the deep moans round with many voices

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.

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 started on January 13, and will remain open for new prompts through February 12.

Anyway, here's my second set of fills:

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( 7. ) For scytale, in response to the prompt: The Darkangel Trilogy, Aeriel&/Erin, learning, written 1/13/23

A time to every purpose under heaven (180 words)

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In their first month, Erin learns that Aeriel used to be desperately ticklish behind her knees, that Aeriel wishes her new body retained that imperfection and fears what its lack may mean, and that covering her skin with kisses helps soothe that ache.

In their first year, Aeriel learns that Erin feels empty and small in the face of Aeriel's burden, that Erin has a knack for gears and screws and soldering wands, and that even the pearlstuff will fall silent and cease its complaints if she holds her ground and brings her love into the great work as an equal partner.

In their first lives, Erin and Aeriel learn how to be two women who each can stand alone against the world, but who choose to shape themselves around another instead; and when at last the pearlstuff deems their task complete and Aeriel pours it into the spring at the heart of Crystalglass so all who drink may gain a whisper of Ancient truth, when they depart as flames for deep heaven, they are ready to learn anew, together.

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( 8. ) For elementalraven, in response to the prompt: Narnia, Mabel Kirke, the apple has strange effects on Mabel, written 1/13/23

Third Eye (235 words)

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Mabel Kirke never told anyone about her dreams' turn toward the fantastical -- flocks of winged horses filling the sky from horizon to horizon; four children wandering through a cruel and endless winter in overlarge coats; a dragon bending its neck and swearing allegiance to a bewildered knight; an underground city foundering beneath a great wave; a dozen women made of petals and gems and water and leaves dancing together in a sunlit field; a small ship with the gilded prow sailing through a sea of lilies; a dozen beasts of all sizes and species gathered around a table and arguing like men -- for surely they were nothing more than an aftereffect of her illness, perhaps a lesion left on her brain by the cruel pressure of the tumor before the cancer miraculously began to shrink and wash away.

Nonetheless, the scenes were vivid in her mind's eye, and she committed several to canvas between her more serious works; in her will, she specified that they should be sold at auction and all proceeds be given to her son's great friend Polly Plummer, who had become nearly as close as her own daughter might have been, had Mabel's health permitted more than a single child.

How, many years later, one of those paintings came into the possession of someone on good terms with Harold and Alberta Scrubb, is a tale I shall leave for another day.

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( 9. ) For scytale, in response to the prompt: The Darkangel Trilogy, Irrylath, kingship, written 1/14/23

in the chillest land, and on the strangest sea (220 words)

Content note: Reference to Oriencor's abuse of Irrylath.

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Irrylath barely remembers his father the king; instead, his models of power are his two mothers: the one who bore him and the one who stole him.

Oriencor's example is a litany of things to shun -- do not be capricious, do not assume all places and people exist for your pleasure and convenience, do not lay the land to waste -- but he spent his time in Isternes planning war and clinging to the barest thread of hope that he might not drown in the black pit he dug for himself to please his mother, his lover, his goddess who locked his heart in lead and promised to drink his soul to take his pain away; he did not study how Syllva ruled, and she will not leave her city to guide him and Sabr as they take their first steps into the fragile dream of Avaric reborn.

"Stay and tell me how our mother would govern?" he asks his brothers as the warhost finish the feasting and funerals beside the mere, and begin the slow return to their several lands; and though he dares not depend on ties of blood, and made no effort to befriend this unlooked-for late-come family, perhaps there is more to life than despair and grim resignation, for the answer to his plea is, simply, yes.

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( 10. ) For loveandrockmusic, in response to the prompt: Narnia, Mrs. Beaver and Reepicheep, she sews him a debonair costume, written 1/14/23

Gaily bedight, a gallant knight (150 words)

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"You're already wearing a belt for your sword -- a sash and a cloak aren't that much more fabric," Mrs. Beaver said, fixing the newly-arrived Mouse with a stern gaze. "One must be properly attired for court, after all, and if paying respect to King Frank, Queen Helen, and Aslan himself isn't argument enough to convince you, consider the many secondary uses of a cloak, such as laying it across mud puddles to keep a lady's paws clean, wrapping it around your forearm as a makeshift shield, or simply letting it catch the wind or swirl artistically around your ankles -- I've never yet known a knight who didn't love swishing about dramatically, and I doubt you'll be the first exception."

"A fair touch on all points, my lady," said the Mouse, and he swept her an elaborate bow that would look much better as soon as she finished his new cloak.

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( 11. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt: Any, any, accidental cat acquisition, written 1/14/23

A Conspiracy of Kittens (225 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart (Victoria Goddard)

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The first batch of kittens, I was quite willing to accept as an accident -- Mr. Moo needed to dispose of them, I happened to be at hand, and he trusted I would find them good homes. That this involved holding up a coach in the middle of the Arguty Forest was merely a logical consequence of Mr. Moo's profession, for a man engaged in the wild lay is just as unlikely to come into town on an everyday basis as a respectable gentleman is to go tramping about in a forest notoriously filled with outlaws and other disreputable souls.

The second batch of kittens was somewhat more suspect, though again, it wasn't illogical for Mr. Moo to encounter me on the outskirts of the Arguty Manor grounds, nor for a highwayman to abscond with all the luggage in a fancy coach and only belatedly discover that one box contained a heavily pregnant cat wearing a collar set with diamonds (naturally he did not hand over the collar along with the cats), and I duly found this set of kittens good homes among my father's former military companions.

However, when Mr. Moo knocked on the door of Elderflower Books with a mewing, squirming satchel in his arms and had the cheek to grin at my astonished cry, I was certain that some new conspiracy was afoot.

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( 12. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt: Any, any, detective and thief AU, written 1/14/23

Two Roads Converged (245 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart (Victoria Goddard)

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"What could possibly bring such an august personage as the Lady Jessamine's own daughter, swiftly becoming famous in her own right for dismantling the Indrillines' criminal empire, to a quiet backwater like Ragnor Bella?" the young man asked after rising from an elaborate bow and resettling his plumed tricorner hat atop his neatly queued brown hair.

His manners would have been more convincing had he not been wearing a mask over his upper face and standing beside Violet's coach with a bloodstained sword only just withdrawn from her driver's shoulder, but Violet chose to take his question at face value: "Rumors of cults to the Dark Kings, assorted long-lost heirs popping out of the woodwork, and a new criminal element extending tendrils out of the Arguty Forest toward both Ronderell and Chare," she said dryly; "Dare I hope that you might be in a position to answer some of my own questions in turn?"

"Alas, I must disappoint," the masked man said with a swift grin, "but I will leave you with two pieces of advice: first, the Viscount St. Noire is hosting a dinner party the evening after next, to which I'm certain you will be extended an invitation and where you may gather all manner of fascinating gossip; and second, that I recommend Elderflower Books off the market square most highly as a haven for all whose tastes run toward adventure -- you may tell Mrs. Etaris that her former clerk sends his regards."

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More to follow!

Yuletide reveal day!

I made about negative 100% attempt to be anonymous with my assignment this year. On the one hand, it's in a tiny obscure fandom, so who's going to know? On the other hand, so far as I can tell I have either written or been gifted literally half the extant fic for this fandom, so, you know, it's not a huge stretch to compare writing styles and peg me for this story as well. *wry*

Anyway, the story, written for MarsDragon:

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String New Threads (1202 words) by Elizabeth Culmer
Fandom: Darkangel Trilogy - Meredith Ann Pierce
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aeriel/Erin (Darkangel Trilogy)
Characters: Aeriel (Darkangel Trilogy), Erin (Darkangel Trilogy)
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Despair, Hope, Misses Clause Challenge, Astronomy

Summary: When the last fragment of the soul of the world was regathered and Aeriel stood in the heart of Crystalglass before the loom where she had learned to weave numbers into truth, she broke the cloth she wove and sank to her knees, weeping.

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MarsDragon's prompts were so entirely up my alley in terms of worldbuilding that it was actually a little tricky to choose one! I also got kind of overwhelmed by December and the posting deadline snuck up on me, so I wrote this in a bit of a rush at the last minute -- if I'd been more organized, I would have tried to write a couple treats as well, and in fact I may raid MarsDragon's prompt for future story ideas.

As for this story specifically, well. Like I said in my post-fic note, the working title was "let's go steal a comet," and I had the damndest time thinking of something that fit even half as well but was more tonally appropriate. It wound up a little bit as a relationship study (because Aeriel is occasionally prone to despair and taking the "freeze" option in a fight-flight scenario, whereas Erin is more likely to fight), but mostly it's an excuse to indulge in a canon-typical blend of science fiction and fairy-tale logic, and tease out some implications of Pierce's worldbuilding related to stars and methods of interplanetary travel.

And also to lay ground for a story about hijacking a comet, which I may go back and explore in more detail someday. :D

This will be my final Three Sentence Ficathon fill collection post. (Probably.)

Here is the old ficathon post (still open for fills and comments! just not new prompts), and here is the new ficathon post (open for everything until the end of today, after which it will also close for prompts though you can still write fills).

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( 67. ) For anonymous: Imperial Radch, Seivarden, stranded, written 2/25/20

Out of Time (140 words)

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Culture shock is a known hazard of military service: contact with non-Radch can unsettle the steadiest personality, to say nothing of being stationed among them on planets where everything is built and organized along alien principles; but even stranded on the far outskirts of the Empire, Seivarden had still had her fellow Radch to rely upon and generations of patterns telling her how to react and recover.

Now, stranded in the future, her own people have become a foreign world; she has no pattern to follow, no fellow soldiers to support her; even Breq, who remembers the universe that was, has travelled the slow path from one year to the next and changed along the way into someone entirely different and strange.

Seivarden curls into a knot on her bed and tells herself soldiers must not weep in alien hands.

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( 68. ) For syrena_of_the_lake: Narnia, raccoons, masters of their trade, written 2/26/20

Jack of All Trades (75 words)

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"That trade being?" Susan asked.

The Raccoon grinned, the dark band of fur across her face shading her eyes into near-invisible glints, and waggled her hand-like forepaws: "Whatever we like! Opposable thumbs are helpful but not strictly necessary, and if you can't get a Being or a Primate to do fiddly work, a Raccoon will always be the next best option -- not to mention we charge less and haul away your rubbish heaps for free."

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( 69. ) For syrena_of_the_lake: Any; any; The hurrier I go, the behinder I get, written 2/26/20

Wherever You Go, There You Are (160 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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Which was the beauty of it, of course, because fear did tend to hurry one along -- no time to sit and reason logically when all the little glands and nerves were screaming at the top of their lungs to flee or fight -- or even to freeze, because the mind froze along with the body, each cell vibrating so fast that everything blurred into a single sheet of terror-white.

And once they were hurrying, how easy to wind that panicked path into corkscrew curls, steps strung between her fingers like recursive, nightmarish cat's cradle yarn, around and around and around it goes and where it stops... well, it doesn't stop, of course, because it's not just a spiral; it's a Möbius strip and the strip is Helen and Helen is hungry.

She may have jumped tenses there, but that's fine because time is only another path to twist and no matter how fast her victims run, she's always there before them.

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( 70. ) For last_haven: Any, any, I've had my adventures, I don't need something new, I'm afraid of what I'm risking if I follow you, written 2/26/20

Tikkun Olam (125 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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"We can stay here," Georgie offers; "You've been through enough, and there's no saying we'll be able to do any good out there anyway. At least here we have a little protection -- you from the Eye and me from the End, and the other powers are keeping their distance for now."

Melanie smiles in the direction of her girlfriend's voice and shakes her head: "I quit the Archives because I couldn't be part of something evil, but you know the quote, right -- that the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing? -- maybe we can't do much, but if we have a little protection the least we can do is extend it to as many people as we can."

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( 71. ) For runespoor: any, any, buying back your memories, written 2/27/20

Equivalent Exchange (500 words)

Original fiction, because reasons. :) Also, structural restrictions? Never heard of them! *wry*

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"How do I know if they're worth the price?" she asked. "I don't even know if they were stolen, or if I traded them for something I thought was worth more at the time -- I'm fairly sure I didn't lose them gambling, because I don't feel like a gambling person, but I can't even be completely sure of that -- so you see my problem with the entire concept, right?"

"You've stated it with admirable clarity," said the person sitting on the other side of the glittering mosaic table, hands (...probably hands? though admittedly she didn't have many points of comparison anymore) folded neatly before a cloth-wrapped torso and underneath a toothy (...too toothy? not enough teeth? she kept losing track when she tried to count them) smile. "This is why the transaction is voluntary rather than compulsory -- I like to keep potential sources of regret to a minimum, so while I'm afraid I can't show you the contents of your memories without a down payment, the least I can do is ensure that you understand your options. This is also why the exact method of payment is entirely at your discretion, providing, of course, that it's of equivalent value -- one doesn't last long in business selling below market rate, you understand -- but whether you pay with time, emotions, senses, abilities, or any other item of worth is all one to me."

She pondered this information for a time, while the person with the cloth-wrapped torso and face sat patiently and without breathing. Then she said, "If I asked how you came to have possession of my memories, would you tell me or would that also require payment?"

The cloth-wrapped person's smile grew more teeth (or perhaps the teeth simply enlarged?) and the answer came quickly. "Neither; one doesn't last long in business by disclosing confidential details about one's sources and transactions."

"Which... could mean that you bought my memories from me, or bought them from someone else, or simply picked them up at the side of the road," she said, puzzling through the options. "I begin to see how you define clarity of statement. In that case, I believe I would like to purchase one memory -- specifically, the memory of how I came to lose or sell my memories -- in return for the memory of this conversation, and with the addendum that if we've been through this transaction before, the memory of trading a previous iteration of this conversation doesn't count as the sale or loss in question."

"Done," said the cloth-wrapped person, and reached across the mosaic table to press a finger (it must be a finger, because what else could it be?) to her forehead. As the world dissolved into laughter and the click-clack-clatter of falling tiles, Elise (her name was Elise! she'd traded her memories for a map... which she'd promptly lost, and had no idea why it had been important in the first place) could only think, That was too easy. How long until the catch?

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( 72. ) For scytale: Any, any, would you love me more if I killed someone for you?, written 2/28/20

A Generational Story (120 words)

Fandom = The Darkangel Trilogy. Contains implied child sexual abuse and implied incest between an adoptive mother and child, because Oriencor is canonically creepy as fuck.

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"Ah, my darling, but deaths are not what I wish you to take; I sculpt with souls, not lives, and you have witnessed full well that a body and mind can continue without such unearned splendor as a soul," the white lady said.

"Yes, mother," Irrylath agreed, and shifted in her lap to give her stroking fingers, dry and cold as the winterock of her castle, better access under his tunic.

"You will be great and grand and bring all Avaric to its knees soon enough, my darling," the white lady said, "and then, when you have brought me twice seven souls from twice seven brides -- why, then, I shall love you as well as my own mother loved me."

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I am still working on a Magnus Archives/Doctor Who crossover prompt fill that got away from me (more so than any of the other long fills I've already posted), but aside from that, I think I am done for this year. Seventy-two fills is a good number -- twelve times six -- and while there is the temptation to go for a baker's dozen, I am home sick today and I have other projects that need my time and attention. *wry*

And hey, 13,445 words (yes, that is an exact number; I have been tracking for my getyourwordsout spreadsheet) is a pretty good haul if I do say so myself. :D

While the first ficathon post, is still open for fills and comments, there is also a second post for new prompts if you want to keep playing. :)

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( 31. ) For reccyls: Any fandom, any characters, let's do this again sometime, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

Make New Friends (125 words)

Rose would be the first to admit she was skeptical of Jade's efforts to introduce all her friends to each other -- friendship, despite many people's irrational belief, is not an inherently transitive property, and she doesn't think she has much in common with people who frequent furry sites and terrible webcomics, or forums devoted to pranks or coding experiments, respectively -- and yet, she finds herself smiling more than she's done in months as she watches red, blue, and green text mingle on her screen; it's frustrating that the tyranny of time zones forces her to be the first to depart.

TT: I reiterate my assessment that you all need extensive therapy to resolve your myriad psychological woes, but that aside, I suppose you're not terrible company.
TT: Let's do this again sometime.

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( 32. ) For anonymous: Any, any, flu season, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

Zoonosis (125 words)

"I wasn't aware that anyone besides humans could catch the flu," Peter said in a puzzled tone, "but certainly, we'll do our best to organize the distribution of simples to the outlying settlements."

"Oh, it won't be necessary for all of them," said Blackbristle the Sow, squinting up toward the four thrones, "since you're quite right that most diseases stay within specific peoples, but we Swine, and many of the Cattle, and almost all of the Talking Birds do fall ill with our own types of influenza. I don't know if you've ever had to deal with a litter of sneezing, feverish Piglets, but I'd prefer not to suffer through that again, to say nothing of the time we were stuck hosting a whole flock of flu-stricken Geese."

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( 33. ) For inkpaws: Any, any, You Hit Rock Bottom As Soon as You Stop Digging, written 1/9/19 [AO3 version]

I want a shot at redemption (100 words exactly)

The first step to fixing things is to stop making them worse, everyone says, and okay, Vriska can admit that that's logical -- you don't reach sunlight by digging a deeper hole -- but see, if you're already so deep you're halfway through the planet, climbing out would take half of forever plus who wants to trip over all the endless reminders of your failures.

And planets are round; so if you keep on digging, eventually you've got to break through to daylight on the other side of the world, and that has to be more worthwhile than giving up, right?

Right????????

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( 34. ) For anonymous: Any, any, ramming speed, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Folk Etymology of Naval Jargon (100 words exactly)

Note: Slightly edited from the version on the Ficathon page.

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"I'm fairly sure 'ramming speed' has to do with crashing one boat into another bow-first, not with, well, that," Peter said absently, one hand hooked around a stay to compensate for any abrupt motions of their ship.

"I suspect you're right, at least in the other place," Edmund said from his perch in the rigging, "but you can't deny it's effective."

Across the narrow channel, a Narnian skiff pulled alongside yet another pirate ship just long enough for its contingent of Bears to launch a pair of Rams onto the larger vessel's deck, tripling both the chaos and the screaming.

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( 35. ) For adaeze: any crossover, any, subterranean rivers, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Here There Is Life (200 words exactly)

Note: The crossover is Snow White and Meredith Ann Pierce's Darkangel Trilogy.

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"I've never seen so much water," Winterock said as she followed the seven duaroughs down into the tunnels, away from Solstar's blazing light and the softer, blue-green glimmer of Oceanus, "not even when the Aeriel and her shadow came to repair the Ancient magic that seeds the skies with rain, and my father's second wife ordered the condensation gathered and piped into a fountain for her pleasure."

The duaroughs exchanged indulgent smiles as they led the way along the bank of the shining, rushing river, toward a doorway carved in the stone that opened on a warm, sand-paved cavern with a hearth, a long trestle table, and several further doorways whose mouths were covered with bright-colored cloths for privacy, and strings of beads and chimes to blend the illusion of leaf-rustle and bird-song into the river's laughing chatter.

"It took all the Ancients' wisdom to kindle and sustain life on our world's surface," said the youngest duarough, a sturdy woman with hairpins shaped to look like golden pickaxes, "but here underground, life has always welled more easily; and so too has magic, so put aside your fears of your step-mother's anger and let us show you how to relearn joy."

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( 36. ) For alexseanchai: any, ambition, anxiety, adrenaline, written 1/10/19 [AO3 version]

Stewardship (175 words)

Note: Evelyn Scrapemoss is the same person mentioned in The Golden Age: A Historical and Cultural Survey.

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"I still say this is a terrible idea, sister, and it will end in civil war," Edraed hissed in Evelyn's ear as they waited in the entry chamber just off the Great Hall's dais in Cair Paravel, while their herald droned through the reading of the omens; "Why couldn't you have more reasonable ambitions?"

"Because politics is about ideas and images as much as cold iron, good roads, and rich harvests, and it does Narnia no good to let the world mock us for groveling before our past as if the Pevensies may yet return," Evelyn muttered in return, only the bloodless pallor of her clenched fingers betraying her nerves, "besides which I am queen in all but name already, so why not make it true in law as well as practice?"

The herald reached the end of her speech before Edraed could answer, and Evelyn Scrapemoss, First of Her Name, swept forward through tumultuous waves of both cheers and protests to take her new crown in both hands, and place it upon her brow.

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And I think that's it for me for this iteration of the ficathon. Thirty-six ficlets is a nice, satisfying number, and while there are two prompts that still have stories itching in the back of my head, those are both ideas that will take a lot more than three sentences to do justice. *wry* We'll see if anything comes of them... but even if not, this has been a pretty good run.

I'm looking forward to next time! :)

As always, here is the link to the current ficathon, if you want to come play too. :)

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( 13. ) For anonymous: Any, any, a broken thread, written 12/20/17 [AO3 version]

unwound, unknit, unraveled (150 words)

"Oh yes, he had a thread; everyone does, from the tiniest quark all the way up to the universe itself," says the youngest of the sisters, and the smile she offers Mazikeen, while full of glinting teeth and the shadow of her other roles, is honest: one fundamental force of nature paying due respect to another.

"Had?" Mazikeen asks the oldest, eyes skipping meaningfully to her shears.

Atropos cackles and clicks the blades together with the rattle of falling bones: "Not I who ended him, dearie, if indeed he found an end at all -- see for yourself if you like," she says, and fishes a thread of tarnished gold (a contradiction incarnate, as so much of him was) from her ratty pocket, its end fraying to ever-finer shards of glinting fiber until they dissolve into dust and firelight, intangible as memories, and might-have-beens, and the unrelenting will to find escape.

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( 14. ) For anonymous: Darkangel Trilogy, Ravenna & Melchior, companionship, written 12/28/17 [AO3 version]

And o'er his heart a shadow (400 words exactly)

Note: Way more than three sentences, whoops...

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First he thinks that the Lady saved him -- gathered his frayed memories on her spindle, rewove the fabric of his mind and heart, and strung the finished tapestry in a body of ebony and starmetal -- to be a weapon against her lost and deadly daughter. Bitter and grieving, he buries himself in work instead of war, turns the unnatural strength and length of life she granted him to building and rebuilding the shattered machinery of the city.

When she says nothing against his choices, he begins to think that perhaps this was her goal all along, that she saved him to pit the small weight of his knowledge and influence against Oriencor's growing strength, while the Lady devotes her daymonths to weaving endless possibilities, seeking the pattern by which to breathe the world to life anew instead of dry decay. No sooner does the thought crystallize than he realizes its pride and folly, and he abandons his work (which was futile in any case; he cannot match Oriencor's reach or ruthlessness) to watch over her rooms and remind her to eat and sleep lest her loom swallow her entire and leave her no thread to trace home to her self and her life.

When she smiles and tells him not to fear, that she has set safeguards on her loom to wake her and commands in her tower to feed her, he kneels and asks, for the first time in years he has long since ceased counting, why she saved him and what she wishes him to do.

The Lady is silent for a long moment, and he holds his breath for his presumption, but then she rests her brown hand (the color of fertile earth, rich with water and hope) over his heart and says, "I saved you because she who saves one life saves the world entire; and I wish for you to make your own choices, no matter where they lead. I can give so few people freedom if the future is to hold, but to you, I can grant with gladness this rarest and most precious gift. Use it as you will."

Melchior touches her hand with his own, and raises his head, and meets her eyes: clear and depthless and shining... and beneath the glory, beneath her knowledge and power and will, the hidden shadow of loneliness and grief.

He makes his choice.

He stays.

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( 15. ) For anonymous: Any, any, nets of gold, written 12/29/17 [AO3 version]

I shall repay (150 words)

"You catch more flies with honey than vinegar," Wilson's mother used to say under her breath while his father lectured about injury and punishment, about reputation and revenge, about a strong right arm and the will to apply it to his enemies, and she was right because it was for love of her that Wilson struck down their tormentor.

He thinks of her precept now as he weaves a net of vengeance through his city, binding ever more people to his quest with chains of gold that gleam rich and warm with promise -- but not gold all the way through; scratch the surface and the iron beneath will stab and burn, as it should for those who would betray him.

When his net clamps tight around Murdock, Wilson won't bother with the gilding; because for all his weakness and his failures, on this one subject his father was also right.

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( 16. ) For anonymous: Any, any, jar of rainbows, written 12/29/17 [AO3 version]

practical magic (200 words exactly)

"Happy Birthday; I made you a jar of rainbows," Luna says, and hands Hermione a jam jar filled with shards of broken glass; bemused, Hermione blinks, then decides to offer thanks now and figure out what the gift actually is later when she won't cause offense or disrupt the party Ron and Harry have managed to surprise her with.

That evening in her Diagon Alley flat, she casts every spell she can think of on the jar, even going so far as to check whether there are wizarding folktales about glass seeds that sprouted into light, but to all appearances Luna simply handed her a jar of rubbish; she leaves it on the kitchen windowsill for lack of better options, since it would be rude to toss it out for at least a year.

When she stumbles into her kitchen the next morning in search of tea and toast, the room is filled with splintered light, brilliant and fiery as if she's standing inside the heart of an opal, and Hermione can't help laughing at the realization that Luna -- Luna Lovegood, of all people! -- gave her a completely Muggle gift that was somehow more magical than all the others.

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( 17. ) For anonymous: Any, any, pine, bamboo, plum, written 12/29/17 (prompt choice courtesy of yggidee) [AO3 version]

worth a thousand words (275 words)

Natasha sends him a letter, the first week in Wakanda; Steve doesn't bother asking how she found him, or why T'Challa decided to allow this message through, just unfolds the smooth, heavy paper to see what empty words she's arranged into a backhanded weapon, maybe even pointed enough to pierce through the numbness of leaving his life behind for the second time in less than a decade.

But instead of her handwriting (or whatever style she's imitating this year), the paper is covered in a delicate Chinese-style watercolor -- a country path winds past a lone plum tree in flower by a covered pavilion, across a bridge framed by graceful stands of bamboo, up to a pass between improbably-shaped mountains, crowned by gnarled and windswept pines -- and, fluttering to the floor, a tiny fortune-cookie paper in cheap blue ink with lottery numbers on the back reminds him that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step... except the last word is crossed out and "sketch" is printed neatly in its place.

Steve snorts at her nerve, but despite his best effort to hold his annoyance, he can't help admiring the slightly awkward grace of the work, and somewhere in the back of his mind the Wakandan bas-reliefs, sculptures, and embroidery he's been absorbing in his aimless passage through the palace from the guest suites to the medical complex click abruptly together into a style he wants to apply to the landscape outside his bedroom window; as he reaches for a pencil and notepad, a corner of his mind is already plotting how to get his answer to Natasha, and what subtle teasing to include.

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( 18. ) For anonymous: Any, any, "dark they were, and golden eyed", written 12/30/17 (prompt choice courtesy of grumpyoldsnake) [AO3 version]

one for the road (175 words)

"In those days," said Aravis, the light of the tiny campfire casting weird shadows over the planes of her face, "demons in the shape of men walked the earth; dark they were, and golden-eyed, and their every breath--"

"I don't see what's evil about having black fur or yellow eyes," Bree interrupted with a harrumphing snort; "that describes half the Cats I've known, to say nothing of the occasional Wolf or Goat, and I've never noticed that hide color made much difference to the character of humans either, though I grant your eyes aren't generally sun-colored."

As the Horse and girl descended into bickering, Shasta leaned back against Hwin's side, and murmured, "Two minims that they somehow return to war stories before the moon tops the lemon trees beyond the sugarcane field; what say you?" and bit back a laugh when Hwin rolled her eyes and replied, "It is written that a fool and her money are soon parted, but the wise mare tends her gold like her own foal; I would have bet three minims on the same result."

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I want to knock out a few more before 2018. We'll see how that goes...