the deep moans round with many voices

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.

Batch the second, more to come. :)

All prompts drawn from the 2022 iteration of the Three Sentence Ficathon (post one and post two), hosted by the wonderful rthstewart. Come play with us!

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( 7. ) For syrena_of_the_lake: Narnia AU, Jadis, a different sort of Queen (Take it as literally or cracky as you want!), written 1/15/22

Killer Queen (210 words)

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"The sexual innuendo is disrespectful," Jadis said as the song finished and the disembodied voice resumed its spate of falsely cheerful inanities, "but it's true that my rule would automatically remedy the follies of your world's native leaders, and your gunpowder and guillotines have great entertainment potential. Nonetheless, I fail to see why I should waste time on common musicians and their caterwauling rather than secure one of your nuclear missile launch sites as a power base for my inevitable conquest."

"The thing is, your Majesty, the problem with conquering the world is that then you have to rule it, and that's a lot of work," said the sweating woman whose 'car' Jadis had commandeered at wand- and knife-point. At Jadis's raised brow, she gulped and added, "It's much more efficient to get rich and famous and pay other people to cater to your every whim. People fall all over themselves to do stupid shit for their idols, and if you're rich enough, you can buy your way out of just about any trouble."

"And you think this presumptuously named band might aid me in such an endeavor?"

The woman shrugged, damp hands shifting on the steering wheel of her cramped, inelegant, and odiferous vehicle. "It's a place to start?"

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( 8. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt any, any, lightning in a bottle, written 1/23/22

Refuge (200 words)

Fandom = original

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As Amanda stepped over the threshold into the witch's house, she blinked her eyes at the lack of sudden dimness -- the tiny windows had their paisley curtains pulled aside and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but those didn't explain how a cramped wooden cottage could be nearly as bright as the noonday sun reflecting off the midwinter snow and ice.

After a moment she noticed a glass bottle wrapped in layers of multi-colored gauze and hung over a cluttered worktable in a net of cords, filled with a searing, shifting glow only slightly softened by the muffling fabric; "What on earth--?" she said, taking a step toward the table, uninjured hand lifted in wonder.

"Ah ah ah, don't touch!" the witch said as she tapped Amanda's legs with her walking stick, leaving a wet, muddy smudge; "That's bottled lightning, a little fallen spark I caught in the last storm and brought home to feed up until it's strong enough to leap home; but even a half-dead flicker of lightning is enough to sear your flesh from your bones, so best you keep back while I fix you up, sort you out, and send you back on your way."

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( 9. ) For anonymous, in response to the prompt any, any, purple rain, written 1/23/22

Never Satisfied (85 words)

Fandom = Homestuck

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TT: I am perfectly well aware that the aesthetic for this absurdly improbable planetoid is pastel rainbows; nonetheless, one might hope for at least scattered locations with a single dominant color theme, such as, to pick one randomly from a hat, a nice, restful lavender.

TG: yeah what even is up with all this happy sparkly shit when you just want to get on down with your woegothic self and dance in the purple rain

TT: ...It's such a shame our friendship had to end.

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( 10. ) For undeadrobins, in response to the prompt any, any, tell me you love me, written 1/23/22

And No Other (150 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart

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"Tell me you love me, Jemis," Lark said with a careless laugh one midwinter afternoon as she lounged by a frost-etched window in the library, and Violet forced herself to watch as Jemis's clever, animated face went slack with drugged adoration.

"Of course I love you; how could I not, when you're the center of my world?" Jemis said, without even an allusion or a doubled meaning, when just that morning he had been chattering to Violet about the depth such poetic devices could lend declarations of intent; and when Lark patted her lap in invitation, he laid down his head as reverently as if her Morrowlea robes were imperial cloth-of-gold.

Lark smirked conspiratorially at Violet, one hand tangled possessively in Jemis's sleek brown hair just as her magic tightened in strangling coils around his own, and Violet allowed Lark to see a hint of pain behind her answering smile.

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( 11. ) For scytale: any, any, green was the silence, written 1/23/22

The Interim (200 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart

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When Astandalas fell, all the bindings the Empire had wrapped around its five close-held worlds shattered, for good or for ill, and all the brighter stars and deeper dark that had been trampled down and barred out for generations crashed down upon the provinces like a roaring spring flood when the ice gives way (as all things give way in their time).

Olive Greenwing felt the ties that bound her to the Woods Noirell strain and screech, and had barely the strength to see her son rush across the suddenly soft-edged room (had the walls always been so tenuous? the angles of the joists so debatable?) with fear etched upon his face before hungry silence swallowed her soul.

In the dim fog where she floated for many days thereafter, she prayed to the bees and the Woods and the honey and the sunlight, and most of all to the Lady of Green and White: that she would wake, that her son would live, that the world would regain shape -- and finally, after a timeless time, when all her words had worn smooth to meaningless sound, a bright leaf sprouted in the emptiness and the Lady's answer tinged the silence green.

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( 12. ) For violsva: any, any, and you're not even here / on the coldest night of the year, written 1/24/22

Winternight (420 words)

Fandom = Greenwing & Dart/The Return of Fitzroy Angursell

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The first Winternight after the Silver Forest, Jullanar was far too busy to think further than a week into the future. Scrimping her way through the bitter East Oriolan winter as an unaccompanied young woman, in a province made tight-fisted and suspicious of strangers by the protracted siege of Galderon and the slowly spiraling civil unrest that the siege had touched off, was difficult enough. Doing so as a wanted outlaw (though she managed to keep that secret mostly under her hat -- aside from one brief indulgence in the wild lay to help some local highwaymen fleece a truly asinine Voonran notable on a grand tour of the Empire, which had won her a newer, more interesting hat) was even more demanding.

By the second winter, however, she was beginning to feel the weight of expectations looming over her future like the shadow of some great carrion bird -- all the narrow straits she had sidestepped and outrun for years, now gathering pace and lapping at her heels. She was safe (and known, and respected) within Galderon's walls, but once she finished her exams... oh she didn't technically need to return home to Fiella-by-the-Sea, but what kind of daughter and sister would she be to not at least visit? And she knew herself well enough to see that once she visited, once she set so much as a finger back into the strictures of her former life, it would be next to impossible to leave again.

Not without a friend. With Ayasha or Damian, Pali or Sardeet, Masseo or Pharia, Gadarved or Faleron, to say nothing of Fitzroy, she knew how to be brave, how to turn a moment of outrage into a steady flame that could withstand an empire's scorn, but on her own she was gnawingly certain she would fold.

She lit a candle at sunset, a fat beeswax pillar (no smoky tallow, not for this), and murmured, "White Lady, you who guard us through the winter dark, help me stand strong. I was born Jullanar Thistlethwaite, but I chose -- I choose -- to be Jullanar of the Sea. Help me know myself. Help me remember."

For a breathless, scorching moment the wick flared like a falling star. Jullanar sprang back, patting her eyebrows with reflexes trained by years of Fitzroy's more experimental spells, which had a distressing tendency to explode. (Fire was always his truest element.)

"Thank you," she whispered, unsure whether she meant the words for the Lady or her absent friend.

Either way, she would keep faith.

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And now, I think, to bed. :)

Batch the eleventh. :)

All prompts drawn from the 2021 iteration of the Three Sentence Ficathon (post one and post two), hosted by the wonderful rthstewart. The ficathon is now closed to new prompts, but you can continue filling prompts and commenting on other people's fills for as long as you like!

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( 61. ) For anonymous: Any, any, illuminated manuscripts, written 3/6/21

Be Light Made (280 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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Library of Jurgen Leitner, Catalog Item #732: An illuminated manuscript copy of Genesis 1:1-4, single page, held within two pressboard report covers; the text appears to be from the Douay-Rheims translation, which is notable in that the work is clearly hand-scribed on parchment rather than a hand-illustrated printed text or an engraved print, despite the technologies prevalent at the time of the English College, Douai's work.

Main Effect: When read aloud, the text produces a clear, bright light that illumines a sphere of thirty-foot radius around the page, in which no shadow is present and all things are visible, including the interiors of normally solid objects; when read silently, this effect is apparently limited to the perception of the reader; and in both cases, the effect dissipates after approximately seven minutes.

Secondary Effects: One reading produces no obvious negative effects, aside from the frequent horror and revulsion at the sight of normally hidden aspects of the world; however, with each subsequent reading, whether silently or aloud, and regardless of the length between incidents, the effect doubles in its duration for the reader -- note that this extension does not apply to a bystander within the thirty-foot radius who simply hears the words; for bystanders, the original seven minute duration continues to apply no matter how many times the text is overheard -- until it becomes effectively permanent, with a duration longer than the reader's projected lifespan; additionally, because the light penetrates normally solid objects, closing one's eyes provides no relief; the long-term effects of such expanded perception have thus far been impossible to determine, as the initial test subject committed suicide and no other assistants have volunteered to replicate the experiment.

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( 62. ) For anonymous: Twelve Dancing Princesses, any princess except the eldest or youngest, forgotten middle child no more, written 3/7/21

Escapism (335 words)

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We all knew the dancing would end someday: that either one of the suitors would discover our secret, our father would tire of the riddle and marry us off one by one, or our mysterious underground escape would turn into a trap.

For my sisters, the very transient nature of our freedom made them reluctant to question -- why did the passageway open to our hall? why did the princes not court ladies of their own realm? why were we not permitted to stay once our shoes were worn through? -- and I admit I was too afraid myself to risk upsetting the spell, to the point where I laughed at a good dozen men's deaths by our father's decree (though in truth, when one considers the many wars he provoked and the draconian laws he set forth, a dozen foolhardy princes and knights are scarcely worth mentioning).

But with my eldest sister married to a soldier, our father passed away, and my other sisters shipped off one by one to marry strangers in lands as foreign as the underworld yet far less free, I remembered the twigs and the cup my brother-in-law carried out of the earth as his proof, and it dawned on me both that a seed remembers its source and that bricking up one door does not preclude opening another: and so I put my old skills to the test once more (did you think my eldest sister brewed the sleeping draughts herself? don't be a fool; her interests always lay in taxes and budgets, as our youngest sister's interest lay in music, my second-eldest sister's in embroidery, and so on -- we are twelve people, not an indistinguishable mass) and stole both myself and those relics out from under the watchful castle guards; for an escape is not complete if it merely enlarges the bounds of one's cage -- when I next venture into that shining, underground land, I shall return to a home where I alone control the lock and hold the keys.

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( 63. ) For anonymous: Any, any, two perfect pears, written 3/9/21

Grin and Pear It (160 words)

Fandom = Doctor Who

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"'Two perfect pears' is a contradiction in terms, because there is no way on this or any other planet or plane of existence that a pear can be anything other than a foul waste of water and fructose," the Doctor said, glaring at the fruit basket Martha was poking through in the TARDIS kitchen.

"Pear blossom's awfully pretty, though, and you can't get the trees or flowers without the fruit," Martha said, twirling one of the pears -- a lovely, firm green fruit, with just a hint of blush near one side of its base -- and wondering if she trusted the grateful farmer's market vendors of New New Earth to have washed their produce before presenting her and the Doctor with a fresh and delicious reward.

"I cannot believe your lack of imagination, Martha Jones -- what about grafting, or cloning, or genetic engineering, or--" the Doctor began, only to sputter into undignified silence when Martha grinned and took a juicy bite.

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( 64. ) For syrena_of_the_lake: Looney Tunes, any, oh what heights we'll hit, written 3/9/21

First Contact (155 words)

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"I'm not entirely certain, but as of our most recent intercepted radio transmission, I believe that Earth hasn't given Mars diplomatic recognition, let alone begun sending live embassies," Marvin said, pointing his disintegrator at the gently sizzling brown-furred creature at the bottom of a new impact crater near Argyre Planitia, surrounded by what looked like the debris of an unreasonably large cast iron pot with a clamp-on lid and some sort of primitive spring-launch mechanism; "Hands up and explain yourself, Earthling spy."

The furred creature stuck one arm straight up, waving a tiny white flag with I SURRENDER blazoned across the fabric -- exactly the sort of cowardly move a spy would make, Marvin thought, and also self-evidently not an explanation; he readied himself to shoot.

"Meep meep," an unfamiliar voice said from behind him, and Marvin had just enough time to turn and see a feathery blur bearing down before the impact knocked him flying.

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( 65. ) For eagleoftheninth: Narnia, any, the kind of odd spirits and whatnot you get in Calormen and/or the Lone Islands, written 3/31/21

Quiet Neighbors (370 words)

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The lands beyond the reach of Aslan's voice did not spring to life all at once, joyous and undeniable; they woke slowly, gradually, over decades and centuries (or faster, if gods or humans moved in and took an interest), and so the spirits of the land were sparser, shyer, interwoven with those who walked their lands as folktales and whispered glimpses rather than friends from whom one could, if not precisely borrow a sack of flour or a pat of butter, then certainly exchange casual gossip; they were quiet neighbors.

There was a well-spirit who lived on Aravis's father's estate in Calavar, who had bargained generations past for a plate of honey-cakes and one silver coin each new moon -- so long as the contract was kept, the well stayed sweet and full, but should anyone miss a month, the old slaves whispered, the water might turn to salt or sink down past the reach of any mortal arm; when she arrived in Narnia and curtseyed to a naiad, Aravis wondered if that well-spirit had ever taken human shape, or chosen a gender, or asked if there were others of its kind; she knew, now, what it felt like to be alone in a strange land, to be treated with propriety but rarely with true respect, and she would not wish that on anyone regardless of their nature.

There was a tricky stone between Arsheesh's hut and the village, which liked to shift its place -- never when anyone was watching, but some mornings its bulk loomed above the rutted path, some days below, and now and then precisely in the middle where Shasta had to thrash his way through brambles and scrub to get around it; always around, never over, because even a minor spirit had its pride -- and he wondered now and then why the stone failed to bury Arsheesh and Anradin the way rumor said it had buried a minor Tarkaan who came to collect taxes in the form of two dozen slaves three generations past; but human feet fell lightly upon the earth and words carried even less weight, and in the end the departure of one foreign foundling must have seemed no great loss to a stone.


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( 66. ) For rthstewart: Bujold -Penric's Demon, Penric and Desdemona, dressed to kill, written 3/31/21

Aftermath (200 words)

Set in the bad period between Penric's Fox and Masquerade in Lodi.

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There are two main points to consider when dressing for any event, Desdemona said as Penric lay on his bed, staring up through the darkness at the wooden beams and boards of his ceiling and trying not to think about either the pain in his wrists or facing the judgment of the Mother's clergy tomorrow; First, always choose something in which you can move freely, because one never knows what chaos may break out; second, consider the effect you intend to produce in your audience -- to stand out, to go unnoticed, to entice, to appall, or any other reaction -- and ensure that your clothes, your hair, your speech, and your bearing work together to enhance that effect.

"What effect do you think I should aim for?" Penric said, voice still a little hoarse from their morning fight, but no less flat than it had been for months now: hollowed by the endless string of deaths and failure.

Horror and shame, since evidently sympathy and sense are in low supply in these parts, Desdemona said; Wear your braids to remind them which god has truest claim on your soul, and leave your arms bare -- I can take care of the rest.

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I really do need to crosspost a lot of my more recent fic to AO3...

I also really do not want to deal with the logistics. Blargh.

Batch the ninth. :)

All prompts drawn from the current iteration of the Three Sentence Ficathon (post one and post two), hosted by the wonderful rthstewart. The ficathon closes to new prompts tonight, but you can continue filling prompts and commenting on other people's fills for as long as you like!

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( 49. ) For paxilam: any, any, not answering the phone, written 2/23/21

Go to Voicemail (250 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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After his ordeal with Prentiss, Martin makes a point of answering his phone on the first ring and immediately replying to all texts; he winds up fielding a number of junk calls and disrupting his sleep schedule (insofar as he has a sleep schedule, here on the too-small cot in the document storage room, jolting awake at every creak of floorboard or groan of piping), but it's worth it to feel connected, to know that no supernatural creature will have another chance to impersonate him.

"That was one of the most suspicious things about you," Jon tells him much later; "It's not normal to be instantly available at all hours of the day and night, and naturally I jumped to incoherent conspiracy theories rather than the much more obvious and plausible answer that it was a trauma response -- the irony, of course, being that my paranoia was also a trauma response, and so we made each other steadily more upset rather than trying to support each other, or reach out to Tim."

"And when I stopped answering my phone altogether?" Martin asks. "Was that also suspicious?"

Jon shrugs, lightly, as if his isolation when he woke from his coma hardly mattered. "No, because by then I knew you -- I wished you would change your mind, of course, and I thought you were taking a terrible risk for a highly uncertain return, but you've let me run off halfcocked into all kinds of peril; how could I trust you any less?"

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( 50. ) For sawthefaeriequeen: Tam Lin by Pamela Dean, Janet and Tina, they develop their own roommate in-joke, written 2/24/21

It's All Greek to Me (710 words)

Obviously this is not a 3-sentence fill. *headdesk*

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( cut for length )

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( 51. ) For sholio: MCU, any, superpower swap, written 2/27/21

Mirror, Mirror (340 words)

This is more of a skill swap than a power swap, but I figure if building flying armor counts as a superpower, Natasha and Clint's skillsets should as well. :)

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The Red Room had a specific ideal to which they trained their agents -- deceptively lovely, flexible, able to wear any mask and get close enough to kiss a target and steal his secrets as well as his life -- but while Natasha excelled enough to live, that pattern always felt like somebody else's coat, too baggy in the shoulders and tight around the waist. She prefers to work from a distance and in the shadows; steal impersonal documents, snap photos, plant microphones; send an autographed bullet from half a mile away. The idea of touching other people's skin, feeling their breath against her ear, makes her own skin crawl like the memory of a dozen spiders wandering over her while she lay paralyzed and desperate not to scream, and it's a rare person who can pass unharmed through the sphere of empty space she carves around herself with her dead-eyed stare.

The US Army was much more interested in snipers than infiltrators, but sometimes what you want isn't what you need, and Clint's always been personable when he puts his mind to it, not to mention good with accents and languages and mirroring what other people project onto him; you pick up those tricks pretty quick as a runaway, and even more so in the entertainment business. He's still a sniper on paper, but the moment he catches wind of SHIELD sending out feelers, he makes a play for a different line of work -- something where he can look the people he kills in the eye and know that they have a faint chance of turning the tables, walking away while he bleeds out on the floor. It's probably just as unethical to betray a cultivated trust, but he's been doing that for most of his life and it's a rare person who can coax him to peel off his masks and show the awkward, half-forgotten shape of his true self.

They make an odd pair, the sniper and the seducer, but nobody at SHIELD would dare to pull them apart.

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( 52. ) For wingedflight: Narnia/The Magnus Archives, any, the entities in Narnia, written 2/28/21

A Century of Fear (295 words)

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1. Vast

Narnia is not a large land, but the shroud of Winter smothers the landscape, blurs landmarks into a sweeping sameness: a blank canvas of white-gray-black that deceives the eye and spreads out to, so far as anyone can know, the uttermost bounds of the world -- and perhaps even beyond, out past the Western mountains and the Eastern sea until a body could travel a thousand years and still never find a day of summer sun, for the Winter admits no truth but its own immutable nature, and flattens all attempts at defiance to mere blots on the purity of its expanse.

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2. Buried

Petrification should stop the mind along with the body, yet those who feel the tight embrace of stone close in around them, driving inward like a vice, could tell you otherwise if they still had breath and space to speak; instead they stand silent in the crushing prison of their own forms, squeezed tighter and tighter until it seems they must explode under the pressure of their own transformed skin and muscle and bone... and yet there is always another notch to tighten, and never the release of death or sleep.

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3. Corruption

Collaboration is the law of the land, a sick fever that floods communities like clockwork as neighbor sells out neighbor for a scrap of food or a brief reprieve from violence; to love your family, to do right by them, you must do wrong by others, and that truth gnaws both inward through the soul and outward through the fragile bonds of care and trust that bind downtrodden Narnians together, until no one can look upon those they love, those for whom they sold their self-respect, without a hot rush of shame and revulsion clogging their throats and coating their teeth with bile.

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( 53. ) For anonymous: Any, any, starry river of the sky, written 2/28/21

Who Walks Among the Stars (160 words)

Fandom = original

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The stars are more of a sea than a river, and more of a marsh than either, but there are channels where light flows swift and deep in and among the darker, drier ground, and those are what travelers follow on the winding paths between the worlds -- unless, of course, they are lucky enough to win the favor of birds and fly swift and true where others walk.

Kemmess steps tentatively from one hillock of dark to the next, testing the depth of the starry stream with the green, sap-sticky length of a broken reed, still glowing faintly with watery light. She has traversed the earth, the moon, and the sun without finding the hidden keep where her beloved has either fled or been imprisoned -- each witness she meets tells a different tale -- but there are whispers of worlds more distant yet in the heavens, and she will walk a thousand years rather than turn back with questions yet unanswered.

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( 54. ) For anonymous: Any, any, silk, sage, silver, written 2/28/21

Sacrifices (150 words)

Fandom = original

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Silk: she ties a sash across your eyes, ties your wrists behind your back, ties your ankles as you kneel, ties your tongue with careful stitches to stopper up your sighs; there is no need to silence screams, not when you have come willing to her bed, but the ritual is stern.

Sage: she wafts incense through the air, traces oil across your skin in swirls and angled strokes in the pattern of a language and a script you never learned but now almost understand through touch alone.

Silver: she slides the needle into the softness beneath your skin, sends a rush of snow-melt cold flooding through your veins, a tracery of silver from your fingers to your heart... and when the cold-shock hits, when your pulse skips and stutters, she calls you treasure, calls you sister, calls you goddess, and whispers her eternal thanks as she sheaths her knife.

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I am experiencing a small amount of self-directed annoyance at not completing the same number of fills as last year (when I wrote 72, 12x6 being a tidy and auspicious number), but then I console myself with the knowledge that my life has been significantly more disrupted this year than last year (surgery! church crisis!) and also I am busier at the rental company in my new job than I was in my old job. And 54 fills is not a shabby number by any stretch of the imagination.

Also I have entire pages of the second ficathon post I have not yet perused, so I think I will give myself permission to continue writing fills for at least another week. :)

And now, bed, because my wrist is very sore and I would like to get some sleep.

Batch the seventh. :)

All prompts drawn from the current iteration of the Three Sentence Ficathon (post one and post two), hosted by the wonderful rthstewart. Come join the fun!

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( 37. ) For schoolsasaint: LotR, Entwives, I am but a small, green, simple object - but I dream of forests, written 2/14/21

Deep Roots Are Not Reached by the Frost (90 words)

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And why, after all, should cherry and apple, citron and pear, plum and pawpaw, avocado and peach, almond and cashew, olive and fig, and all other nourishing trees not be thought part of the forest? Do they not draw from deep roots, gird their trunks with bark, stretch branches toward the sun, and rejoice with bursts of green leaves?

Any tree, however humble and amenable to pruning, transplanting, grafting, pollarding, can break bare rock to richest soil; those who consider any daughter of Kementári tame do so at their peril.

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( 38. ) For undeadrobins: Any, any, lost with you, written 2/16/21

Holding Onto One Another's Hand (170 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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"The worst part about being blind," Melanie started, then paused to add, "all right, the particular worst part I feel like complaining about today, because they're all the worst part and I refuse to rank them -- is that I knew London like the back of my hand--"

"Meaning a general sense of familiarity that breaks down the moment you get into details, because who spends any time studying the back of their own hand?" Georgie interjected, and dodged Melanie's retaliatory cane-sweep with what was swiftly becoming habitual ease.

"Shut it, you, I'm talking," Melanie said without true heat, "and as I was saying, the worst part about being blind is that it's like I'm eighteen again, new to the city, and stumbling around with no idea where anything is, including myself, or how to get from one point to another... but I suppose it isn't actually the worst part, because this time I have you with me, and I honestly can't think of a person I'd rather be lost with."

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( 39. ) For eagleoftheninth: Any, any, 'kill your darlings, die alone,' written 2/16/21

Consequences (45 words)

Fandom = original

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"I hurt you, killed you, drove you away; have you come back to gloat over me as I die?"

A shrug, a cool hand laid gently over bruised and bloody lips.

"I came because nobody deserves to die alone, even if that's what you wanted."

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( 40. ) For notapaladin: Any, any/any, touch-starved character gets hugs, written 2/16/21

Shield Sisters (225 words)

Fandom = The Magnus Archives

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As a general rule, other people don't touch police -- at least not in friendly ways -- and within the precinct, Basira's very careful to maintain a professional attitude, polite but not exposing any quirks or cracks that people might use to discount her: as a woman, as a Muslim, as Afro-Arab-Asian not one of us.

She thinks of it as armor she straps on at the start of each shift and sloughs off at the end, a necessary component of the job, and doesn't notice her supports drifting away (parents following Mum's job from Whitehall to New Zealand, brother following his wife to Wexford, baby sister "finding herself" teaching maths in the Shetlands, childhood and uni companions uncomfortable with her choices and slowly finding other friends) until she tries to shuck her professional reserve one evening and realizes not only that she can't reach the buckles, she doesn't have anyone she'd care to show her inner self in any case: her work self has swallowed the rest of her whole.

The first time DI Tonner slings an arm over Basira's shoulder and pulls her close with a smile, as if all Basira's mail and plate were air and gauze, the relief is a sword to her heart, sharp and merciless; Basira bleeds out in moments, and when she resurrects, her armor is big enough for two.

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( 41. ) For violsva: Hidden Almanac/any crossover, any, Visit Scenic Echo Harbour!, written 2/16/21

Interdimensional Tourism (300 words)

Fandom = The Hidden Almanac/Chronicles of Narnia

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It was on this day in the Year of the Dubious Monkey that a woman who identified herself only as a visitor from another world appeared in a busy Echo Harbor street, nearly causing several carriage crashes.

When asked why she had come, the visitor responded that she had found a tourist brochure in the mysterious interstitial void between worlds (I pause here to note her assertion that this void takes the form of a forest filled with uncountable small and shallow pools of water; theologians and philosophers have spent generations arguing about how much this assertion can be trusted and what its implications may be) and considered the brochure's presence unusual enough to spend some months tracing its origins.

She was given free lodging in the notoriously tight-fisted Echo Harbor mayor's house while she explored the town, but a close reading of the contemporary newspapers shows that this uncharacteristic hospitality was likely religiously-motivated (the mayor being a devotee of Anachrona, goddess of all things out-of-place, who was then under temple investigation for her insufficient tithing) and had nothing to do with the visitor reportedly being quite attractive for a middle-aged human.

At the end of two weeks, the visitor announced she was no longer surprised that the brochure had found its way to the Wood Between The Worlds, and that while Echo Harbor was fascinating and rewarding to visit, she had other places to be, whereupon she disappeared as abruptly as she had come.

A small plaque in the sidewalk where she vanished marked the occasion for nearly a century, until the street in question was repaved; the plaque is now on display in the Echo Harbor Museum of Local History and Ahistory.

That's the Hidden Almanac for February 16, 2020. Be safe, and remember: you are not alone.

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( 42. ) For anonymous: any, any, world's smallest violin, written 2/16/21

Transposition (120 words)

Fandom = Chronicles of Narnia

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"The question then becomes, should it have another name?" Edmund mused as he watched the Mouse fiddler scrape away at her tiny instrument, the strings singing out high and shrill and sweet in much the same way as her partner's slender reed pipes or the storyteller's voice. "A viola and a cello are much the same as a violin, only larger and lower, yet we don't call them all the same instrument, just as we have separate names for a flute and a fife, or for bass and soprano singers though both are human voices."

"A violinette, then, or a soprano violin if you must," Susan murmured, "but hush now and be ready to applaud when the piece is done."

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And now, bed. :)