the deep moans round with many voices

Link to prompt post one (closed for prompts, still open for fills)

Link to prompt post two (currently open)

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( 1. ) For araknifae, in response to the prompt: Any, Any, catching an inconvenient cold, written 1/10/25

Common and Ordinary Woes (185 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds

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The first sneeze caught me by surprise -- wetter and somehow drawn from deeper in my airway than usual -- and I frowned as I pulled a handkerchief from my coat pocket, for there was no pollen or dust here in Elderflower Books, nor had Mr. Dart given me any warning of strange magic afoot when I passed by Dartington on my morning run.

"Did I hear-- ah, so I did," said Mrs. Etaris as she emerged from the back room with a handful of recently purchased books she had been skimming through to decide on their pricing and shelving; "Jemis, go upstairs, make yourself a pot of tea, and take the rest of the day off to rest -- hopefully that will cut this off at the pass and you'll feel recovered enough to host the knitting circle tomorrow night as planned."

She seemed to catch my confusion for she smiled somewhat wryly and added, "You've caught a cold -- best prepare yourself to listen to at least a dozen well-meant lectures about this being only the natural consequence of running in the snow without a proper coat."

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( 2. ) For templefugate, in response to the prompt: DC, Barbara Gordon/Dinah Lance, sexting, written 1/12/25.

The Direct Approach (95 words)

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O: I'm quite certain that sending me videos of yourself masturbating is well beyond the boundaries of a professional relationship, even if you did include several pieces of actionable intelligence in your "incoherent" babbling

BC: listen a girls gotta make do when her usual lines of communication arent working -- no shade to your gadgets or hacking, but we both know sometimes theres no substitute for a personal touch 😘

O: ...Fair play. I'll expect you in the Clocktower in ten

BC: babe im already at your window. kill the lasers and let me in

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( 3. ) For scytale, in response to the prompt: Any, any, fox (metaphorical or demonic or ordinary), written 1/12/25.

Mushrooms and Mischief (330 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds

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"Jemis, have you heard that your twa-tailed vixen has begun answering questions from children?" Mrs. Henny the Post asked from behind her desk as I scraped snow off my boots in the doorway and fished out the letters I had come to mail. "What times we live in!"

"That sounds somewhat, ah, concerning," I said, trying to convey my confusion and worry without seeming too alarmed, since I assumed Mrs. Henny would have opened more directly if anything truly dire had occurred. "Dare I ask for details?"

Mrs. Henny beamed at me. "Oh, it was grand ridiculous nonsense, from what I've been told. Young Daphne Overmorrow found the fox sitting on her doorstep when she stepped out to fetch in the day's milk delivery, and promptly asked the fox where she could find mushrooms to add to an omelet. To which the fox replied, 'Where have you found mushrooms before?' Whereupon Daphne said, 'But mushrooms don't grow in the winter,' which is not properly a question, but nonetheless the fox replied, 'When do mushrooms sprout?'"

I began to develop an idea of where this tale was leading, and gestured (with the hand not clutching my letters) for Mrs. Henny to continue.

Delighted, she did so: "For her third question, or perhaps statement, young Miss Overmorrow said, 'They sprout when it's warm and everything is muddy and rotting,' and the fox winked and asked, 'Where can you bring earth and wood to stay warm?'"

"And now the Overmorrow house is full of muck from the forest floor?" I asked.

"Indeed it is, and both Mr. and Mrs. Overmorrow are in a right state but don't feel quite safe telling their daughter to ignore answers from a fairy fox," Mrs. Henny concluded. "Naturally they consider it your fault, so I expect one or the other will stop by the bookstore to complain. I suggest you have a book or two on mushroom farming on hand to help them sort out the mess."

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( 4. ) For be_themoon, in response to the prompt: The Nine Worlds, any, we'll set something ablaze / a trail for the devil to erase, written 1/12/25.

Illumination (100 words)

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"When all of Alinor rests in my hands, I think I shall set Morrowlea alight," Lark said in the cold, thoughtful voice Violet had learned to both love and dread; "Or perhaps only the staff -- the structures could easily be repurposed into a stronghold from which to govern the surrounding country, and I do dislike waste."

"The flames would surely prove most instructive," Violet agreed, "especially if paired with your generous sponsorship of other, less impractical, universities."

She left unspoken that the lessons one might draw from such a conflagration might not be solely the ones Lark meant to teach.

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( 5. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt: any, any f/f pairing, that thing you did with your tongue, written 1/12/25.

Absence Makes (160 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds

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My dearest Violet (and I do hold you dear, though I know you will either dismiss the sentiment or think to yourself that any possession may be dear to its owner), do not burn this letter until you have read its entirety; you may hand it to Jemis to search for codes if you like, but I think neither of you would take pleasure in the resulting conversation, and in any case I have no need to bother with subterfuge.

Instead I am writing to say that I have yet to find anyone else who can properly manage that trick you did with your tongue: neither the one where you pressed the tip up into my heat like a spear and drank me as though I were water to a woman dying of thirst, nor the one where you spoke two truths but only allowed me to hear the one I expected.

Have you yet found anyone to equal me?

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( 6. ) For topaz_eyes, in response to the prompt: Any, any, My pirate days are over, written 1/13/25

What Marian's Bound To Do (220 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds

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Jullanar wonders, now and then during slow days in her bookshop, or when forced to smile and play happy families with her blackmailing mother-in-law, what it might have been like to raise children in the midst of the Red Company rather than Ragnor Bella -- would her friends have reached out to lift the babies from her hands so she could fight or argue or cause a distraction, or would she have found herself relegated once more to the background she had struggled so long and hard to leave behind? What would those hypothetical children have learned on those hypothetical journeys? Would the forces of Astandalas have caught them in the end? Would they have survived the Fall?

But might-have-beens are no place to dwell for long, so she folds those half-spun dreams and lays them aside for the next day when the thought of spending the rest of her life tied to Benneret Etaris and a twenty-mile slice of South Fiellan makes her teeth itch and her skin feel too tight for her soul.

Her outlaw days are done for now, though she hopes she's raised her children to face adventures with more composure than she mustered in her own youth, should some strange fate befall them.

And as for her own future -- well, might-yet-bes are a different beast altogether.

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More to come!

Apparently I have not posted fic to this journal since February of 2023, what the hell. Uh. Anyway, here is an extremely belated collection of the seven fills I wrote for the 2024 iteration of the Three Sentence Ficathon.

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( 1. ) For undeadrobins, in response to the prompt: any, any, cat and mouse, written 1/15/24

The Beginning of a Beautiful Rivalry (200 words)

Fandom = Narnia

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Anaprisma peered at the creature pinned beneath her claws -- a dumb rat, she had thought, the kind of pest that had no place in the royal library of Cair Paravel and which her position as Undersecretary left her morally (albeit not legally) obligated to remove before it gnawed or defecated on anything important -- and wondered if she had somehow stumbled into a stray enchantment or if someone had laced her breakfast tea with a hallucinogenic mushroom. She would almost have sworn that it had talked.

The tiny mouth opened, the matchstick ribs heaved, and the creature shrieked in a shrill but clear voice, "Unhand me, you fiend!"

Ah. Not a hallucination. Not a rat, either.

"My apologies," Anaprisma said, retracting her claws and managing to keep her tone both even and dry as the Talking Mouse scrambled onto its hind paws and brandished a long thorn that it was apparently using as a sword; "The Cair Paravel staff have yet to be notified of the existence of Talking Mice, though I assure you that will be remedied posthaste -- although perhaps I should accompany you to the infirmary before we consider other matters."

Talking Mice. What would Aslan think of next.

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( 2. ) For oceanmyth, in response to the prompt: Any, any, the cracking sounds bones make, written 1/15/24

A Sovereign Remedy (200 words)

Fandom = Narnia

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The level of glowing cordial in her flask never lowers as fast as logic says it should, but Lucy doesn't want to take the magic for granted, doesn't want to assume she can heal anything at any time, that it will never quite run dry; best to save it for wounds and illnesses that have no non-miraculous cure.

But oh, the sound and feel of bones and tendons snapping into place as she helps set a compound fracture or reduce a dislocated shoulder is horrid, the same wet crunch and crackle that signaled the initial shatter or sprain. The moans and tears and shrieks gnaw at her heart with the knowledge that she could wipe them clean, unwrite them from the story.

And yet, there's something more real about her blood-streaked clothes and aching wrists than the eerie way her cordial erases harm -- this healing, raw and messy and pained, is part of the world's fabric rather than a rejection of its laws, an acceptance that the bitter and the sweet come intertwined and triumph cannot exist without disaster; and so Lucy sets the diamond flask upon the shelf to fill her hands instead with soapsuds, bandages, and sharp-toothed hope.

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( 3. ) For galaydryels, in response to the prompt: Chronicles of Narnia Rthverse, Jalur, Murdermittens, written 1/15/24

Dare Seize the Fire (90 words)

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"Tiger's having kittens, wearing fluffy mittens, oh woe is he!" the Otter sing-songed breathlessly as she ducked under Jalur's charge and reversed direction in the second before he landed, hindpaws scrabbling for purchase in the muddy ground as she bolted toward the dubious safety of the water. "Big strong paws, long sharp claws, but none of it matters if you can't-- catch-- me!"

The Romp of Otters shrieked and scattered in mingled fear and glee as the snarling Tiger hurtled into the pond a hummingbird's heartbeat behind his taunting foe.

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( 4. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt: any, any, west of the sun, east of the moon, written 1/17/24

And Take the Hidden Paths (600 words)

Fandom = original

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East of the sun and west of the moon stands a castle you may well have heard of, that was home to the Queen of Trolls before a brave peasant girl came there to steal her bridegroom back, but there are other hidden lands less famed in song or story, and in one such place, which lies west of the sun and east of the moon (and never you mind about logic, for magic need not abide by such rules), there stands a sunless garden where the plants are made of stone and the spring at its heart wells forth a river of sand instead of sweet, clear water. Nobody lives there today, but once upon a time Lilith (who has been Wife of Adam, Queen of Giants, Mother of Demons, and many other titles in her day) dwelt there for a time after she left the more fabled garden to make her own way in the world.

The North Wind knows the way to the castle east of the sun and west of the moon, but the four Winds do not blow in the stone garden west of the sun and east of the moon. There the air is always still. Nothing lives; nothing grows; and the only light comes from the faint glow of sparks that the grains of sand strike against each other as they flow in their endless circuits.

How Lilith came to the stone garden, none can say, but if you would follow in her footsteps (and so some people will always seek to do, for reasons of their own; I sought so myself in my youth), the method both witches and scholars deem least likely to fail is to carve a doorway into a rock, fix the garden and its stillness in your mind until your thoughts are empty of all but the heartbeat of stone, so slow that a dozen generations could live and die between one pulse and the next, and step forward.

If you are lucky, you will break your nose and go nowhere. But perhaps, just perhaps, your foot will swing through a gap in the logic of the world and your next step will land in the garden where nothing grows -- west of the sun and east of the moon, in the land without water or sky.

The castle east of the sun and west of the moon was filled with gold and silver and all the treasures that one may spend on everyday things. When another Troll or enchanter discovers that land, the castle will fill again until the next brave peasant girl or boy comes to rescue their beloved and best the monsters with their own greed.

The treasure in the stone garden west of the sun and east of the moon is more subtle and cannot be held in the hands or spoken with the tongue. But there is treasure nonetheless, and I can see in your eyes that you are determined to claim it (as the old woman I met on the road saw the spark in my eyes long ago), so I will waste no breath on admonitions to turn back or think of your god.

Instead I will give you this pebble, worn smooth by the stream that flows past my house, and remind you that magic need not abide by rules.

The stone garden stands in the land of absolute truth, with no space for pity or hope. No friends or enemies await: only yourself, and the silence.

Think well on what you bring, as well as what you plan to take.

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( 5. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt: any, any, last test and proof, written 1/18/24

To Destruction (235 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds

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The denunciation of Jackory Greenwing was meant to be her triumph, the last test both of her academic skills and the bridle she'd tightened around Jemis's will until he was her creature body, mind, and whatever phantasm might pass for a soul -- her bauble, her prize, her passing fancy snared for the wild flavor of his unused magic who serendipitously proved to be heir to an Imperial title (for all that he was blind to that truth) and a piece of true weight and power in the game of coins and kings -- and yet somehow the quarry had slipped the noose, fled bleeding into the woods, and all Lark was left with was the hollow surety that he would bear the scars of her fury till death.

She hurled her pipe across the room and snarled as the ivory splintered, spilling the smoldering mix of tobacco and less legal herbs onto the age-smoothed hardwood floor; "Pack my things -- I've called the coachman and we leave in one hour," she snapped over her shoulder at Violet, and ignored her pet spy's protest that she was scheduled to present her own final paper tomorrow.

She had failed this test (but how? how had she gone wrong?) and unless she thought of a foolproof way to recoup her losses and strengthen the family's position by the time her carriage reached Orio City, the consequences would be past bearing.

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( 6. ) For undeadrobins, in response to the prompt: any non-zombie fandom, any, surviving a zombie apocalypse, written 1/18/24

Eye of the Storm (250 words)

Fandom = Chronicles of Narnia

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They worked out, much later, that the spell which had interacted so banefully with Lucy's cordial had been cast as a trap -- the goal had been a straightforward assassination; the contagion merely an unintended side effect -- but at the time all Susan cared about was that saltwater slowed the change, and she would pick up a sword and dismember anyone who tried to kill her baby sister out of misguided mercy.

She filled every room and hall of Cair Paravel with tubs and barrels of brine; recruited every spare hand and paw to guard and nurse the infected; gathered, quarantined, organized the refugees streaming to the coast -- some brought scraps of news from Peter and Edmund's struggle to pin down the growing horde and burn a mile-wide swath of barren land to stop lone victims from slipping past the sentries and starting a new flare of the plague -- and gnawed the inner flesh of her cheeks to shreds to trap the furious shriek of despair and betrayal behind her teeth.

When this was over, when they found a cure, Susan swore she would claw her way to Aslan's own country -- whether she had to sail off the edge of the world, climb the encircling mountains past the roof of the sky, delve down through the burning heart of the earth -- and stab him once for each labored breath Lucy struggled to snatch past the rot in her throat; then, and only then, she might allow herself to break, and weep.

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( 7. ) For galaydryels in response to the prompt: any, any, the courage of a guinea pig, written 1/19/24

Fearless (300 words)

Fandom = Chronicles of Narnia

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There are many types of courage celebrated in proverb (some more obscure than others), for not only does courage come in different flavors, the characteristics that humans ascribe to various animals vary wildly in their accuracy.

The courage of a lion is most famous (though lions generally think prudence the better part of valor, having neither much interest in wasting strength on foolish posturing nor desire to be gutted by their prey on an inadvisable hunt), but the courage of a bear is also praised, the courage of a mother in her nest or den (in this case the species of animal becomes nearly irrelevant), the courage of a mongoose pursuing a snake, and the courage of a loyal dog defending their family, and so on; but all beasts have their own fears to overcome, and often do so -- the courage of a mouse venturing forth to gather seeds despite the threat of owls, hawks, and foxes; the courage of a caterpillar or tadpole giving its body over to change; the courage of a seal diving beneath vast sheets of ice and trusting it will find a gap to the surface before it runs short of air -- these are less lauded but no less real.

The courage of a guinea pig is of a different order altogether, as any human who has been screamed at by a stumpy, awkward bundle of fluff that can fit in the palms of your two hands can attest -- short-legged, near-sighted, its only defense sharp teeth that are easily evaded, but still the guinea pig shows no fear and raises its shrill defiance toward the heavens; yet some question whether courage is truly the right label, for can bravery truly be said to exist when the animal in question has no inborn fear to overcome?

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I also need to make a post about my 2024 NFE fic, and get all my 2023 and 2024 3SF fills up on AO3. But I think those are tasks for future!Liz.

This year, the Three Sentence Ficathon has its own dedicated Dreamwidth community: threesentenceficathon.

Here is the information post.

Here is the first ficathon post (now closed for new prompts, but still open for fills!), and here is the second ficathon post. The ficathon will remain open for new prompts through February 12.

Here are my fourth set of fills:

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( 19. ) For siver, in response to the prompt: Howl's Moving Castle, Any, a dash of folly, written 1/17/23.

A Fool and His Folly (165 words)

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"My hair is not a potion ingredient!" Howl yelped as he ducked Sophie's third lunge with the pruning shears and scuttled around the kitchen table; "Even if you did need human hair -- which you don't, unless you're making a healing potion or an emotional influence potion and need to tune it to the drinker, and I'm neither ill nor in need of an attitude adjustment -- my hair has spent so long exposed to magical charms and dyes that it would be an explosively unpredictable reagent."

"That's exactly why I need it," Sophie said, stalking Howl as he backed warily toward the stairs, arms outstretched as if his silk cape might somehow deter her; "It's a luck potion, the instructions call for a dash of folly, and you are the biggest fool I know -- and if chucking explosives into a boiling pot doesn't count as folly, I'd like to know what does! Now stand still and let me snip a piece where it won't be obvious."

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( 20. ) For arveldis, in response to the prompt: Six of Crows/Shadow and Bone, Kaz, I knew that something would always rule me, written 1/17/23.

As a seal upon thy heart (125 words)

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Idealism withers in the face of the Barrel's iron logic, and vengeance inevitably burns itself out in either triumph or death, but all men must have some ruling passion -- the question is whether each man is wise enough to choose his guiding star or whether he lets his appetites and fears make that choice without his knowledge or assent.

Greed is common, as is pride, or any of a thousand particular fears, but vices distort perspective and Kaz relies above all on his ability to see an obstacle or opportunity whole and clear in all its moving parts; money and reputation are useful tools, but poor masters.

Love is even more foolish and delicate a vice than idealism, but for Inej, he's willing to submit.

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( 21. ) For paxilam, in response to the prompt: any, any, trembling reaction, written 1/22/23.

Pawn to Queen Four (245 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart (Victoria Goddard)

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"Why do you wish to serve the Indrillines?" the girl (surely no older than Violet, and while normally she would squash the embers of resentment that her own mother hadn't trusted her with responsibilities equal to what The Indrilline evidently deemed suitable for his heir, now she fanned that lick of flame the better to lend verisimilitude to her act) asked, with a bored smile on her lips that was nearly perfect in its air of casual amusement save for the empty chill that lurked in the corner of her eye.

Violet gathered herself, proud and angry, resentful that she must rely on another's whim to achieve her own ends, and underneath that bravado, fingers trembling with poorly concealed nerves: "I want money, and power, and a shield against the marriage my mother has arranged," she said, letting that truthful stew of emotion flavor her lie; "I see no reason why her promises should bind me when I never swore fealty to her, and I won't swear unconditional loyalty to you either, but I have some talents and some connections among the Lady's faction that I think you'd find useful."

"Presumptuous," the Indrilline girl said, still in that tone of bored amusement; "Tell me, Violet of no family and no name, what conditions would you presume to set upon your loyalty?" and Violet fought not to sway with the sudden rush of relief that she might yet play this game through to its bitter end.

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( 22. ) For dawen, in response to the prompt: any, any, I'd like to have an octopus on my shelf (from this Stardew Valley screenshot), written 1/24/23.

An Ambassador from the Sea (235 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds (Victoria Goddard)

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"But why do you want to keep the octopus in your workroom?" Kip asked as Fitzroy swept into the house, a sphere of seawater floating above his left shoulder; inside the water, an octopus with a head roughly the size of Kip's fist rippled from gray to ochre and back as it jetted about to peer in all directions.

"If I were rescued from drowning by a strange sea creature and provided with a magical supply of air, I would unquestionably want to stay underwater for a while and learn everything I could about my new situation," Fitzroy said as he flung open assorted cupboards and pulled out miscellaneous glassware that he promptly discarded in a heap on the kitchen table; "Octopuses are highly intelligent, so I think it's only fair to give this one a chance to explore -- one could even argue that as the former Lord Magus of Zunidh, it's my responsibility to provide opportunities to all inhabitants of this world."

"I still think we should have cooked it for lunch; grilled or fried octopus is delicious," Kip said, "but if you want to keep a temporary pet" -- ("Temporary guest!" Fitzroy corrected) -- "then I'm sure someone has a fish tank they'd be willing to lend us for a while; meanwhile, you can tidy your shelves so your new friend will have a view of something other than a thousand sheets of crumpled paper."

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( 23. ) For topaz_eyes, in response to the prompt: Any, any, They say that he got crazy once, and he tried to touch the sun, written 1/24/23.

Alone in the Sky (200 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds (Victoria Goddard)

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They called it sun-madness at court, though people spoke of it but rarely: the impulse, whether fleeting urge or deep-seated obsession, to touch the Emperor despite the taboos and the certainty of death for anyone who had not undergone months upon months of painstaking ritual purifications to shield them from the blazing vastness of the Empire's magic as it coursed through the linchpin of the Emperor's own flesh.

For some, it was akin to the inexplicable self-destructive curiosity that seizes people at the edge of cliffs or on the brink of some social disaster, that insidious whisper of what would happen if...?; while for others it was an equally destructive need to conquer, to prove one's own strength against the ultimate test; and for still others it was born of greed run wild, crying out to hoard the greatest imaginable treasure where no one else could reach.

If the Emperors and Empresses ever felt an equal but opposite urge down the aching centuries, to reclaim the slender comfort they had known as children before the weight of all Astandalas crashed down upon their shoulders, or to take revenge for the humanity denied them, that was not spoken of at all.

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( 24. ) For primeideal, in response to the prompt: Project Hail Mary, Ryland Grace & or / Rocky, touch-starved, written 1/24/23.

Wire Monkey (135 words)

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Touch isn't quite the same for Eridians as it is for humans: on the one hand, they're a lot less squishy so all contact has to translate through their thick exterior shells and lacks the immediacy we unprotected meat sacks feel; but on the other hand, they're vastly more sensitive to sound, so touch and hearing are very nearly the same thing -- to speak kindly to another Eridian is like the echo of a hug, and to shout in anger is the shadow of a blow.

Which is a long way of saying that I can hug Rocky, more or less, but given our incompatible temperature and atmospheric needs, he can't readily return the gesture -- and I might be going a little squirrelly from lack of human contact.

We've started working on some mechanical arms.

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More to follow!

The 2023 Three Sentence Ficathon is live!!

This year, to spare poor rthstewart's inbox, Ruth has some co-mods and the ficathon now has its own dedicated Dreamwidth community: threesentenceficathon.

Here is the information post.

And here is the first ficathon post. The ficathon started yesterday, on January 13, and will remain open for new prompts through February 12.

Anyway, here's my first set of fills:

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( 1. ) For wearing_tearing, in response to the prompt: any, any, tarot, written 1/13/23

Cards on the Table (385 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart (Victoria Goddard)

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"Fascinating," I said, shuffling the Tarot cards one final time before returning the deck to the Ystharian ambassador's niece, a young woman of indeterminate ancestry with scandalously short hair and an ingenious set of spectacles that Hope assured me could not possibly be made from glass. "The symbolism is rich despite the repetitive nature of the suits, and the Major Arcana add additional layers of possibility -- what games do you play with them?"

"Hardly any these days," Miss Soledad Aguilar said as she tucked the cards into the canvas satchel slung over her shoulder. "We use a simplified version of the minor arcana for thousands of games, but the full deck is mostly used for divination, which means many people think playing games with the Major Arcana is disrespectful or dangerous -- though most card-based divination is of dubious strength or accuracy."

I thought of the layers of Poacher, the ways that prosaic gameplay and the more arcane aspects intertwined to build upon each other until the great masters could nearly read a man's soul from his discards, and slipped my own deck from my pocket. "I think we took the opposite road on Alinor," I said as I fanned out the deck, displaying various Fish and Happenstance cards to Miss Aguilar's evident interest, "to the point where some people will deny Poacher has any power beyond that of parting fools from their money, but I assure you from personal experience that the cards can speak messages from the gods themselves."

"Fascinating," Miss Aguilar echoed, pausing for my nod before she slipped a pair of cards (the Salmon of Wisdom and Friend with Errand) from my hands to examine. "Mr. Greenwing, I believe there's an empty table under the pergola. Would you mind teaching me the basic rules of Poacher in return for instruction in some simple Tarot spreads? With, perhaps, the Lady Violet to help both of us demonstrate -- I know one of my uncle's predecessors taught her some Tarot, which is why I brought my deck in the first place -- and I assume she knows at least the rudiments of Poacher."

"Miss Aguilar, it would be my pleasure," I returned, and clicked my heels and offered her my most elaborate bow before I began pushing through the crowded afternoon fete in search of Violet.

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( 2. ) For betony, in response to the prompt: Queen’s Thief, Gen/Attolia, apotheosis, written 1/13/23

Prayer Like a Knife (170 words)

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Eugenides is named for a god and touched by a god; sometimes, in some lights, he may even embody that god; and these days he carries the painful brightness of that attention, visible only from the corner of one's eye: a flaring ember of divine fire and glory that reflects from his eyes and teeth like the breath of dew rising from grass at the touch of morning sun.

Attolia bows to the altar in the temple she has erected to honor her husband's gods and says, so quietly that no air moves to carry her words to mortal ears, "If you steal him, or burn him up in your plans, I will find a way to lay siege to your heavens myself until you repay the fullness of my loss."

As she steps back into the light of day, she ignores the way her shadow seems fainter and less sharp-edged than those of her handmaidens, as if some impossible light has lingered in her hair and beneath her skin.

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( 3. ) For wingedflight, in response to the prompt: Duck Hunt (discord game), Strong Duck, shake it off, written 1/13/23

Horatius at the Bridge (90 words)

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If you can hold them off long enough -- just one more bullet, one jammed gun, one pause to reload or change out a magazine -- your sister will have time to set off the explosion.

The hunters think it's murder-suicide, but in truth it's only cover fire to let the younger, sillier members of the flock escape.

A third bullet smashes through your wing and you stumble at the searing pain of shattered flight feathers, but you're not dead yet, and you will sell your life as dearly as you can.

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( 4. ) For wingedflight, in response to the prompt: any, any, this is the darkest timeline, written 1/13/23

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines (340 words)

Fandom = Nine Worlds (Victoria Goddard)

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"This is, without a doubt, the darkest timeline that has ever, will ever, and could ever exist," Fitzroy announced as he burst out of the tent (much larger on the inside, courtesy of some highly experimental magic) where the rest of the Red Company were taking their ease after a filling lunch.

Jullanar counted to ten, then uncricked her neck and glanced up from the ethnographic and cartographic study of southern Colhélhé that she had bargained fiercely for in a small market stall just that morning. Fitzroy looked slightly put-out at her delay in giving him her full attention, but neither calm enough nor wild enough for this to truly be serious, and so she merely raised one eyebrow and said, leadingly, "Oh?"

"Yes, because Pali ate the last of your gingersnaps and laughed at me for being too slow to claim it," Fitzroy said, and flung himself down on the grass to rest his head in Jullanar's lap like an oversized cat -- or perhaps like a younger brother asking for comfort without yet knowing how to vocalize his needs.

Jullanar wondered if he would ever tell them the truth about his childhood, and what he had been doing before he fell out of the sky and into that rowboat between her and Damian. She was fairly sure it couldn't have been anything pleasant, not with the way he sometimes treated normal human interaction like a vast, intricate puzzle constructed by intelligences as foreign as, say, termites.

She was equally certain that mentioning her concerns wouldn't help anything.

"I'll bake some more gingersnaps after I finish my chapter," she said, "if, and only if, you hold very still and let me use you as a bookrest. I think that's a reasonable bargain."

"Deal," Fitzroy said instantly, and closed his eyes. Soon thereafter he drifted off to sleep, and Jullanar allowed herself the small pleasure of combing her fingers gently through the wild curls and squiggles of his hair.

She read three chapters rather than disturb him before he woke on his own.

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( 5. ) For scytale, in response to the prompt: any, any, sheep, written 1/13/23

A Good Shepherd (180 words)

Fandom = The Dark Is Rising

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"The thing about sheep, see, is that they make sense," Bran said as he and Will wedged their hands under nearly twelve stone of panicky flesh and sodden fleece, then heaved the fallen sheep off her back and onto her side; the sheep hastily scrambled to her feet and staggered off on wobbly legs toward the rest of her flock.

"They may not be the brightest, or the most sensibly designed," Bran continued, wiping his muddy, oily hands on his equally muddy trousers, "but sheep want to have enough food and water, to be around other sheep, to make little baby sheep at the right time of year, to not get too hot or cold, and to not get eaten by wolves or minks or terrifying sheepdogs -- simple and sensible, and easy enough for a farmer to arrange -- and they don't bother with things like taxes or religion or the costs and benefits of the devolution of parliamentary authority."

"I know where you're going with this," Will said preemptively, "and no, I won't replace the British government with sheep."

"Shame."

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( 6. ) For wingedflight, in response to the prompt: Sandman, Dream, Rose, and Jed, family dinners, written 1/13/23

First Steps (230 words)

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"Is family dinner going to be a regular thing?" Rose asked as Jed excitedly handed his dinner request to the chef; "Because if this is going to be a regular thing, you need to tell me so I can rearrange my schedule and fall asleep normally instead of you showing up out of nowhere to blow sand in my face and only explain after the fact."

(There were no gilded and leather-bound menus to match the fancy silverware and china plates of the private dining room Dream had conjured up to the left of the great hall, just two blank sheets of heavy paper that the fanged chef assured the Walker siblings would record the foods they wanted most, even if they didn't consciously know what those foods were; Rose admitted it was a neat trick, and mentally awarded Dream a half point on her tally sheet -- at this rate, he might break out of the negative before Jed was old enough to vote.)

Dream looked even more stiff and awkward than normal, which should have been anatomically impossible, but he somehow managed; "You have my apologies for the short notice, and my word that, if you and Jed find yourselves willing to attempt another meal after this, I would be willing to visit the waking world so that you may choose a time and location more convenient for you."

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More to follow!