my storytelling final! or, that week i almost went blind cross-hatching!
it’s a couple weeks old at this point, but i’m still proud of it (all that cross-hatching…) even though looking back at it now i can see a ton of flaws or things i just could’ve done better. maybe i’ll redo it one day.
the page colors are kind of wonky because they’re photographs; i didn’t have a scanner big enough for the pages.
hell yeah monster/human friendships
This has got to be one of my favourite comics of all time. I’m pretty sure I’ve reblogged this already, but I don’t care. I love its progression and I love how sweet it is. Huzzah for winning demon spirits over with everyday things like music, food, art, and just being kind.
Once upon a time there was a miller and her husband who had, quite unintentionally, irritated the Fair Folk. Several traps and punishments were devised for the dreadful sin of eating the mushrooms of a faerie circle, but the trouble was that the miller and her husband were completely oblivious to the entire attempt. You see, their infant daughter was colicky and disapproved of sleep as a concept, and they were very, very tired.
As a last resort, the Fair Folk stole the couple’s baby and replaced it with a Changeling. The miller and her husband ought to have noticed that something was awry when the baby slept through the night without being constantly rocked. But as I have said, they were very, very tired.
Soon enough, the Changeling began to exhibit traits not generally found in human infants. The ability to crawl on the ceiling, for example, or sporting one bright blue curl in the middle of her forehead.
“That seems a little odd,” said the miller’s husband.
“Well,” said the miller, “She is our firstborn. What do we know about babies, anyway?”
“That’s true,” said her husband, and life went on as usual.
At the age of two, the Changeling daughter possessed a hauntingly beautiful singing voice. Her recitation of the alphabet had lured most of the town’s animals into the pond on several different occasions. Luckily, the town was known for raising primarily waterfowl, and so nobody particularly noticed anything unusual about it. Although there were a few cats who had been bewitched into unexpected baths and now bore undying grudges against the miller’s family.
But when the miller’s daughter came to be seven years old and she still had not outgrown her blue hair or her penchant for walking on the ceiling, her parents at last began to suspect that something was amiss.
“Husband,” said the miller, “I think it is time we faced the facts.”
“Yes,” said her husband, “I think so too.”
And then he asked the question that was on both their minds: “Does she get it from my side of the family, or from yours?”
…
Meanwhile the child the faeries stole was raised by a banshee who was convinced that she was one of them. Confusion abounds in the faraway land.
…but when will my scream grow in Mama? And how do you know when someone in your family is about to die? And how will I be assigned a family anyway?
“I already saved their life, multiple times, and they still don’t trust me!” The villain threw their hands up in exasperation.
The villain’s mentor shook their head in mocking disappointment. “You’re looking it it all the wrong way,” they sighed. “It’s not the hero’s life you have to save–it’s their friend’s.”
Every time there is a thunderstorm your father ushers you inside and waits on the porch with his gun, your mother says he’s just gone a bit crazy after the war, but you’ve seen what lurks in the clouds too.
Tag your responses with #wordsnstuff //Ko-Fi//PATREON
I love it when Person A and Person B are fighting and then something- something happens. And Person A has to get Person B to stop talking, to stop arguing, and listen to them. And then Person B just snaps and goes “WHAT!?” and then they notice how broken A’s face is and they go “w-what?”
I am imagining enemies fighting but then this kid appears out of literally no where just covered in ash and possibly blood. Now these enemies need to figure out who the kid belongs to, if they are alive, who hurt the kid, how they got there, possibly if it was the kid that committed the crime.
Enemies to still enemies but now they have joint custody of a kid.
“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there,” and another one appears. And dodges the downward sweep of claws, darting to the side, bouncing off the pentagram’s barriers, and tripping over the demon’s tail. “In the Vatican!” she cries out as she moves, using the State Farm Agent summoning charm to modify the situation as she was taught, and mentally thanking her trainer for expecting her to be fast enough to do it on the first incantation.
Most State Farm agents, when they run into trouble, have to get the customer to do the jingle a second time. That guy with the buffalo was lucky.
The magic takes hold, and she materializes in the aisle of St. Peter’s Basilica, still holding the demon by the tail, in the middle of Sunday morning Mass. The music clatters unprofessionally to a halt as laypeople, deacons, priests, monks, nuns, and the Pope all turn their attention to the surprised demon whose fifth course of dinner has turned, unaccountably, into a visit to one of his least favorite places on Earth.
There is chanting in Latin, and vaguely cross-shaped gestures, and clouds of incense, and the demon vanishes in a puff of smoke, whether from the efforts of the clergy or of his own volition no one can say. The Agent doesn’t wait, fleeing towards the doors and escaping in the confusion.
She gains the exit and walks, purposefully, toward Rome proper; there, she ducks into the nearest alley. A burner cell phone comes out of one of the less-used pockets of her purse, and she dials a number from memory.
“Allstate,” says a smooth masculine voice after three rings.
“State Farm,” she answers. “I’m calling in a favor.”
“Yeah?” Interest. “What sort?”
As she talks she’s pulling out her smartphone, keying an app that was activated by the summoning, and pulling up the policyholder data that enabled the incantation to work.
“Insurance fraud,” she said, and can almost hear teeth sharpening on the other end of the line. She gives him the name, the address, the policy number. “Someone needs some mayhem.”
“That’s my name,” the man says.
She smiles. “Someone needs all the mayhem.”
He chuckles. Slow. Evil. Even with the echoes of demonic laughter ringing in her ears, she’s impressed. “Don’t worry,” he says, almost purring.
“You’re in good hands.”
OH MY FUCKING GOD I just read insurance commercial fan fiction and it was so good, bless you, I’m going to remember this day forever.
IT COMES BACK TO ME! *preens*
Part 2:
It’s not too long later—State Farm will occasionally loan out their teleportation trick, though Heaven help anyone who tries to use it to compete with them—and the man they call Mayhem is squatting next to a demonic circle with tacky half-dried blood under the leather soles of his shoes. Whoever dispelled the circle didn’t do a good job of it; the ring is still faintly smoldering and Mayhem has already singed his fingers on the air above it. He’s in the basement of a house with a State Farm homeowner’s policy, waiting for his partner in, erm, crime, to show up.
“Oh, good heavens.” He smiles at the sound of someone hopping delicately back, then carefully tiptoeing through the mess. Demons are messy eaters, and Flo’s wearing all white.
She steps gingerly over what might be most of a femur, looks from circle to Mayhem to—is that half a skull on the floor? “Freaky. Whaddaya need?”
“Tech,” he says. “State Farm knows the homeowner summoned them, but the Agent reported at least five people present. Maybe six. She isn’t sure, what with being busy evading a demon inside a very small space with zappy walls.”
Flo’s already got a—where does she get those from anyway? a cardboard box in her hands. Mayhem watches as she unfolds it, refolds it, and ends up with something significantly bigger, shaped like a satellite dish. He tries to watch how she does it; they may be working together, but they’re still rivals and his own higher-ups will be very interested in the latest whatever-it-does that Progressive has come up with.
A blue glow lights up the concave side. Mayhem is pretty sure cardboard doesn’t work that way. Flo makes a pleased sound, and starts rattling off names, addresses, policy numbers.
Impressed, Mayhem asks, “How the fuck?” If Progressive is developing some sort of superspy technology, well, that’s kind of ominous.
Flo grins and looks embarrassed. “I, ah, have occasional dealings with a couple guys from That Other Insurance Company. One of them knows someone who knows someone who works in quality control for the Infernal Realms, and it turns out Hell monitors all their summoned manifestations for safety purposes. His contact got me the list of who was there.”
Mayhem nods. He’s had occasional encounters That Other Insurance Company himself. Bland, grey-suited, timid men who are even worse spies than they are insurance agents. “Wait, Hell has a quality control department?”
“And all other forms of administration,” Flo says. “I understand it’s to generate maximum paperwork. It is a place of punishment, after all.”
Mayhem actually winces. “That’s definitely hellish. All right. The Agent who called me in is flying back from Italy and should meet us in a few hours. Should give us plenty of time to plan an attack. Are they all State Farm customers?”
“Just the one,” Flo replies, folding her toy up, and Mayhem watches with vague envy as it becomes a giant sword. “One Allstate, one Progressive, one Geico, two Farmers. We gonna invite anyone else to the party?” She hopes so. Mayhem’s precision strikes on any sort of insurance fraud perpetrators are the stuff of legend, and the Farmers guys would bring in enough absurdity to make it a work of art.
Mayhem’s grin is something that ought to haunt her nightmares. Instead, she finds herself matching it. “Yes,” he says. “Let’s.”
Part 3:
The sun is just a suggestion behind the horizon, but the morning traffic jam is already clogging up the freeways by the time Mayhem and Flo leave the scene of the crime. Flo is driving, weaving her motorcycle expertly through the sea of zombie commuters, and already some jackass in a twenty-year-old Honda has rolled down his window to sneer at Mayhem for riding behind a woman and in the process taken his eyes off the road long enough to rear-end a state trooper.
By the time the sun is peeking over the edge of the world, the freeway has been exchanged for fast-food restaurants and traffic lights, and Mayhem is contemplating commercials. “I’m another motorist doing something you disapprove of” is warring with “I’m a state trooper,” and Mayhem is leaning toward the latter because it might give him an excuse to put on the uniform, when Flo erupts in giggles, jerking her head subtly to the right. Mayhem finds what she’s looking at and nearly pisses himself.
A van, the type that practically screams “covert surveillance,” is parked in the entrance to a Starbucks. Two men in bland gray suits and the sort of ties that give insult to all intelligent life are sitting in the front seat, coffee cups in hand. Mayhem sees the moment they set eyes on Flo—they both jerk upwards in their seats as if jabbed with a cattle prod—and then the moment where they realize who her passenger is. The one in the driver’s seat boggles and reflexively inhales half his coffee; the passenger reaches over to slap him on the back, sees Mayhem, and spills his own beverage all over the dashboard.
When Flo passes the driveway she gives a little wave to the men, and they both dive for cover. Mayhem would be surprised at the level of ineptitude That Other Insurance Company lets their agents display, but he’s seen one of them try to hide behind a stop sign. Surprise has long since left the station, leaving amusement and a hint of second-hand embarrassment which Mayhem relishes rather than winces at.
He’s jarred from his thoughts as Flo hits the brakes, neatly avoiding the SUV that has just moved into their lane without signaling on her way to the upcoming right-turn lane. The driver diverts attention from her cell phone long enough glare at Flo and stick a manicured middle finger in their general direction, and turns to the road just in time to watch as her car veers off the shoulder and makes intimate congress with a speed limit sign. And then the flashing lights come on from somewhere behind them and Mayhem’s faith in humanity is restored.
He revises. “I’m a middle-management commuter on a cell phone.”
Flo pulls over to let the cop car pass, and Mayhem sneaks a look back at the van. God have mercy, the one in the passenger seat has binoculars.
“Shall we lose them or let them follow us?” Flo’s voice interrupts his giggle-fit.
No question. Not like they’re a threat. “Let’s keep ‘em. They’re entertaining.”
Flo merges back into traffic and signals a move to the left lane. Since the lady in the SUV is still in view, glaring up at them as the police officer steps up to her window, Mayhem is extra gratified that she waits five whole blinks before merging into the next lane. It’s doubtless for the benefit of their pursuers, who otherwise might manage to keep with them if Mayhem draws a map and passes it to them at a stoplight, but his black and petty heart rejoices anyway.
It takes them awhile to get to the suburban park where Mayhem has arranged to meet the State Farm agent who called him in. Or rather, it takes them awhile to get there without losing their inept pursuers; twice, Flo has to double back and be found again, and once the van gets stuck behind a railroad crossing and Flo and Mayhem have to stop and pick up a box of donuts in order to still be there when the train finishes blocking the road. The park is a lovely little spot complete with playground equipment and a little waterfall, as completely removed from this business with demons and human sacrifice as a person could want. There’s one car in the lot already, a rental, and a figure in red shirt and khaki skirt standing beside it.
“Is that the Agent?” Flo asks, and Mayhem nods. The woman is short, dark, curvy—very pretty—and the two guys from That Other are in serious danger of twisting their heads off their shoulders as they drive past. Whether it’s for that reason, or because there’s now three insurance companies having a little meeting in a city park like some exceedingly bad spy thriller, Mayhem isn’t sure.
Flo parks the motorcycle and goes up to introduce herself; Mayhem stays put and watches the van make an awkward U-turn in the middle of the road and come back. The State Farm agent walks up to Mayhem and offers a hand, and he is distracted from the spectacle by a warm-toned “A pleasure to meet you” and a gaze and smile as predatory as a shark’s. It’s enough to distract his attention well and properly. This is the person to whom he’s promised vengeance, and this is the face of a person who has fought and outsmarted a demon.
Damn, he’s glad he picked up the phone.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” is what he says, and then Flo lets out a mirthful squeak. Mayhem and the Agent both follow her gaze, just in time to see the surveillance van leave the road, bouncing over the curb and smashing into a tree.
The Agent is staring, her lips curving into an amused smirk, and Mayhem composes another commercial. “I’m stupid, and I come in pairs.”
What I’d give for one of the Cinderella remakes to go into how when you’re in an isolated and abusive situation, sometimes you need to be saved and you’re not weak if you can’t escape by yourself
I’ve never been a fan of bad faith reinterpretations of fairy tales, especially ones which flatten the originals into “princesses is saved by a prince and nothing else”, to then go #girlboss. The princess can save herself because she’s a strong female character! (Implying if you’re in a bad situation, it’s because you’re not strong enough to get out)
He’s been trained to read the room. To read the context clues. To read politics and scheming and planning and people. He’s a Prince, it’s either that or accidentally drink poison by age 15. And he reads her and …
She’simpossibly wealthy. The dress isn’t a fabric he can recognize, but it’s beaded with cut diamonds, faintly milky opals that shimmer with a rainbow, little pale aquamarines, and somewhere are little bells gently ringing with each step - he’s a Prince and he can’t afford to dress like that. The slippers ring too … there is nothing like that crafted by the hands of humans. That’s fairy stuff. She has an in with them that eclipses royal politics. She is powerful in the Old Ways.
All this wraps around the poorestwoman he’s ever seen in his entire life, and he’s seen some very, very, poor people in his time.
Poor in money, but poor in “oh you poor thing!” as well. This is someone who has been robbed blind. This is someone who carried themselves waiting for the lash, for a browbeating, for harsh, cruel, abrupt, punishment.
He expects her to be haughty, or hard, or meek or… something else… but she’s just nice. She’s just … nice.
The rigid posture comes out of his back, his tongue unsticks. She’s like sitting by the embers of a low, calm, fire. He feels warmed and rested simply speaking to her. He wonders if it’s magic, and it might be, but if it is it is magic that is her own.
And that terrifies him, because he’s trained to see these things and he knows someone with a cruel hand is waiting to douse her, and snuff her, and beat the last glimmer out of her shining eyes - eyes that put that dress to shame and and and and… she’s gone.
Oh god, she’s gone. It will be all over her sweet, kind, warm face that she transgressed and … oh god they’ll killher, whoever they are. This will embarrass them and if there’s anything he knows, it’s that you don’t humiliate someone who has power over you and walk away unscathed.
And all he has is a fairy slipper that will only ever fit her foot (it’s not merely shoe size, it’s a kind of spiritual fit as well), and the vain hope that he can keep such a bright light from burning out. It doesn’t even touch his heart that what he’s feeling is a kind of pure philia, not until it enraptures him soul to bones, all at once. Oh god, oh no, oh shit… he’s reached well above his station, but…he can try to be good and worthy.
The way he sees it, sometimes even the strongest people can be brought low and need just… a little help. She had enough in her to do whatever she had to do to free herself of those evil relations if she had to, but she shouldn’t have to. There’s no glory in blood. Sometimes it’s okay for the ending to be happily ever after.
A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”
And, like a fool, you give it to him.
I got asked for clarification on this (but can’t reblog that particular post cuz on mobile), which I’m more than happy to provide.
In this post, a faerie is asking for ‘your’ name. The way he is wording it, however, and the accompanying beckoning motion, makes it seem as though he is asking for you to physically hand your name over. Which, because of how some faeries operate, he is.
In this instance, saying your name aloud to the fae would be literally giving your name over to him, the exact consequences of which are left up to the imagination–usually, a fae even knowing your name gives it some measure of power over you, but giving something your name would likely let it completely take over your life.
In this instance, the wording you want to use is something like “I will not give you my name, but I will tell you that it’s [name].” Alternately, you can just lie to him.
Might i suggest the less direct yet still name-preserving “you may call me…”? It dodges the request while still giving an answer of a name, which does not even have to be yours, but any name you feel like telling the fae they can use to refer to you. I would recommend “Ainsel”.
The first time he asks for your name is the first time you meet him. He appears as you walk by the færie ring, that you have not entered because your grandmother has repeated so many times not to do so, and, curious of your presence, watches as you jump when you notice him.
You recognize him instantly. It is the Fæ whose influence your village is under, the one the elders have told you and your friends to be wary about, for the people who have been seen walking away with him have never come back.
You don’t know what he does to them. The villagers have never dared to confront him about it, never dare to address to him at all. He is not evil: he sometimes speaks blessings upon the cattle, talks the horses to calm after a storm, ensures a good harvest for the farmers, makes the flower bloom in spring even when the weather is still too cold. He is, simply, a Fæ, whose ways humans cannot understand.
“Hello, little one,” he says as you stand very still, back straight, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your skirt.
You do not go away - you cannot. This, your grandmother has taught you, would be considered as an offense, and you could be cursed, or he could take out his wrath onto the village. You do not shy away from his stare, however, even not knowing if this will displease him or not. You are eight, have the courage and the recklessness of your childhood innocence, the boldness of those who have not yet learnt how to fear; but you have been warned against the Fæs, who like to toy with humans and play tricks upon them, so you do not defy him either.
He walks up to you. You pray he will stay in the færie ring, as it feels like a protection, and fortunately, he does. He isn’t too malicious to the youngest ones, you have been told once - just do not know if this is true or not. You knew a girl your age called Nimia, that has been caught a year ago, and she has never come back to the village, and her parents have cried all week cursing the Fæ.
You summon to your memory everything your grandmother has taught you to ward off Fæs, and protect yourself against their tricks. You do not want to be the next Nimia.
He introduces himself as Áed, although you suspect it is merely a nickname. Then, holding out a hand, he asks, “And your name, please?”
There is your grandmother’s warning at the back of your head: names give power over people. The Fæ is asking you to literally give him your name, and who knows what he’ll do with it - he might as well use it to take you away, like he surely did to Nimia. To all the people who have never been seen again. To your own mother, two years after you were born, even though she was too clever to be caught by a Fæ’s trick.
So you remain quiet, watching him with wide eyes, until his own stare darkens, and he shakes his hand under your nose.
“Your name, little one.”
You pull yourself together. He might curse you if you don’t answer. You gather your courage, and, with the spontaneity of children who have freedom in their veins and do not bend to rules, you stretch out your hand back without touching his.
“I am sorry, lord Fæ. I haven’t heard you very well. Can you give me your name, please?”
He looks at you with surprised amusement. “Oh, well played, little one. You’re clever. Just for this one, I will let you go.”
He retreats his hand, and you scramble back as quickly as you can, bowing to him clumsily before taking your leave.
You had passed by the færie ring to go the well to wishes, even though the elders forbid the youth its access, disobedient little child that you are. You just wanted to wish for your father to let you wear your mother’s necklace - ‘not yet’, he always says, ‘when you are thirteen’. You forget about going there, after this encounter. You go back home, and your grandmother scolds you for having been gone for so long.
You do not tell her about the Fæ. She has already lost her daughter to him. If she knew he had tried to lure you, you would not be able to leave the house again - and you value your freedom too much for that.
The second time he asks for your name, you are fifteen, and you have ran to the well to wishes again, forgetting the elders’ warnings. You have sworn to yourself you would not go back home anyway. You are not sure what you want to wish for, but at least for all this pain within you to fade; just to be more, or maybe less, like your mother, to accept the village’s rules better, to simply fit in and be happy that way.
Eyes full of tears, breath uneven, barefooted on the grass, your mother’s necklace beating against your chest as run, you have not made a detour to avoid passing by the færie ring. You trip and fall in front of it, and Áed finds you curled there, crying and cursing to the world.
“Those are not pretty words,” he says.
You freeze. You push yourself on your elbows, sees the færie ring, feels dread slip into your head. It is only the second time you see him, and you are not a child anymore. You have learnt to fear.
The Fæ, who has taken Nimia, then Lettie, on the day of her wedding, and even the old Mack, hovers over you curiously, at the edge of the færie ring. You remember to keep still, not to offend him. You feel the fear you should have felt when you were eight; and yet again, as tonight sadness and despair have already filled your heart, you do not manage to remain terrified.
“I don’t care,” you answer, sitting on your knees.
He finally sits down, too. He does not talk, so you do not feel compelled to talk either, and silence stretches between you for a while.
“Were you going to the well to wishes?” he asks eventually. You nod. “It does not work anymore. Whatever you wish for, it will not grant it.”
You feel your chest tightening.
“You might not say the truth.”
He smiles. “Indeed. I might not. But you can try yourself.”
It might have been his way to allow you to leave - but you do not find it in yourself to do so. You are tired. You have run as fast as you could from your home. Your grandmother must be worried about you, and she will probably never let you stray from the village again. Your father’s shouts still resonates in your ears, saying you are not a good daughter, that you will never be, asking why you feel such a need to always run free, just like your mother, then asking why you cannot be her.
You know you should listen to your elders, tame yourself, learn to properly take care of your household, and stop fleeing from your duties and your classes to explore the wild. You just cannot help it. You were already a disobedient child; but the teenager you are now cannot bear authority.
Freedom.
Is it too little to ask?
“Are you going to stay here?” Áed asks.
You shrug, unable to answer properly. You feel too pitiful to try to talk with a Fæ - a tricky exercise, as Fæs like to twist words as they like and get human souls from a clumsy sentence.
“You can,” Áed then says. “I will watch over you.”
“This sounds too nice, lord Fæ.” You haven’t been able to prevent the dryness of your tone. “It might be another trick.”
And yet, you lay on your back, somewhat desperate, arms crossed behind your head, not knowing where else to go or what else to do. The Fæ, after all, is not evil, you remind yourself. He also does good things, occasionally. You might just be lucky.
“Aren’t you afraid, little one? I know you do not trust me.”
“I am too tired for that.”
He laughs. “Will you not give me your name, then?”
“I cannotgive you my name,” you reply. You know what it would lead to. Giving your name to a Fæ is giving him the power to take over your life. “But I will tell you that it’s…”
You hesitate. The Fæ knowing your name would also give him some power - that is what has lost Lettie, you’ve been told.
“Elaine.”
You close your eyes, and Áed simply laughs. He does not speak afterwards; yet you remain wary, and heavy thoughts are on your mind, so you do not find sleep easily. You end up turning towards him, and opening your eyes again, wondering if he has left, too bored to stay watching over a sleeping human.
But he’s still there.
“Little liar,” he says, not smiling but not sounding angry either. “This is your mother’s name.”
You are somehow not surprised he has noticed. Your grandmother said your mother used to go the well to wishes often - she might have met him too, talked with him, before he took her away. Just like you, your mother didn’t fear the way to the well to wishes and the færie ring. The same recklessness, the same need for freedom runs into your veins. That might be why your family is so afraid to lose you.
“You remember her?”
“I do. I remember Nimia, also. That foolish girl, Lettie. The old Mack, who tried to cut the færie ring. And all the others.”
“Why do you take them away?”
He looks at you. “Humans are fascinating. You poor little things, so weak and powerless, your lives are so short, and you do not know half the wonders that exist. And yet. You manage to find happiness.”
You feel yourself drifting off to sleep, listening to the soothing velvet of his voice. Exhaustion has caught up to you. Your eyes are already closing off.
“It is no reason to take it away from us,” you murmur, tiredly.
He keeps on staring at you, but does not answer. After a while, you simply close your eyes again, and this time, sleep finds you after a few minutes.
When you wake up, Áed is gone. You go back home, and your grandmother cries when you arrive. She forbids you to leave ever again. Your father apologizes for his harsh words, and you apologize for your rebellious attitude.
“Where were you?” your grandmother asks, once the calm has returned to the household.
“I slept by the færie ring,” you say. “But the Fæ wasn’t there.”
You can hear it in your head, ‘little liar’ said with his voice, and it somehow makes you want to smile.
“You shouldn’t,” your grandmother admonishes. “Your mother used to do that too, and look where that led her. You were lucky.”
“Yes,” you reply, and this time you think it, too.
The third time he asks for your name, four years have passed ever since you have slept by the færie ring, and your grandmother has still not allowed you out of the village. She does not like the longing looks you throw to the forest and the valleys beyond either, says you are now of age to be married, and should do so before she picks you a husband herself. This annoys you. She has, however, loosened her strict watch, and you can come and go out of the house mostly as you please.
For a few months, now, Kevan has been courting you, and you enjoy having the freedom to spend time with him. He is the blacksmith’s son, has had several lovers before you; but he assures you he can only look at you now, that you are the special one, and he swears if you marry him, he will make you the happiest woman of all Qelt.
You always laugh at that. He is cute and charming, but freedom is still your keyword, and you do not see yourself speaking vows to anyone yet. He shrugs, whenever this is your answer, then takes you in his arms, and makes you laugh some more.
But tonight, he doesn’t shrug. He has drunk, you know, maybe too much, and you look at him in slight fear when he grabs your arm too tightly after you have refused him once again.
“Why?” he groans. “I’m nice to you.”
“I know, Kevan,” you reply, trying to keep your calm. He is simply drunk. You have talked to more drunk boys than one, nothing has ever happened to you. “Now let go of me, please. I told you, I simply do not want to marry yet–”
“You do more than that. You refuse yourself to me. I’m courting you, but it never goes further than an embrace.”
“I do not owe you more than an embrace. If this bores you, you’re free to woo another woman.”
He pulls you to him, and his grip hurts, this time. “I do not want another woman!”
“Kevan, you’re drunk!”
You put a firm hand on his chest to keep some distance between you, keeps your head away from his. You know what he wants, but you do not want it.
“Why don’t you love me?” he asks, accusatory.
Part of you feels guilty. Part of you feels angry.
“I don’t owe you feelings.”
“You’veseduced me. You’ve let me court you.”
You thought you loved him. You simply wanted to take it slow, to grow a friendship with this charming boy, before doing anything. You enjoyed his attention. You enjoyed playing this little game of cat and mouse with him, thinking it would end well for the both of you once you would have decided your freedom could also be with him.
But not anymore.
Your freedom cannot be with a man who will not wait for you, yet will not move on to someone befitting him better.
“I just wanted time, Kevan,” you try, despite knowing the idea of a future with him is over. “Can you understand that?”
“No!” he roars. “I’ve waited enough. You’re mine, you hear me?!”
“You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying, you-”
“YOU’RE MINE!”
He pulls you closer, and you break free. He screams your name, but you’re already running out of the inn, under the confused eyes of the other villagers who have always seen you two getting along so well, and do not understand what has happened.
Kevan screams your name again, chasing after you.
Fear takes over.
What is he going to do? He is drunk, simply, he surely himself does not understand his own acts. But what if he catches you? Will he just shout? Will he cry? Will he stop himself, being the charming boy he has always been?
Unless this charm of his was nothing but a way to get into your bed, and this friendship you wanted, he has never had any use of it?
And if he catches you, he will get his way with you, whether you want it or not?
No, he wouldn’t do that. He isn’t like that. He might not go that far.
But you can feel his need for bruising kisses, for his hands on your skin, at least, and you can see yourself crying as he holds you tight and calls you his, because it is not how it was supposed to be - and this, you do not want at all.
He calls you names. Yells insults. You run, never turning back, never slowing down. You cannot lead him to your home, you think. Your grandmother and your father are sleeping and you should not even be out, and he would get you before the door.
So, you keep on running.
Your legs carry you to the only place where you’ve found safety outside the village, and when you hear Kevan’s voice louder, his steps closer, you scream before diving into the færie ring.
“ÁED!”
He receives you in his arms. You fold against his chest, trembling and still unable to believe the man you thought could become your husband has gone as far as chasing you outside the village, to the færie ring all villagers avoid.
You do not even want to know how Kevan has reacted. You breathe in and out, slowly, letting Áed hold you and stroke your hair.
“Easy, little one,” he whispers to your ear. “Easy.”
“What are you doing?!” Kevan’s shout. He sounds afraid. “Get back here! It’s–”
“Hush, human.” You have never heard Áed speaking so coldly. Kevan falls silent - drunk or not, every villager knows to respect the Fæs. “This one is under my protection.”
There are no words exchanged for what seems to be a long, long time. You can hear Kevan’s ragged respiration behind you, just one meter away. The færie ring feels like a protection once again; yet you’re inside, this time, and that’s where you feel safe.
“Leave.” There is the hint of a threat in Áed’s voice. “Now.”
Kevan’s steps finally hurry away after a few seconds of hesitation, and you break. You cry. You cling on Áed’s tunic, and you shed your tears, resting your forehead on the crook of his neck.
“It’s okay, little one. He’s gone. You’re safe.”
You somewhat forget he has taken your mother, Nimia, Lettie, the old Mack, and all those other missing villagers from before you were born, during the centuries he has lived. You somehow forget of what you risk, being in a færie ring, in a Fæ’s embrace.
And Áed does not lie to you. You’re safe. He lets you cry in his arms, without asking anything of you, without taking you to Fæqelt, the holy land where his kind resides, without any tricks or malice.
“I do not want to go home,” you murmur.
“It is okay, little one. You can stay here. The færie ring is safe for you.”
You pull away to look at him. “Are you not going to trick me?”
“I won’t.” He is grinning. You believe him, even though you should not.
“Not even ask me for my name?” you try to joke, pathetically.
He raises a brow. “Would you give me your name?”
“No,” and this time you’re smiling, even just a little. “But you may call me Ainsel.”
He laughs and ruffles your hair, and keeps on calling you ‘little one’ - he’s a Fæ too old to be tricked back that way. You end up laying down side by side in the færie ring, and he talks with you until you fall asleep.
When morning comes, you’re in your bed. When you finally stop avoiding him, a few days later, Kevan apologizes to you, then never talks to you again.
You prefer it that way.
The fourth time he asks for your name is very soon after. You come to the færie ring at night, darkness being the only way to escape your grandmother’s watch to leave the village, though you do not enter it.
Last time seemed like an emergency situation. You are not sure you can be so lucky not to be tricked by the Fæ again.
You are not so sure why you have come here either. Maybe it is the fact that you have started appreciating Áed, despite all his evil deeds - that he yet does not see as evil, simply as a Fæ’s doings. Maybe it is because you are starting to understand that your parents’ wedding and your birth was, for your mother, more of a curse than a blessing; and that the same fate of having to bend yourself to what everyone is expecting you to do might be awaiting you as well.
But maybe, it is just the freedom of being able to run under the moon wherever you want, and feel the wind into your hair, away from a village you love but which has started to grow too small for you.
“Little one!” he calls when he appears. He seems surprised, but pleased. “I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you going to the well to wishes?”
You shrug. “No, I wanted to see you. Please do not ask me why.”
“Why?” he maliciously asks.
You shake your head, raise your eyes to the sky. That makes him laugh. He is infuriating, in a way; yet you cannot help but smile.
“How are things, with the ruffian?”
“He has apologized, but has stopped talking to me. He thought me going into the færie ring was a dream, though. I’m glad of it. Had he talked about it, it would have caused me troubles.” You grimace. “My grandmother would have locked me in the house, and married me off immediately.”
“And I could not see you again?” he exclaims. “Horrible. Why would she do such a thing?”
You look at him quietly, and his expression shifts to a less mischievous one.
“She has already lost her daughter to you,” you say, voice soft. “She does not want to lose her granddaughter.”
He opens his mouth to talk, closes it. You are convinced that years ago, he would not have reacted the same way. Would not have taken it so seriously.
“Do you miss her?” he asks.
“I was two, when you led her away. I did not know her well. But my grandmother and my father miss her, and I have always been able to feel there was something lacking in our home.”
He nods. You nod back. There is something strange, in the atmosphere, though you cannot say what. You are not sure he regrets what he has done - how could he? He remains a Fæ, after all -, but you know he has no intention to talk about it with any kind of pride anymore.
“Come here, little one,” he finally says. “And I promise, nothing will happen to you. I will not bring you any more harm.”
You step into the færie ring, standing proud in front of him. Your heart is strangely beating hard in your chest, and he smiles at you, eyes gleaming with a light which is not mischief, but something much softer.
“Will you give me your name, little one?”
It is not a bargain. He already knows your answer.
“You will let me refuse, won’t you?”
He winks. “I will.”
“Then, I can’t give you my name,” you decide, amused. “You are still welcome to call me Ainsel, however.”
“Oh, ‘little one’ suits you better.”
You laugh, and you two sit in the færie ring to talk again, and you tell him things you cannot tell anyone else - you tell him about your dreams of freedom, your wish to explore the world, even Fæqelt, the fact that the village has started to be a prison for you, instead of a home, that your family is your anchor but not your guide, about your need to leave.
He listens. He gives you some answers. Tells you about Fæqelt, about how færie rings can be used to travel within all Qelt and beyond, about himself, also.
And you start thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, traveling with him.
You start coming back to the færie ring more and more often. You are curious about him. A strange bond has started developing between you two, and the more you know about him, the more you notice the constellation of golden freckles on his cheeks, the way his eyes glint with a reflect of starlight, how his laugh sounds when he’s particularly happy, the softness of his smiles which are not tainted with mischief.
Soon, you find yourself craving for those interactions.
There is no one else in the village able to understand you, to support your desire to wander around the world. No one else to talk about travels and adventures with. Even your childhood friends, who have shared all your ups and downs, cannot get why you do not want to become a fine housewife, and live the rest of your life surrounded by what you have always known.
You know, now, why your mother has walked with her hand in Áed’s, while she was too clever to be taken away.
It was the craving for freedom.
She should have known better than abandoning her family; but you can understand how trapped she must have felt in this little village, especially if a marriage and a baby was not what she had wanted. She must have looked longingly to the forests and valleys beyond the village, as you now do, and must have thought it would be better to be led astray by a Fæ than to remain chained down and become a shadow of herself, needing freedom as one needs oxygen.
You understand.
You would have done the same, had you married Kevan as you planned to, all those months ago.
But one night, you stay too late, and your grandmother is waiting for you when you come home at dawn. She notices the grass on your dress, asks for explanations, does not believe any of your lies.
So you tell her the truth, for she has always been one of your pillars, but she screams the moment she hears you have bonded with the Fæ - and her screams wake your father who cries and despairs when learning what you have done.
For the first time in years, he says again you will never be a good daughter. He cries that you are too much like your mother, with the same craving for freedom, the same desire to leave the village, that if he does not keep an eye on you, you will run away to Fæqelt and never come back. He accuses you not to love him, for your mother surely did not love him and the idea of a family with him - or not enough to stay.
Your grandmother locks you into the house, does not allow you out again except under her watch. She promises to marry you soon, as she did for her daughter when she understood her daughter would one day leave her if she did not. The world is too wild for humans, she tell you. Binding you here is the only way to protect you.
This is for your own good, they say, but it does not do you any good.
The village learns about it. Kevan understands what he had seen that night was not a dream, reveals you have stepped into the færie ring, into the Fæ’s arms. And then the villagers, those people who have raised you, seen you grow, watched you live, whisper that you are lost, and that you are a Witch. They say you will bring bad luck to the village, that you are a channel through which curses and tricks from Fæqelt will pass; but they cannot get rid of you and risk the wrath of Áed.
You are not even sure they know what a Witch is. You do not, not really. Witches are wanderers who have strange powers, people say, obtained through a pact with a Fæ. It is like making vows with mischief itself: Witches might be human, but like Fæs, they cannot be trusted.
You cannot go anywhere without hearing the whispers, or feeling the heavy stares in your back. One day, at the market, you receive a stone from Lettie’s former husband, who did not know better. Your grandmother, ashamed, as she cannot even marry you off to a villager anymore, does not defend you.
After that, you stop leaving the house at all.
And you understand your mother’s decision even better.
The fifth time he asks for your name, it’s Early Summer Night, the beginning of the warmer days, celebrated by the entire village around a banquet. Your grandmother and your father have left the house. They are convinced you will not. No one would want to see you at the banquet, after all.
But your need for freedom is still there.
You escape your home which has become your prison, and you only feel like living again once the wind is in your hair, the grass under your feet, and you can breathe in fresh oxygen. You run. Your legs welcome the dearly missed sensation blissfully, take you to the færie ring.
You do not know where else to go.
“Áed,” you whisper when you step into the færie ring, and he’s there, and you’re in his arms, and he’s holding you so tight you realize he must have missed you like you have missed him.
“Do you know how scared I was, little one?” he asks in a strangled voice. “I thought– I thought you would never come again.”
You break in tears. Everything is too much, feels too much, has been too much ever since your grandmother has discovered you had approached the færie ring. You feel like shattering - and in a way, you do, pressed against his chest, pouring your heart out and wishing this night would not end.
“I thought they had killed you,” Áed murmurs, caressing your hair.
“They wouldn’t,” you sob. “They scorn me, now, but they’re not murderers. And I have done nothing evil.”
“What’s inside you, what you are capable of, it scares them. And scared people lose their minds far too easily.”
You shake your head like a child. “They would not harm me.”
“Not physically. But they could have harmed you in other ways. Your beautiful mind, for example. They could have killed this spark in you.” He pauses. “Forced you to give up on your freedom.”
You think of all those days spent the same way, cleaning, cooking, sewing, all nice tasks as long as they’re not the only ones in your life, looking by the window and desperately wishing to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin again, to walk around without fearing to be called names or to receive stones.
You think of how, had you not known him so well, you would have already escaped and given him your name, for getting lost forever in Fæqelt will always be better than the life you now have.
“They almost did.”
You realize, belatedly, how terrified you sound. Áed takes your face between his hands, looking so worried you think he might cry too.
“Little one, you do not have to remain here. You can leave. That is what you have always wanted.”
“But,” you weep, “they are my family.”
“Family should push you forward, and not hold you back. They might warn you, but they should not bind you. Leave, little one. Take your freedom. They do not own you. Come back to this village a fine traveler and a proper Witch, and show them they were wrong to outcast you.”
You manage to smile weakly. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Because it can be. Witches are travelers who venture into Fæqelt and explore it, little one. That, you can be easily. You have the wit and the courage for it.”
You take a breathe, in and out, the despair in your stomach slowly turning into a glint of hope.
“Aren’t humans supposed to lose themselves in Fæqelt?”
“Not with the blessing of a Fæ,” Áed replies softly, and your heartbeat fastens.
The future, all of a sudden, seems open with a thousand possibilities. You see the roads, the travels through færie rings, the foreign people in the inns, the new towns, the vast, vast world you have always dreamt of seeing, the holy land of the Fæ, mysterious and enthralling, only ever told in myths - and Áed by your side, being his usual self, smiling at you so brightly.
“Yes,” you say to this future, to this everything. “I would want that.”
There is relief on Áed’s face, relief and fondness - as if he had wanted you to say that, for your sake and because that was something he wished for, but was not sure you would bring yourself to do so.
“I will come for you during Midsummer Night, when Fæs can leave the færie rings, and blend in with humans. Be strong until then, little one. Do not let them bind you.”
“Thank you, Áed. Thank you.”
“Just give me your name in exchange,” he jokes to cheer you up.
It makes your chest so warm the tears pour out again. Áed smiles, kisses your humid cheeks gently.
“Next time”, you promise, crying. “Next time.”
You still want to give your village a chance.
Or at least a goodbye.
The last time he asks for your name, you are ready to leave. You are but the shadow of yourself, now. The days until Midsummer Night have been endless. Your grandmother has suspected you had gone out during Early Summer Night, but has not been able to prove it - she now barely talks to you at all. Your father has managed to marry you to a farmer in the next village, who hasn’t heard of you.
You have long wondered why their worry has turned into anger and resentment, why they have caged you, when they simply wanted to protect you. No matter your apologies, your explanations, they won’t listen to you at all.
Now, you suppose it is easier to hate than to forgive, especially when there is finally someone to blame for your mother’s disappearance - for all those disappearances. But they have not realized what they are doing is what drew your mother away from them, what is also drawing you away.
They cannot understand. And what they cannot understand, they fear; and what they fear, they try to keep it locked somewhere until it dies.
“Gather your belongings,” your father tells you when the night is falling. “Tonight, you will meet your future husband. We will celebrate the wedding when the dances end.”
They are taking you to celebrate Midsummer Night in the next village, and are getting rid of you the same day, so that no villager will have to bear your presence ever again. You tell them all goodbye in your head, sat in your father’s cart, the bag containing your few belongings on your lap as you watch the little houses and the streets where you have grown up fade away into the night.
Your future husband is introduced to you as soon as you arrive. He is nice, and his family welcomes you warmly; but you can see they are just like the people of your own village, thinking everyone should be content doing what they’re expected to do, and they would frighten of your need for freedom. You already suffocate when they say everything is ready for the wedding, insist on celebrating Midsummer Night first - and fortunately, they all agree.
You embrace your father and your grandmother before joining in the dances. They do not quite understand when you already bid them farewell.
You share a few dances with your future husband, a charming man who would never be able to understand you, and would fear you if he really knew you. He feels guilty leaving you to go dance with his sister, but you laugh and encourage him to do so.
You do not tell him you will dance again anyway.
That would be a lie.
You watch as he nods and hurries to his family, then change partners yourself, taking the hand of the first man who approaches you–
“Hello, little one.”
–and you nearly cry when your eyes meet his. He is so beautiful, in the light of the high flames lit in the middle of the village, you almost think he is a dream - but he is not, oh, he is not, and you have never been so happy.
“You are of exquisite, tonight,” Áed says.
You are wearing the wedding dress you have sewn yourself, all those days spent in your house, and your mother’s necklace resting on your chest, that necklace you longed for so much when you were just a child, which is the only thing from her your father has allowed you to keep.
“Thank you,” you tell Áed, for calling you exquisite, and for everything else.
He laughs and makes you twirl, and for the first time in what feels like centuries now, you laugh too. He does not let go of you. You do not want him to.
“Will you give me your name, little one?” he asks; but this time, you know what he will do with your name, with your life.
He will set you free.
So you stand on tiptoes, and you give him your name, finally, and he wraps his arms around your waist to whisper his own, real name into your ear - then, when the dance comes to an end, you run hand in hand to your father’s cart to pick up your bag, laughing like children, before disappearing into the night.
No one sees you leave.
It means you might come back one day.
WTF THIS IS SO GOOD IM DEAD , I WOULD READ A BOOK ON THIS
The Queen has requested that everybody with a knighthood attend a meeting at Windsor Castle. Speaking to the sizeable crowd of ageing actors and retired musicians, she explains why - The dragons are back, and she expects that every knight will do his duty.
Everyone turns and looks at Ian McKellen.
“Oh Christ,” he says. “If only Christopher Lee were still here. Then we might have a chance.”
“Oh, for fuck’ssake. Stand aside, you lot!”
The crowd of knights parts, revealing Dames Maggie Smith, Judy Dench and Helen Mirren, all of whom are dressed in leather and ready to fuck shit up.
“Honestly, Ian,” Maggie Smith mutters. “Really.”
As the Dames stride past a suitably chastened Ian McKellen, Michael Gambon produces a folding chair, a hip flask and an immensely pleased expression.
“Told you,” he says, taking a seat. “Did anyone bring any biscuits?”
Sirs Sean Connery and Patrick Stewart both produce full tins. (Patrick pulls a steaming kettle of Earl Grey out of his pocket.)
A woman prophesied to give birth to the Chosen One gives birth to triplets instead.
[Image Description] A cartoon gif of a man in a blue uniform: cap, bow-tie, long-sleeved shirt, and pants. There are three trash cans in front of him and he’s trying to catch Garfield the cat (an orange tabby with black stripes), who, cartoonishly, is popping out of each garbage can randomly. The man is lifting lids at a speed that increases exponentially. He doesn’t catch Garfield. Garfield is smiling smugly the whole time.
He is called simply The Surgeon, and everyone knows that his OR is neutral ground. Heroes and villains alike seek his aid when injured. You’re a hero, just in for some stitches, but waiting in the lobby is a villain you’ve tangled with before, and they’re weeping.
The reason the heroes are always so easily able to infiltrate the bad guy’s secret base isn’t because evil minions are stupid. I mean, they may well be, but that’s not why.
Rather, it’s because effective operational security depends on establishing and enforcing norms. No behaviour is suspicious in the abstract; that judgment can only be made with reference to some accepted code of conduct.
And if you’re a minion? You basically have no point of reference, because working for an evil overlord is, scientifically speaking, weird as hell.
You had to fight a giant squid as part of your orientation. You’re pretty sure Alice over in engineering is a version of you from a parallel universe, but neither of you have ever had the guts to bring it up. Your supervisor wears a horned helmet in the goddamn break room.
So when you’re confronted with that “new hire” who’s really, really obviously three raccoons in a trenchcoat, you’ve gotta ask yourself: is this… normal? Should I be reporting this to someone?
More importantly, do I want to make this my problem?
And for those who make it as minions, the answer very quickly becomes no, no I do not.
“So, wait,” said the thief, topping off the detective’s wine glass. “You’re saying that your stressful case is catching that hot shot cat burglar that everyone’s talking about?”
The detective grimaced, but didn’t change the subject. “Yep,” they muttered into their Pinot and took a swig. “The celebritycriminal.”
This was a triumph. This was their third date and the thief had spent the prior two carefully laying the emotional groundwork leading up to this moment. The detective, as a social partner, was affable and considerate - surprisingly funny even, in a dry, deadpan way - but rigidly guarded about their line of work. The thief had asked the normal questions about jobs and had been expertly deflected with self-deprecating jokes about spreadsheets and paperwork. The thief had been content to wait. The detective was a fundamentally honest person, and the thief trusted the truth would work its way to the surface soon enough.
“But that sounds exciting!” the thief prompted brightly. “I mean, daring heists executed by moonlight! It must be such a nice change from your run-of-the-mill crimes.”
“Mostly it’s just exhausting,” sighed the detective, rubbing their temples. “This perp is such an asshole.”
The thief blinked. “Excuse me?”
The detective shook their head, tried to force a smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve had too much wine. You were saying about your invitation to audition for the Bolshoi -?”
“Oh, forget about me,” the thief said quickly. “Please, go on. You’re clearly stressed about -”
“Do you know,” the detective went on as if they’d never stopped, “the morning guy on Channel Seven had the nerve to call this a victimless crime?”
“Well, the insurance will pay for it,” the thief started.
The detective slapped the table. The thief jumped. “What about the people?” the detective exclaimed. A few nearby heads turned in their direction. “Are people supposed to walk into museums and look at what, framed checks on the wall from Lloyds? And meanwhile, these masterworks disappear into the vaults of gangsters and petty criminals, never to be seen again. Because you can be sure,” they added, jabbing a finger at the thief, “crooks that steal art have no love for it. They’ll destroy it, every lick of paint, if there’s the slightest risk to their own skins.”
The detective took another deep swallow of red wine. They looked close to tears. The thief awkwardly patted their hand across the table. This was not at all what they’d expected on this little reconnaissance side mission. The detective caught their hand and squeezed it with a grateful look that wrenched something in the thief’s upper chest area.
“Now those guys,” the detective said thoughtfully. “The criminals with the vaults. Now that seems like a worthy target.”
“I… huh?” The thief stared across the table. The detective looked back with those guileless, honest eyes.
“I’m just saying,” they said, with the slightest drunken slur on their words. “Walking the art out of some budget-strapped public facility is one thing. But emptying out of one of those vaults, liberating all those works of art and returning them to their rightful place before the public…” The detective sighed dreamily. “Now that actually sounds like a daring, hot shot kind of heist.”
There was a moment where neither moved, gazing at each other like the lovers they were pretending to be. Then the detective tugged their hand free, stood up with an apologetic smile. “But I’m definitely tipsy,” they said. “Let me go splash some water on my face.”
When the detective returned from the restroom, the thief was still at the table, watching the waiter clear the plates. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t speak until she was well clear.
“So, hypothetically speaking,” the thief said finally, running a finger theough a puddle on the tabletop. “How would one go about this vault heist of yours?”
The detective smiled again, nothing drunk or vague about it at all.
HOT DAMN we love a ‘you think you’re the one playing me? think again ’ twist!!
