the sound of claws pawing at glass comes from the terrace door, breaking through the sound of the three young griffin girls playing before the hearth in the living room. with a glance, clarke is up and over the back of the sofa and padding towards the door. on the other side waits a sandy blonde wolf, limbs still gangly, paws too big for it’s body.
“hi there little cousin,” clarke greets aden with a rumple of his furry head and dodges out of the way when he turns to jab her with his snout. he huffs at her but sidesteps and beelines for the little ones, tail waving excitedly behind him.
the young shifter takes a moment to check over each girl. nose nudging over their limbs and rewarding each with a lick when he finds nothing out of order. aden presses his large forehead against charlotte’s with a deep heave of air from his lungs. until raven and bellamy’s eldest daughter comes of age it’s his responsibility to keep her safe, alive long enough to take over her mothers’ mantel when they pass.
for three weeks, drama had encircled farida’s life. and after three weeks, the seraphic blonde was enervated, mentally and physically, from it all. it seemed that no matter where she turned, the same origin of 𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖒𝖔𝖎𝖑 was waiting for her, ready to attack when she least expected it. the bbq was no exception, serving as yet another host for commotion. it shouldn’t have surprised farida, acquiring the knowledge that blaise had yet again sunken her claws into griffin, but it did - and it hurt. farida was the first to remind herself that griffin didn’t belong to anyone but himself, and that he was free to do as he pleased, whether it hurt her or not. and if she didn’t like it, she had the POWER to leave the situation entirely. even with this understanding at the f o r e f r o n t of her mind, she hadn’t expected him to exercise his own power to do as he pleased with blaise, on her birthday, not bothering to trouble himself with the initiative to heed on who may’ve witnessed them. this left farida with two options: to endure it, despite how agonizing it was becoming, or to leave the situation entirely, despite how harrowing that was;she settled on the latter(in favor of her sanity ) with full intent to downright leave griffin alone— and as fate would have it, the moment she’d made her decision was when he texted her with the excuse of bringing her birthday gift by. now, she anxiously awaited his arrival, reclined on her living room sectional with a chilled glass of 𝒹𝑜𝓂 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓃𝑜𝓃 in hand. her apprehension is only heightened when she hears her doorbell chime, all three of her dogs sprinting ahead of her towards the foyer. her stomach drops as she unbolts the door, calling out a disenchanted“s'open, griff.”before meandering back towards the living room. / @grvffinss!
in a hundred lifetimes, i’d find you (phillip & ambrosia)
@athenawrought (disclaimer: i did the bare minimum when it came to checking dates lmao so shit is gonna be wrong, for sure)
( 1715 )
Phillip looked up from his pewter mug as the bonny red-haired lass refilled his cup. “Thank ye.”
She bowed her head a little and her muddied skirts swished as she made her way to the next group of rowdy gentlemen. Phillip drank alone. The brooch clasping his plaid showed the MacCallister Clan’s symbol - interlocking rings with a griffin, it’s claws raised. He sighed - his family was less than nothing now. Their land small, rough, his two brothers long dead against the fight against the English.
There was a sudden commotion as a man came barreling into the tavern, his guts nearly hanging out of his stomach, “Redcoats!” The tavern erupted to life as short swords were drawn and pistols readied with powder. Phillip rose, seeing the red haired woman plastered against the wall, her eyes wide and terrified. Most of the men left the tavern, but Phillip approached her first. “Lass, go find something to hide behind. Standing here will likely get you killed.”
He could see the whites of her eyes clearly, the ruddy color drained from her face, “C’mon…with me, now…” His hand was gentle as it took her wrist, “What’s your name?”
She swallowed, “Ambrosia.”
“That’s a pretty name.” Phillip brought her to cover, “Stay low, stay quiet, alright?” He went to stand and her thin fingers grabbed the linen of his shirt. He could see her shoulders trembling. Her clear blue eyes darted from his face to the door, gunshots echoing through the trees, birds cawing as they were disturbed from their perches.
“Please stay, please.” Ambrosia clutched him, “Please. If they get in….” Her voice trailed off.
Phillip could not say what compelled his next move, but his hand was on her cheek, guiding her face away from the door and allowing their eyes to lock. “I won’t leave you.” He meant the words with every bone in his body.
( 1825 )
“Miss. Reynolds, a pleasure.” The gentleman bowed to her as she was escorted into the large summer estate. “How was your visit to the city?”
“Very pleasant, Charles. Thank you. I found the most beautiful stockings! Your sister Phoebe will be delighted when she sees them.” Ambrosia replied, lightly fanning her face as the sun bore down on them as they ascended the steps.
Her bags and suitcases were brought upstairs by the footmen. The main entrance hall was finely decorated - the lush flowers on the tables and the beautiful oil painting hanging near the stairs. She greeted all her old friends with kisses brushing against her cheeks and knuckles.
And then a new face entered the room and Ambrosia felt a small flutter in the pit of her stomach.
“Ah, this is Phillip McAllister,” Charles introduced them, “His family is at the estate down by the river. Phoebe had the fine idea of joining our parties. This is his sister, Rosalind, and here is….”
Ambrosia had stopped listening - even if it was rude - because she was craning her neck up at him (could someone really be so tall?) and he was leaning down and she panicked for a moment, was he going to kiss her?! But no, his hand simply took hers and his lips ran across the knuckle of her ring finger.
Her eyes met his and the fluttered re-appeared. She caught the slight curve to his mouth, his blonde lashes sweeping across tanned cheekbones, as he gave her a look one that she could not quite place….but wanted to see more of.
( 1942 )
Her neck was sore, her fingers bloodied and cramping, the moans of suffering or near-death surrounded her. But, Ambrosia was focused on stitching the wound in front of her. She could tune everything else out.
You couldn’t save the world, but you could save the man in front of you if you worked quickly enough.
“Come on, now, you’re not allowed to die.” Ambrosia chastised him and she felt the slow rattle of what might have been a laugh. The fact that the officer was even still conscious was impressive.
She cleaned the wound with water and peered over at his face. “Still with me?”
His eyes fluttered open and met hers, “Of course.”
Ambrosia felt relief and a smile graced her features - the first one in the past few hours. “Good. Keep it that way, solider.”
“You’re….” He took a slow breath, talking hurt his lungs, “Bossy.”
“And you’re alive because of me.” Ambrosia snapped back, brushing his hair from his forehead, “Keep it that way, I must go and check on the others.”
“Mhm - of course, sweetheart.”
( the end )
My soul recognizes yours. It has followed you through a hundred lifetimes, a thousand stars, it has passed you in crowded streets and called out your name and sometimes…when we are very lucky…we get the timing right.