from the flagstones

Breaking Curfew || Ares & DAD

Nurse is asleep. 

Ares doesn’t like Nurse as much as Mama, but Mama is sick again, and they took Ares’s crib far away so she could rest. Nurse is snoring in the rocking chair. Ares lifts one leg over the wooden railing, and then the other. 

Thump.

The finest fleece onesie, pyjamas truly worthy of a prince, muffles his ungraceful landing on his rump. Ares rolls back up to his feet and is toddling to the door in no time. He’s been walking since he was nine months old – a touch early. At two, he is an un-defeatable walking master

The well-oiled door pushes open without a squeak. Ares romps out into the corridor, onesie once again doing its job to protect his bootless feet from the cold flagstones. It’s very dark and past bedtime, and this is the private wing, so nobody’s around, but the torches are still lit. He knows where he’s going. 

He knows exactly where he’s going. 

The door to Father’s study is wide open and Ares hurries in. He usually doesn’t get this far before Mama can stop him. As always, the bookshelves and the heavy desk further into the room go unnoticed. His eye is drawn at once to the shining suit of armour and the sparkly gold thread on the red tabard. And best of all: mounted on the wall, resplendent and dark even in its tooled sheath –

THE MYSTLETAINN.

Ares starts climbing up shelves for it immediately. Mama always says he can’t touch it, but no one can stop him now. It’s bigger than Ares and beautiful and gleaming and Ares is going to put it in his mouth and chew on it because his back teeth are still coming in and they hurt.

Inspired by a conversation with @simaethae

“There’s porridge in your hair,” Maedhros said unhelpfully, not getting up from his sprawl upon the flagstones before the hearth.

“The children had a- a difficult night,” said Maglor, clutching tighter at the writhing, Elros-sized bundle wrapped in his cloak. “Would you watch them for an hour while I clean up?”

“I would,” said Maedhros. “But I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Creating.”

Maglor readjusted his grip on Elros, who was trying to bite him through the fabric. “You’re lying on the floor.”

“I’ve been struck by inspiration.” Maedhros kicked out and knocked Maglor’s second best harp from its stand and then dragged it within reach with the toe of his boot. “I have to finish this composition right now.”

“You’re holding that upside-” the discordant screech of a hook on harpstrings cut Maglor off.

“You’ve always had very limited ideas about music, little brother.”

“Raising these children is hard enough as it is without-”

“I have- what was it? I have millions of ideas and I represent a new generation trying to express themselves in a broken world. I will go down as the voice of this generation, of this Age. I am so credible and so influential and so relevant that I will change things.” The harp screamed. “So, while I’m sympathetic, my development as a musician must come before any mundane concerns.”

A suspicion dawned; Maglor knew exactly who had first spoken those words and why, for all it had been hundreds of years ago. “I’ll…I’m sure that I can manage on my own,” he said.

“I’m sure you can,” said Maedhros. “It’s not as though you’re trying to raise five children while your brother makes excuses and fiddles with a harp. Imagine how much harder that would be.”

It Creeps Up In You

So, here’s my take on the fight of the darkness Vs. the light inside Emma and her desperate attempts to keep it at bay with the help of Killian. But his I loved you seems to be the end of that… or is it?

(also on ff.net and ao3)



Darkness is a funny thing. It creeps up in you.

Normally, the darkness settles in quickly. Normally. Because normally, it’s welcomed with open arms, desired even, sucked up on purpose into an eager vessel. But not this time, not with this woman. This… savior.

First of all, she was reluctant to let it in, defiant almost. Normally, they come looking for it, greedy for the nearly infinite power it brings. They summon it, hoping to be deemed worthy. But, honestly, the darkness has never been picky. It doesn’t need a worthy vessel, it just needs a puppet. Oh, of course it’s easier – and way more fun – when the host is not only docile, but develops a villainous energy of their own. Most of them do, and she is on her best way, too.

But the darkness has to admire her gumption – she tethered it to herself in an act of sacrifice, and she believed in all seriousness, that the others, the ones she thought she was saving, would be able to pull her back from the abyss, to drive the darkness out again. What a presumptuous thought! As if any human being would ever be able to do something as profane as simply drive the darkness out, pry a doomed soul from its cruel, bony fingers. No one has ever been able to, although there have been attempts, usually by desperate family members, and the darkness always quickly got rid of them. Like a few centuries ago, when it saw to the cripple’s lad being sent off to another world. But they must know – she must know – that no one can ever discomfit the evil entity older than time. When the darkness entered her, she was full of light, full of joy and love and trust, all of which not exactly traits the vessels are usually blessed with. Normally, it’s the forlorn soul, full of fear, of long suppressed anger and hate, tainted with selfishness, envy and greed, that turns to the darkness as if it’s… a savior. Irony is everywhere.

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