting from each gossiping bubble to whisper their disdain for her. Jealousy, all of it. The entire city of Arlathan knew of the Huntress’ obsession with the sculptress of beasts, her hunger for her attention. To be favored by the gods was to be feared and hated.
A truth Solas was all too aware of.
Andruil’s pride was simple and fierce. She wore it like a child, with expectation of praise and glory for her accomplishment. And, like a child, her pride was easily wounded– she lashed out thoughtlessly when it was threatened.
He was curious to see if the Mother of Halla would survive her long-awaited first encounter with the Huntress.
When Andruil arrived, it was with laughter and shouting.
The Huntress was celebrated upon her arrival, not like Elgar’nan, whose court was silent and fawning, or Mythal’s, which was peaceful and full of gratitude. No, Andruil’s court was a place of drinking and song, of story and boasting. The line between fashion and armor blurred, with the goddess herself arriving in a silver breastplate and a violet sash like a peacock’s tail that spread behind her as she walked. Her armored leggings were spattered in mud and blood, half-bared chest sporting a jagged wound that still seeped blood.
She wore the injury as proudly as her exposed scars, the armor designed specifically to show them. One from each of her great battles in the war. Her people knew the story of each scar, or at least her version of them, and treated the tales as their sacred scriptures.
It seemed Andruil wanted to make a show of her arrival tonight.
In the center of the magic-hewn stone dias that stood at the top of the lodge, her altar and her throne, Andruil paused. Her boisterous, equally-wounded hunters stalled far back from her. The noise died. There was still a smile on her lips, arch and arrogant. It pulled slightly from the deep scar at the corner of her mouth that arched up to her cheek– won at the final battle of the great war, the conflict that had granted her eventual godhood.
“Generally when a goddess camps within your borders, oh Mother of Halla, one does not need to be invited to pay her respects!”
Andruil’s voice rang out, drawing every eye in the place back to the strangely-sculpted mortal. She clutched the pillar with one hand now, but she did not flinch when addressed, lifting her chin and averting her eyes. Step by step, she approached the dias, figures moving out of her way at her approach. The fire roared as she passed it, briefly washing her in strange, sharp shadows that made her all the more fragile.
At the bottom of the stairs, she bowed deeply to Andruil, until her knees touched the floor.
Ghilan’nain said nothing.
The silence pleased Andruil, her smile widening, shoulders rolled back. “Bring the trophy!” she bellowed, giving no more words to the still-kneeling mortal.
Solas curiously observed the prisoner, who did not at all behave like one. In fact, he would say she was remarkably composed, and remarkably brave. He would admire it, were it not counter to her continued survival. Still, there was much to be learned even in fleeting moments of those whose audacity spelled their doom.
Beauty even in melting snow.
Andruil returned, holding proudly in her hands the severed head of a halla. It wasn’t the beast itself that surprised Solas, but the sheer size of the head cradled between Andruil’s gauntlets, its intricately carved antlers eclipsing her face. A marvellous beast, larger than any he’d seen before. Its blood-spattered fur was golden, dead eyes rolled up towards the rippling sky.
“Rejoice, Mother of Halla! I have defeated the greatest of your beasts, and won our ferocious competition at last!” No cheers broke after Andruil’s bold pronouncement, the entire court respecting the gravity of the moment.
A sob broke the breathless silence.
A gasp of shock and horror flickered around the room, shadows lengthening, air chilling.
Ghilan’nain wept.
And not with overwhelmed honor at the skill and glory of the Huntress, but in pain, her face falling into her hands, graceful body crumpling to the floor in a puddle of gossamer skirts. Heartbroken, voice borne on the ringing silence, she sobbed, tears spilling from between her fingers and dampening her skirts. Solas’ eyes were drawn to her, as many were, but the focus was not on the weeping mortal, but the triumphant goddess.
No; Andruil was triumphant no longer.
Her pride had been shattered by the mournful response, and she stared in shock and dismay. Her hand fell, the proudly-displayed beast’s head falling with a thump. There was no blood left to spill, but its mouth hung open grotesquely as it rolled down a stair, beautifully curved horns clinking against the crystalline stone.
“Why do you cry?” Andruil asked, words blunt and fierce as ever. But they were open, straightforward, puzzlement and pain clear. “I have bested you at last.” Her expression cleared, fierce eyes softening. “Are you overcome with the honor?”
“I did not make her for you to hunt!”
The accusation rang out, so full of suffering that the spirits thrummed with the vibrations her agony rippled through the air. The light changed, candles burning fiercely golden, banishing the violet shadows. In the gilded light the weeping mortal glared at the goddess, her agony pure, her heart open to them all like a flower.
The room was silent, watching the challenged goddess in fear and anticipation.
Armor gleaming in the fierce firelight, Andruil took a single step down from her dias. “Do you not challenge me, mortal? I have hunted your great beasts of land, sea, and sky. Why do you weep now?”
“Challenge you?” The question was full of too much pain for offense, great tears spilling again as Ghilan’nain’s chin rose. Her lashes trembled, gleaming. “They were imperfect. Flawed. But her–” Her voice cracked, bleeding.
The Mother of Halla reached out a dappled hand, long fingers stretching as she crawled up the shallow stairs, tears still spilling from her autumnal eyes, gown spread across the crystal like the shivering wings of a wounded moth. She grasped the severed head of the gilded beast, hands cradling its gilded muzzle, dragging it down into the embrace of her arms. Chest heaving with the force of her tears, she pressed her forehead to the halla’s.
“She was perfect. Perfect!” The last word rang like an accusation, an arrow to Andruil’s heart. Ghilan’nain’s head lifted, her eyes wounded and hazy from her unceasing woe. Her question, her anger was posed to the room, as if each soul who witnessed bore the burden of the desecration. “How could you?”
The heartbroken anguish echoed.
Her sorrow was too profound and too beautiful. Elvhen who had mocked her were now weeping for her, faces turned away in shame. Still, more watched in fear, anticipating the displeasure of the Huntress.
But Solas knew better.
Andruil’s eyes behind the mask of her face were full of pain and shock, a child whose clumsy fingers had crushed the butterfly she admired.
“Tell me– were they not tokens of your worship? Challenges to my skill and might?”
Ghilan’nain laughed, the sound bubbling over miserably. “No. No.” She wilted, curling in on herself like a child afraid of a blow. The severed head was shielded from the room in her arms, as if denying them any further spectation of the beast’s demise. When her chin jerked up and her eyes met the goddess’, full of outrage and pain, there were murmurs of shock, whispers of magic-shielded conversations.
Such defiance…
Solas tucked a hand beneath his chin, watching the scene with detached fascination.
Truly, this Ghilan’nain did not fear death.
“I have made nothing for you.”
“You say that now because I have bested you,” Andruil scoffed. She stared down her nose, looking more bemused by the defiance than angry. There were not many who would raise their voice to the general without a blade in hand to challenge her. Tears were new. “If you wished the great Golden Halla not to die, you should not have sent me so many challenges. Can you not see that it is your failure, weeping mortal? It was inevitable she would die– it is only a beast and you are no god.”
Andruil’s benevolence was tentative, one hand beginning to rise, but stalling before her reaching fingers could extend fully. Curiously, the Huntress was taking far more care with Ghilan’nain than even he would expect. She seemed utterly at a loss beneath the bravado.
When her gaze scanned the room, Solas knew his attempts to stay a mere observer would not succeed.
A voice echoed in his mind, rising and falling with Adruil’s always-wandering attention when her regard found him. “If you must spy and pry for Mythal, at least serve your purpose.”
The viciousness of her voice in his mind did not concern Solas, though Mythal had told him time and time again that she could not protect him if he went too far. He did not challenge Andruil, so there was no reason for her to attack him. Her plea, while high-handed and rude, was genuine.
Andruil truly had thought the mortal was courting her attention.
And worse, she had been charmed by it.
There was a simple solution if all she wished was to please the mortal in return. “Swear to protect all of the halla that remain. Elgar’nan finds their arrogance displeasing, but if you demand their enshrinement, he will agree. You are owed the boon.”
“Lower my head?” Across the room her eyes blazed, piercing the shadows he watched from.
Solas was exposed, and eyes that previously cast past him were now fixed upon him as he stood in the shadow of a colonnade, hands tucked behind his back. They spoke in silence, but their conversation left currents in the air that eyes tracked. He could see the smattering of attention at his appearance. “You have proven your skill and it does not move her. Prove your benevolence now.”
As soon as he offered an answer she would accept, Solas was ignored.
With his purpose served in her eyes, Andruil no longer paid him any heed. Finally she broke her stern silence, and the air began to move again, chests rising as the Elvhen were freed from the grip of her furious confusion. The Goddess of the Hunt gazed across the room, and then down to the mournful mortal at her feet.
They had spoken in few moments, but it seemed Ghilan’nain had no intention of a response. Her face was flat and expressionless now, tear-streaked and cold. Even that was beautiful, the way her skirts floated down around her as she rose, the bravery of her strange reddened eyes, her lifted chin.
She was as brave in her calm as she had been in her tempest.
“Your beast was a worthy challenge. A warrior of great grace and strength,” Andruil said with more confidence with no further argument posed. “She will celebrated in story and song!”
There was a cheer from the court of the Huntress. It was an honor they understood, and more than a mortal should hope for. Solas was not surprised in the least when what followed was in fact the opposite of what Andruil intended.
Without a word, Ghilan’nain turned away.
Immediately five hundred hands went for weapons; there was no way she would escape without the Huntress’ grace, no matter how brave he was. But Andruil lifted a hand and waved them off imperiously. The court stood down. No one would question the goddess’ whims, for she was a dauntless god, and her skill in the hunt was not to be questioned.
The Huntress allowed Ghilan’nain to flee, wounded, Solas knew she would be hunted down before long.
Her reasoning simply defied Andruil’s divine confidence.
Chatter turned to feasting and laughter, making light sport of the obviously confused mortal too overwhelmed by the presence of a god. No, it was not the tale of the night. Instead the story of hunting the Great Golden Halla spread, making certain to highlight that the beast had been sent as a challenge to the goddess of the hunt. Andruil’s boasting confidence could turn any wild tale into myth.
Even when they had seen the truth with their own eyes.
She, sadly, did not allow him to linger and enjoy the company of her ranks. Once the wounded halla was gone, and the feasting had begun, she found his mind again.
“Have you seen enough, whimpering beast?”
“Mythal wishes for your success. Shall I depart?”
“Stop.” He watched her gilded profile in the distance, her eyes fixed upon the butchery of the rest of the beast. It seemed she had no intention of sparing this kill from the feast. Vulgar. Her voice in his head was sharp, short, belying the frustration she had hidden from her people. “No riddles, servant of Mythal. If you are so wise, tell me what I must do. For Elgar’nan has demanded I stop the flood of beasts that come from this wood.”
Ah. The full scope of this ceremony was now clear to Solas. He should report to Mythal with haste, once he had sufficiently soothed the Huntress. As had crossed his mind before, the halla offended Elgar’nan. But now the people depended upon the halla, revered and loved them, and seeing them forced into service would enrage them and tarnish Elgar’nan’s reputation. So, he sought to destroy their creator, fearing the independence of beast and creator both.
He could not, and would not abide their refusal to serve, not when they flocked to Sylaise and bowed to Mythal.
A fascinating puzzle that was not for Solas to solve.
“You could kill her,” he suggested, curious to hear her reaction.
“Easily.” In the distance, Andruil shot him a distant sidelong glance, like a dagger of emerald. “If I wished to, I would have, you useless slave.”
The insult, like every single one before it, was ignored. “You misinterpreted her.”
“Do you call me a fool?” She instantly retaliated, as he had presumed. “I did not misinterpret her. She was overcome. Why would she create such vast and terrible creatures, if not to gain the notice of the Huntress? I thought you were wise.”
Pleased with the success of his manipulation, Solas smiled faintly to himself, turning away for an archway of skeletal branches covered in pale green buds.. Very well, he would make no further attempts to enlighten her with the truth of the situation. If she preferred ignorance, so be it. “Then if she is merely overwhelmed by the honor paid, as you claim, if you deigned to arrive at her home yourself she will throw herself at your feet.”
“Of course she would.” But, much to his surprise, Andruil did not seem eager to claim the bait he laid. “But…she seems a delicate creature. And it seems the loss of the beast has touched her deeply. If I appear too suddenly she may offend in her grief.”
Another truth revealed itself.
What other emotion but desire could evoke so much understanding?
“You, Voice of Council.” It still wasn’t his name, but it was not ‘slave’. “Go speak with her, and set her mind at ease so she is prepared for my arrival. At the third dawn.”
“As you command,” he replied, bowing his head across the great hunter’s lodge to Andruil. There was no point in saying no. With a moment to report, he was all but certain Mythal would suggest he do as Andruil ordered, and so to resist would be pointless.
As he departed Andruil gave him one brief look of acknowledgement across the cold temple, then turned away to her hunters once more. No doubt whatever tale was told of this night would be only from her perspective, and not the truth. After all, the truth was…unflattering.
A mortal’s tears had bested the will of a god.
As he hunted for the Mother’s den, the wolf wore a smile.
