charles vigor



Originally posted by endingthemes

Flirting has always come naturally to Charles.

It’s inevitable really- Charles is friendly, and charming, and tactile, and his telepathy gives him somewhat of an unfair advantage when it comes to winning other people over. Charles tries not to be so lazy as to rely on his mutation all the time, but when he’s had a few drinks it’s easy to get complacent, and to take certain shortcuts.

Of course, when it comes to Erik, flirting is never that easy…

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More faith is what we want, and the Lord is willing to give it, grace upon grace; He delights, especially, to strengthen the faith which we already possess by trying it, by sustaining it under the trial, and thus rooting and grounding it, and causing it to become firm and vigorous.
—  Charles Spurgeon
¿Quieres liberarte de tus penas? ¿Quieres ahogar tus preocupaciones? Entonces ve y lánzate a lo más profundo del mar de la Deidad de Dios; piérdete en su inmensidad. Y saldrás de allí como cuando te levantas de un lecho de descanso, renovado y lleno de vigor.
—  Charles H. Spurgeon
the lightbearers :::: epilogue

summary: Steampunk AU. When bounty hunter Emma Swan is commissioned by Robert Gold, powerful and mysterious president of the Royal Society of English Magicians, to take down notorious airship pirate Captain Killian Jones, it lands them in a web of political and magical intrigue, dark secrets, and the dangerous London underworld - as well as their unwanted attraction to each other. Multi-chapter, slow burn.
rating: M
status: COMPLETE
available: FF.net and AO3
previous: chapter 33

Emma woke beneath the sharp-slanted eaves of the majestic, sprawling attic bedchamber, the rich red curtains lashed to the posts and weak sunlight laying tracks across the magnificent Persian carpet. The logs in the hearth were still burning low, then and odd flaring an ember; they had not gotten to sleep until very late, nearly dawn, due to the racket of fireworks set off to herald the turn of the century, Anno Domini 1900. Emma remembered reaching it once before, in another reality. One where the curtains were black, the floor was bare, where she slept alone and had for decades, where she was Jafar’s remorseless assassin and Henry and Killian were nothing more than long-dead ghosts. She had wondered what would happen as this real moment approached. Almost dreaded that this had just been a dream the entire time, another false reality that Jafar had crafted and sprung on her somehow, and that now it would have to end. It had on this same day before, after all. But when she had voiced her fear last night, feeling faintly ridiculous for doing so, Killian had pulled her into his side and nuzzled her hair. “It’s no dream, love,” he said. “This is our life. It’s real.”

Emma had smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and told him that in which case, they could merely consider the fireworks a special anniversary celebration. As of today, they had been wed for forty-eight years; they were married on New Year’s 1852, twelve days after she had saved him, in a small and private ceremony at Applewood Hall. Forty-eight eventful, exciting, not always easy, but on the whole deeply wonderful years, helping to rebuild the Night Market, continuing to resist the Royal Society, slowly repairing relations with her family, and starting their own. Their five children were in London for the holidays: Henry, their sons Charles and William, and their daughters Eva and Elizabeth. Each of the Swan-Jones offspring had pursued an adventurous career, some on righter sides of the law than others (then again, Killian had remarked, it would be a shame if at least one son of his didn’t end up a pirate). In this ambition Charles had deeply gratified him, while to the communal befuddlement William became an investment banker, a choice which would have been deplored by one of his namesakes, a young thief, but much approved by the other, a Royal Navy captain. Eva had decided to travel the world in her own airship and had flown in from Zanzibar or some other far-off place, while Elizabeth had moved to America and joined the suffragettes. As for Henry, he and his wife Violet lived in Applewood Hall, where he wrote books of fairytales.

Emma smiled at the thought of the children and grandchildren arriving later today for tea, doubtless full of stories of all the excitement in the streets, everything there was to be seen, everything that seemed so hopeful in a shining new twentieth century. She hoped, however, that her grandsons would get far away from Europe, and soon. She knew there was a great war coming in fourteen years, what would happen to all the young men then, and sometimes despaired of how on earth humanity could make it through to the future that she and Killian had visited, the modern mechanical one. Sometimes she hoped that it could still be changed, that it might not come to pass entirely as it was. That there would be, even then, a drop of magic yet remaining in the world.

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