ad astra per aspera.

In the immortal family tree, Pestilence did not find his place on any given branch. He was more or less a rotten root that had planted itself at the bottom of the tree, causing upheaval and decay over time. In a way, he was a leaf off the stem of the Fates, but he was more of an extension of them rather than a descendant.

He certainly wasn’t going to call Atropos ‘Mother’ any time soon. 

And he was a thorn on Zeus’ side, the Old God constantly subjected to stress headaches. Pestilence took partial credit for the time it had rained forty days and forty nights when Zeus was throwing one of his infamous temper tantrums. One would think that he was the petulant child that the rest of them had to try and placate him. 

They all had their own fair share of mishaps, of course, some of them catastrophic in magnitude. The last of which had landed them here, faking an existence among humans. 

Pestilence was between experiments and needed to find entertainment somewhere. Considering he placed the blame on Atropos for his being trapped there, he needed to remind her every now and then that she was not rid of him. She had to take responsibility, after all, and she did so by serving as his source of entertainment. 

He bent down to pick up the wadded paper once it had been chucked at his head. He casually read portions of the essay, skimming through it with a feigned interest as he strolled to the counter to grab his drink once the barista had finished it. Scooping up a dollop of whip cream with his straw, he popped his lips. “What’s this supposed to prove exactly? Sure, you jab at him every now and then, zig zag your course along the way, but you still drum along the path that you were given, yeah? Or have you permanently put down your scissors?” Atropos could be fun, but Pestilence wouldn’t admit such a thing even under torture. Actually, Pestilence preferred it when Atropos’ rebellious streak was running high because it meant that he could monopolize on it. 

The two of them pitted against each other could lead to disaster. 

The two of them working together could lead to the apocalypse. 

The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse had been accidental byproducts of a cosmic upset, the unfortunate consequence of the Fates’ mistake. It was a common misconception that Atropos and her sisters were Fate itself -- they were its personification, the vessels through which Fate was channelled, but when it came down to it, no one could escape Fate. 

Atropos would know. She’d tried.

Clotho could weave wealth, misery, success, love and whatever else she wanted into the thread, Lachesis could measure a life to any length she wished, and Atropos would end it in the manner of her choosing when their time was up. With the exception of Zeus, no one could control the destiny of the mortals except the Fates. The Olympians knew better than to interfere, but for all the terrible power the Fates held in their hands, their own destiny was not one that could be escaped. Zeus could not be defied, and Atropos’ scissors could not be put down. The last time she’d tried that, she’d ended up with an immortal thorn in her eternal side. Between Pestilence, his three brothers, a pious sister and an overbearing father, Atropos didn’t think she could handle whatever another cosmic upset would throw at her. 

One Pestilence was enough.

With a practised sigh perfected over aeons, Atropos leaned forward to rest her chin on her hand. “You managed to last almost an entire day before bringing this up, I’m impressed. Maybe that whipped cream is doing something useful after all.” Atropos’ scissors were at once her control and her controller. The metaphorical ball and chain tethered to her since her existence came into being, chaining her not only to Zeus, but to the world. Pestilence, being a rotten root that was never meant to exist in the first place, had no such constraints and could never understand why, at the end of the day, she stayed her course. Centuries of having this conversation with him meant Atropos could predict exactly how she thought it would go. “Where’s the fun in putting the scissors down? Then no one dies, and what’s the point of that? I like letting Ares blast people in exchange for favours.”

Even if she could escape the threads that bound her to this existence, Atropos wasn’t actually sure if she could go through with it. Being Atropos, one of the Moirai, being Atropos, the inevitable, being Atropos, a name that inspired fear even among the Gods, was all she’d ever known. An identity crisis wasn’t a problem she wanted added to her list. 

“Walking in a straight line is so boring. Doesn’t matter if it’s Zeus’ line or your line, it’s still boring. It’s much more fun to dip my toes in every pool, don’t you think? Besides,” Atropos shrugged, draining the last sip of her bitter black coffee, “if you had it your way, there’d be no humans left to experiment on and then what would you do with your miserable existence?”

If Pestilence was a match, then Atropos was the tinderbox. He was constantly striking her, pushing and pushing until the sparks flew into a wildfire of destruction with mortals caught in the crosshairs. The more Atropos chafed at her bonds, the bigger the death toll -- World War Two had been their latest masterpiece, much to the chagrin of her sister. While Atropos searched for loopholes, Clotho had always been a staunch upholder of the balance. Someone had to be, she argued. Someone had to stop Atropos and Pestilence from bringing about the destruction of the world, because it certainly wouldn’t be Zeus. 

They weren’t children any longer. Noah didn’t even feel human anymore. He was a weapon, a tool to be used for the whims of the pack. As a werewolf, he had little control, purposely never taught how to anchor himself so that he could be feral. Feral werewolves were more chaotic, could cause far more damage. 

They planned to use him against his own people, Noah knew. The people that he was once meant to fight alongside, such as Daria, he was now being set to destroy. Noah wasn’t privy to the pack’s innermost thoughts, kept tucked away from their plans, but he knew the gist. There were some – women, mostly, who would come to use him in other ways – that would mock him with their knowledge, ominous in what they would relay but he would be given enough to put the pieces together. 

He had been brought to the shack bound and blindfolded, yet he could feel the tug of this place. This was once home. Daria was once his greatest companion. 

He eyed the bow in her hand, longing for the arrow to puncture what was left of his minced heart. The pack had ripped it from the cavity in his chest with their teeth, chewed it up, and spat it back out.

He hadn’t been given water in nearly a full day, his voice hoarse as he croaked out an explanation, “They – they came back.” Thoughts swimming, he leaned his head back, chains rattling beside him as he jostled. “They want…to seek revenge, I’m sure. On – on the clan.” The clan of werewolf hunters that Daria was undoubtedly within the ranks of. “I don’t know where they went, I swear. They are gone mostly during the day.” 

They were probably holed up in a house somewhere, attempting to be discreet and disguising themselves amongst the rest of the population. Blending in a way that Noah never could. His wrists ached, pulsating with a sharp pain as he lifted up his hands, deliriously begging once more, “You’ve gotta do it before they get back. Please.” He didn’t know what kind of adult Daria had become, but Noah didn’t have to guess that she was a skilled hunter. She always held the code close to her heart, as he once had, and in a way, he was glad to see her one more time. He was entrusting her with this task. She couldn’t see him as a human anymore. They all would have assumed he was dead. Let her see a dead man walking rather than the monster that he was. Let her kill the corpse that had long ago been buried. 

Daria pointing an arrow at the heart of her once best friend felt like both the greatest and the cruellest irony. Children hadn’t been abundant in their community growing up -- especially not after Noah was taken. Daria suspected that Noah’s story was every hunter parents’ worst nightmare realised. Given the scarcity of children even before Noah had ‘died’, however, there had probably been similar cases before. Werewolves were monsters, after all. Killing innocent children as revenge -- or even out of pleasure -- was not beneath them.

It wasn’t beneath Noah now, she supposed. He was now one of them and it would be a kindness to put him down. And she would do that, soon. But Daria had more questions first.

Noah had been almost her sole companion, once. Werewolf hunting wasn’t a job you could put down after five o’clock and say your job was done, and thus neither was training. Long hours were spent helping each other master both theory and practise, memorising codes and rules as well as perfecting their hunting techniques and cultivating the trust that would become crucial for their partnership. 

Losing him had felt like losing an extension of herself, but Daria had survived it. It fuelled the seed of bitterness the clan sowed in her, hardened her heart against sympathy for the devils, and most of all, made Daria stronger. If she could survive being cut in half at such a young age, she could survive anything -- and anyone. Including this Noah. 

Daria studied the wretched boy in front of her with narrowed eyes. Was this a trap? Had his pack known she was coming, and left Noah here for her to find, thinking that because of their history she’d take the bait? If so -- was Noah really that disposable to them that they’d risk Daria shooting him then and there without even giving him a chance to think? It seemed like too complex a plan for a species Daria had been raised to view as feral and unintelligent -- brute force with little aptitude for cleverness. Then again, if this was a set up, it was poorly done and thus could’ve actually been something consistent with her perception of the werewolves. 

It was hard to mistake the genuine plea for death in Noah’s voice, though. And if it was the kind of trap where Noah was to lure her into the shed and either he or his pack kill her, wouldn’t she be dead by now? Daria couldn’t figure how any of this made sense. If it was a trap, Daria would be ready. But for now, she had a job to do. 

Pressing her lips together tightly, Daria tossed Noah her water bottle. If she was going to question him, he at least needed to be able to talk. There was no point to an interrogation if the captive couldn’t speak due to dehydration. 

“Who’s they?” she demanded, “how many are in your pack?” It didn’t surprise Daria that they had revenge plans -- really, that wasn’t news. The hunters had always been brutal, but ever since Noah had disappeared, they had been relentless. You didn’t harm a hunter -- especially not their child without consequence. Daria ignored his pleas. She closed her eyes and ears to the injuries that plagued his body and the sound of the chains scraping with every movement. There was too much to think about without also worrying about the implications of that. “They’ve always wanted revenge -- do you know what we did to the beats after you went missing and we thought you’d been torn to shreds somewhere? If you’re going to talk, at least tell me something useful. If you lie, what they’re doing to you will be the least of your problems.”  

“I was never good at hiding. It’s not like I was out performing or trying to best anyone, I’m just a bit clumsy,” Caspian smiled easily at his own lie. While he had spent a long time training to obtain the stealth he currently had, there was a point in his life when he was more likely to fall off a horse than properly ride one. When scaling a castle wall sounded more like a joke than part of a training regimen. But the less Esa knew the better, no matter how hard it was to keep his lips sealed when he felt the moon glowing through his eyes, and the flowers around him threatening to lift him up into the air.

He knew better than to accept the compliments easily, always wary of them, especially when they came from the enemy. “Most of them are more talented, I’m afraid. And in more impressive things as well. I might as well be the runt of the litter.”

Caspian was not runt, but he was the good little soldier boy. There was no kingship in his future, and with plenty of other brothers to take his place, he was whatever his parents needed him to be. And at that moment that meant he was Esa’s friend. Or at least, companion. They had told him explicitly to keep tabs on her. To watch where she inhabited the most often, to follow her if need be. All of those tasks would be much easier if she invited him along for the ride.

Shrugging in response, Caspian couldn’t help but ask more questions. “Yes, but some gardens are better than others. Some are purposeful, and others are merely fanciful. This one is fanciful. My father wanted to get rid of it and add more stables, but mother is persuasive, and he couldn’t say no if he wanted to.”

At Esa’s own question, he laughed. It was a deep laugh, one that echoed in his gut. “If I had it my way, then I would be getting my hands dirty. But I was yelled at plenty of times as a child for being in the way. I guess eventually I just learned that it was better to admire than actively try and participate. Especially if I only got grief as a side effect.”

Trial and error was an important part of his life. His failures were meant to be lessons, and if he didn’t learn then, well–that had never been an option. Just like now. This was his chance to rise above, and prove himself to be more than just a child playing at being a Spy. Now was the time to show his parents that he could be the perfect son. The perfect liar.

Well, if the match was lit, Esa might as well be the one to drop it. 

She pushed herself away from the wall and into Caspian’s space, breaking the unspoken rule to maintain the distance between them. Distance maintained objectivity, and objectivity led to perspective -- crucial for her ambitions at this castle. But rules existed to be broken -- it was inevitable, with the way he’d been her shadow as of late -- the least she could do was break them on her terms. Tugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Esa circled around Caspian, not unlike how a predator might circle prey, pausing next to him under the pretence of admiring the flowers.

“You? Clumsy? See now, I find that hard to believe,” she laughed, light and airy as if they were just a pretty girl and a pretty boy alone in a garden at midnight. Esa plucked the smallest of the flowers, inhaling its scent before tucking it into her hair and looking up at Caspian. “The smallest always get ignored, people also go for the biggest flowers because they think they smell nicer, or they’re prettier or they’ll last longer. I’ve always liked the smaller ones because they remind me there’s more than what meets the eye. Personally,” she continued, every step towards him as damning as it was innocent, “I haven’t seen much impressiveness in your brothers, except for the number of crude words they can fit into one sentence.” Another step, another exhale. Esa left her fingers to trail in the garden as she spoke, careful to keep just enough space between them. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Prince Caspian, I think you’re more graceful than you look. Are you a dancer? Poet, prince, philosopher, and prancer?”

Do you dance with a sword, or with music?

Esa didn’t know how this palace -- no, fortress -- worked. She didn’t know what instructions Caspian and his siblings had been given, or what, exactly, the terms of her parents’ arrangement with his parents was. She didn’t know if she was tailing Caspian, or if he was tailing her. It certainly worked to Esa’s advantage having such constant access to the prince, but she doubted his motives for sticking close were simple friendship. Nothing was ever so simple in their world. 

“Even gardens have nuance, that’s true,” she agreed, still not actually answering his question, nor moving away from him. It felt less dangerous to stand next to him in the dark, where the half-light of the moon hid as much as it revealed. “I think my favourite type of garden is one that’s beautiful, but not so beautiful I’m too scared to go near it for fear of ruining it. I like a garden I can ride my horse in, or lie on the grass in the sun. When I was a child, I’d spin and spin and spin until I got so dizzy I fell over.” She’d also spar with her trainers until she was too exhausted to lift up her sword anymore. But Caspian didn’t need to know that. 

His laugh tugged at something in her -- for a moment, it felt like the sun had come out and warmed Esa right down to her bones, filling her with daylight instead of the darkness that surrounded them.  It sounded like a laugh she wanted to hear again. It pulled a smile out of Esa that was just as bright and just as real as his laugh had been before she could stop it. It felt foreign, a genuine smile, like a once close friend who was now a stranger. 

"You should just make your own garden,” she laughed, “steal a patch of dirt and say you’ll imprison anybody who dares to take it from you. It’s your castle, after all. Life is boring when everyone else does everything for you, and all you’re allowed to do is sit back and watch.”

Esa refused to be relegated to a life where she had no purpose other than to look pretty, marry and produce heirs. She’d been raised for MORE than that, and she would do anything to make sure she got what she deserved. Even spy for her parents in a foreign court where everyone wanted her dead. There was nothing Esa would not do to make sure she succeeded. 

Chain dug into his skin. Keeping him prisoner. Keeping the monster inside of him at bay. The rest of the pack had gone out, often left him for long periods at a time while they scoped out their newest location. He didn’t know how long they had been gone, hadn’t the foggiest clue of how many days had passed or what time of day it was. No light shone in the shed where he was kept bound. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen the light of day. Werewolves were further empowered by the presence of the moon and as the pack’s ultimate tool, the weapon that they had honed for over a decade, he rarely saw the sun. He had grown in the shadows, more of his life spent amongst werewolves than with his natural born family. Snatched away in the middle of the night when his parents were on a hunt. 

He felt like a stranger in his own body. Bruises and scrapes littered his skin, his healing abilities slow when he lacked the energy to provide his body with the sustenance needed. Some of the wounds were self-inflicted, the results of his thrashing against the wall and floor. His efforts were concentrated toward ending his misery rather than any remaining spark of home. He was but a carcass, an empty shell.

He had become the very thing that he was taught from birth to despise. He could barely remember the past,  but he starkly recalled the way of his life he had once been destined to adopt. The destiny that he was supposed to walk with his childhood friend. 

The same girl – woman, now, her features matured but distinctly the same as the young female he’d known  – that was standing before him. 

He didn’t spare a thought on the implications of her presence. He zoned in on the weapons poised in her hands, cracked lips parting in a raspy plea, “Kill me.”

Once upon a time, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf were friends. Once upon a time, she wasn’t Little Red and he wasn’t the Big Bad Wolf. Once upon a time, they were just children.

That time was long gone. 

Bow raised, aimed, fingers ready to fire -- Daria was poised to do exactly as requested. Kill him. 

But she didn’t do it. At least, she wouldn’t do it yet. It was Daria’s duty to eliminate werewolves, menaces to society that they were, and Daria would not fail in it. But she wouldn’t be dictated to by one, either. Werewolves did not tell Daria Flint what to do. 

Even if they were asking to be killed. Even if they were old childhood friends who should’ve next to Daria not at the end of her crossbow. Even if they were Noah Renshaw. 

Except he wasn’t Noah, not anymore -- it had been drilled into her head since childhood that werewolves were not human. The Noah she knew was dead. When he first disappeared, she’d been told he’d been murdered by werewolves. Looking at him now, chained up, battered and bruised and haunted by shadows, he might as well as have been. 

It was a pitiful sight, but Daria bit down on the rising sympathy. He wasn’t Noah. She could imagine her parents, her trainers and tutors judging her for the weakness. Once someone was a werewolf, no matter what they had meant to you before, they were dead to you now. 

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice hard as flint. Daria still didn’t lower her weapons, but nor did she make any moves to help the clearly dehydrated Noah. Her curiosity had nothing to do with the fact this was Noah, the friend who would’ve been her partner whose loss she had mourned, she told herself, and everything to do with the unusual nature of Noah’s confinement. If he’d been chained up by hunters, Daria would’ve known about it, but she’d never heard of werewolves doing this to one of their own. This was information her crew would surely be interested in. Noah was a werewolf now, she had no interest in his life after his disappearance. None whatsoever. Any memories that were resurfacing, any sympathy that tried to fill her chest, were quickly stamped out. This was purely clinical. 

@adastras

The new millennium was decidedly not treating Pestilence well. He was absolutely bored out of his cranium and now it appeared that Zeus had gone completely mental on them, sending them all to some sort of ‘University Boot Camp.’ A few weeks in and Pestilence had already decided that education was not for him. Whatever this was meant to teach him was bouncing right off the Horsemen. He’d much rather Zeus share whatever shrooms the God was on that convinced him to think that this was a brilliant idea. 

There were some perks, like the endless supply of coffee. One of humanity’s finer inventions. “I’d like that with extra whip cream, please, and go heavy on the milk.Coconut milk, if you’d got it.” The sweeter, the better. If he were a mortal being, his teeth would be rotten by now, and the irony of that was not lost on him. His teeth were a shining white; it was the rest of him that was gaunt, sickly, his stature tall but lanky, the jut of bones sticking out from each direction. 

As he impatiently waited for his drink, he flashed his pearly teeth, impish smile greeting his face with glee as he bounced over to the table in the furthest corner where Atropos was diligently working away. Making a grab for her papers, he crumpled them up in his hand, eyebrows perking upward. “Really, Atropos? You aren’t seriously indulging this nonsense, are you?” He clucked his tongue. “What am I saying, of course you are. Got to continue walking along to the beat of Zeus’ horn, following his beck and call.”

Mortal children of Zeus didn’t live very long, that was a fact. All children of the so-called ‘Big Three’ were generally doomed to short, tragic lives, but Zeus’ most of all. Personally, Atropos thought it was a shame they got to live at all. If she had it her way, they wouldn’t, alas Atropos was bound to uphold the balance, and so her hand was stayed. 

Zeus, apparently, didn’t share her views. 

Nor did he appreciate Atropos sentencing his favourite demigod child to an early demise. Particularly when Atropos had done so to stop Pestilence getting there first. 

                    ( if anyone had been going to end the world, it was this child.                                                                    really, she’d done zeus a favour. )

                                                                            ( also, it served zeus right. )

The result was the present. Stuck pretending to be a first year in university despite being more than a millennia old, forced to endure the infuriating ignorance of mortals along with the equally infuriating Pestilence. His presence was both a comfort and a torment. As much as Atropos wished to blink Pestilence out of existence when he wouldn’t cease bugging her, the glee she felt knowing how much he despised this ‘University Boot Camp’ was stronger. 

Was that petty? Yes.  Did Atropos care? No. 

Whatever she could latch onto to make this experience easier, she would. A shadow fell across her desk, but Atropos didn’t need to hear him speak to know who it was. 

“Ah, Pestilence, predictable as ever.” Atropos leaned back in her chair, unperturbed by Pestilence’s destruction of her work. She imagined her history professor would have wanted to do the same thing, anyway. Apparently saying she’d been present at the Trojan War was amount to blasphemy and seen as mocking. She plucked the ball of paper out of his hand, tossing it back at his head. “Throwing around accusations as solid as this piece of paper. All that whipped cream is eroding what little’s left of your brain, it seems. If it won’t strain your poor eyes too much, why don’t you read it and then see if you think I’m walking to the beat of Zeus’ horn?”

“You don’t make being a middle sibling sound so horrible, you know. Although, I guess with enough children, everyone sort of disappears after a while. Especially when the eldest are pawned off for lessons on how to act their part.” Esa talking about her home made his stomach twist. Would she ever walk those secret passageways again? Would those passageways even exist? With the world on the brink of war, it felt just as unlikely that her secrets that remain as the garden they were sitting in would make it out unscathed. Caspian made it a point to picture the world devestated, and he used that to fuel him to continue his parents plans.

They told him it would stop the world from burning, and while the woman in front of him had the deepest brown eyes he had ever seen–he had a job to do. He never even really meant to be as disarming as he was, and Caspian supposed that was why he was the perfect spy. Innocence was on his side, and ignorance played loops around his head. No one would ever suspect the flower loving prince who would rather go horseback riding than fight with a sword.

“No one else here appreciates it, so I might as well. Otherwise, what’s the point of beauty? Is it actually beautiful at all if no one recognizes it as such?” He breathed in the night air, wondering why he had never felt more awake as he had at that moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline, aware of the future and what it had in store for both of them, or maybe it was just Esa. Maybe he simply liked being referred to as something distinct and all his own. A poet.

Caspian began walking, pacing near Esa, the moon shining down and revealing that they were real. That everything that was happening was real. Inevitable. He should have stayed further away from the Princess, but when people become ghosts, they cry out to their nearest soul, and beg to be heard. Caspian wasn’t yet a ghost, but spies were no better than poltergeists. “Do you have a garden like this in your castle?”

The question was innocent, curious–very Caspian. But he knew that asking about her home could be taken in many different ways, so he attempted to sound as casual as possible, to alert Esa to his good intentions, instead of the paranoia that followed them.

Far in the distant past, when the idea of a feud was as preposterous as the existence of dragons, their families had been friends. Each ruled a kingdom prosperous in its own right. Side by side, there had been peace for centuries. One of those Kingdom's was Esa's. The other was Caspian's. But their neighbours had always been jealous, so the story went. So jealous, in fact, that they stole something. Something so important that it coated them in gasoline, just waiting for the flames to engulf them all whole. 

That was why Esa was here, her parents said. It was what they trained her for. To stop the gasoline being lit, and if she couldn’t stop it, then light it herself. Power was a more valuable currency than money, and holding the match? That was the ultimate power of them all. 

Caspian closing the distance she’d placed between them felt very much like a match being lit. 

“When you’re the middle child, it’s either eat or be eaten. The youngest are too angelic for anyone to believe they’re troublemakers, and the eldest too powerful -- the middle child makes the perfect scapegoat. But you can’t be a scapegoat if they can’t find you, so I learnt to hide.” Esa gave a nonchalant shrug, but her eyes tracked Caspian’s every movement. Moonlight dusted his face with a silvery hue, illuminating him against the dark backdrop of the night. It made him look younger, she thought, softer. One might almost forget he was part of the most dangerous family alive in this light, especially when he wasn’t wearing his crown. In this light, he looked more like an angel. 

“A poet, a prince and a philosopher. I’m starting to think there’s nothing you can’t do. Are all the Ainsworth royal family this talented, or are you special?” Were his siblings more the warrior types, threats to keep tabs on, or were they more like Caspian, seemingly more interested in the flowers than bloodshed? Of course, Esa knew better than to assume Caspian wasn’t a physical threat before she’d seen his abilities ( note to self -- watch Caspian train and/or engage him in a sword fight at some point ). But for now, he wasn’t ranked particularly high on her threat list. From the way his eldest brother spat at her, and the other leered, Esa suspected they were more of the former type. At least Caspian had the dignity to pretend to be polite. 

“Doesn’t every castle have a garden? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one without at least some form of a garden.” They did, in fact, have many gardens. Few were rarely decorative, though, and most either served as the source for the apothecary, or held a defensive purpose. Decorative held little value when you’d grown up preparing for a war. Caspian didn’t need to know that, though.  Esa leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile ghosting her lips. “Don’t tell me -- gardening is another hidden talent of yours.”

“You know, there is a difference. I grew up in these gardens, you’re a visitor.” A stranger. Different. Caspian was on his home terf. Everyone there knew him, and while many ignored him, something he didn’t mind, they still knew that he was a part of the royal family. Esa was a foreigner, a Princess straight from the mouth of their enemy. Wandering alone at night was dangerous, and somehow he knew that she never supposed her biggest enemy was standing right in front of her, with soft hands, and a soft heart that tucket itself away behind barbed wire.

Caspian turned his head towards her, admiring the way in which her dress flowed, as if she too was a part of the scenery, an integral part of the garden. He knew he couldn’t trust her, that her petals were not soft, but sharp, and yet he wanted to reach out and pluck just one. And maybe he’d even keep it for himself, hoard it greedily, and pretend for just a moment that there was no brewing storm, no years of preparation, no layer upon layer of lies.

“I can leave, if you’d like.” She would’ve been better off without him there. Safer, at the very least. Caspain could feel the knives around his body. Two around his chest, one on each ankle, and another hidden under his sleeve. If there was someone she should’ve been alone with, it shouldn’t have been him. He could already hear the scolding from his parents as he told them, yet again, that no assassination had been carried out. That the tensions were too high, and her death would not result in their victory. The pair of them were are the presipice of disaster, and one knick of a knife and it was over.

Their balancing act could topple from a small ocean breeze, or even a blooming flower. “I used to spend a lot of time out here as a child. My elder siblings were always studying, but I got away with far more than they did. So I’d run off here, and the gardeners would be picking at the dead flowers, pulling at the weeds, and I’d watch. I’d watch them rip their broken roots from the ground and be replaced with something better, something healthier.”

Had Esa been an ordinary Princess, Caspian would’ve had a point. Had she been like her siblings, raised to rely on guard protection, not learning to look for the lie and the danger and trained to keep knives under sleeves, Caspian would’ve been right. A foreign princess, from a foreign court that was engaged in subterfuge and passive-aggressive war with her hosts, was a recipe for disaster. The fly in the fly trap, mouse in the lion's den. If anyone knew what Esa was really like, no one would dare approach her. But they didn’t, and they couldn’t, because to know would be to undo everything and she knew this but it still took everything she had not to snort.

Instead, she smoothed down her dress, fixed the ribbon in her hair and offered him an amused smile. “I suppose that’s fair,” she replied without a trace of irony, as if her billowing pink skirts didn’t conceal multiple knives and the pin in her hair didn’t have a poison tip and as if she wasn’t incapable of choking someone with the same ribbon she’d just fixed. “It’d be a bit hard to fight someone off in all these skirts. Good thing you’re here to protect me, no?” Esa’s smile turned Cheshire. “If you ever come to my court, I’ll be sure to return the favour.” 

It felt dangerous to be here with him. Esa knew her parents were impatient for results, but the only sibling who was even a little bit approachable was Caspian. It was too easy to be comfortable with Caspian, and comfortable meant distracted. She wasn’t here to make friends, to sit in gardens at midnight with the son of her enemy, flashing him smiles and relishing in the warmth of having someone’s undivided attention on her. The Mareshes were not going to win because Esa was comfortable. 

Perks of being the youngest. I, however,” Esa pushed herself off the seat, putting distance between them with every step. It felt wrong, to sit next to him like a friend when she was using him for information on his siblings. Esa trailed her fingers through the vines on the walls, admiring how the flowers hid the thorns which hid the wall. That’s what she was -- flowers hiding thorns hiding a wall, layers upon layers of lies. A tangle of deception, where one wrong move could bring it all crashing down. “had the misfortune of being the middle child. I spent most of my time bribing my siblings into covering for me, and if that didn’t work I kept everyone on a merry chase around the Castle until lessons were over anyway by the time they managed to find me. Secret passageways are such useful escape routes. There was this abandoned tower I loved to go to -- half the stairs had rotted away from disuse and honestly hardly anyone even remembered it was there. You had a perfect view of the stars from there. My tutors tried to make me do extra homework to make up for what I missed, but I rarely did.” There were other forms of education she preferred to focus on.  

She leaned back against the wall, eyeing the boy in front of her. How was it that he could sit here, talking about flowers and beauty while his parents surely plotted her demise? While the Crown Prince, Caspian’s brother, glared at her every time she walked past? Caspian probably couldn’t give her the information she needed, but an asset was an asset, and maybe he could help her get it. At least, she imagined he was far less likely to run his sword through her if he caught her wandering parts of the castle she had no right to be in. “You sound like a poet, Prince Caspian. I wouldn’t have pegged you as an appreciator of beauty.”

James leaned into the brief embrace, melting easily into Ada’s waves of affection. He always was both honored and humbled by the warmth that radiated from her in spades. Ada was selective about those that she let get close to her, and he considered himself infinitely fortunate that he had won a spot in her better graces early in his childhood. He couldn’t imagine walking down the path of life without her at his side, through all the bumps and shadowy corners. Throughout it all, even when he fell flat on his face and scraped his knees, she was there with a helping hand and comforting shoulder. Her friendship, her presence, was invaluable to him. And he knew that her time wasn’t easy to come by, and the fact that she, without fail, made sure to fulfill every promise to him and Aaron made his heart swell. 

“He is. He’s been at that for about two weeks, I believe. Adventurous, that one. In a way that reminds me of us when we were young. Only we had each other to goad one another on and were twice the trouble. I imagine it won’t be too much longer though. He has his first sleepover this weekend at a friend’s place. I have yet to determine whether or not this friend is a positive, negative, or Ada-ive influence.” He coined the fake term playfully. “An Ada-ive influence, if you haven’t heard of it, is an entirely different experience all together, see. It’s one that is entirely life-alternating.  I figure I’ll know when he’s found the one the first time that I’m called up to his school to go to the office.” They’d always seemed to be a mismatched pair, James and Ada, and the more they aged, the moree second glances they got from strangers on the street. 

While she was standing beside him, back straight, heels tall, and every hair in place, he was there in a disheveled flannel shirt, faded jeans, his hair askew in each direction. What they had in common wasn’t a lifestyle. Their bond was cemented instead by their kindred spirits, by their minds that illuminated one another’s. 

Aaron ran up to them in a flash, lanky arms wrapping about Ada’s waist in a flurry of excitement. “Ada, Ada, did you see what I could do?” His face was flushed from exertion, alight with joy and his teeth flashing bright, showing off the gaps in his mouth from his latest lost tooth. Aaron was growing up fast. They all said that it happened quickly, that before he knew it his son would be grown, but it was still hard to fathom that Aaron was already going to school and each day he could see his son’s independence growing. He no longer needed his father to tie his shoes or to remind him to zip his jacket before they went out. 

“Dad, can we go to that cafe across the street later? I want some coffee!” Aaron chirped, James nodding to the request. “In a little bit.” He flattened a hand over Aaron’s own messy mop of dark strands. “But how about you stick to hot chocolate for a few more years, huh? Next thing I know you’ll be telling me that you want to read more out of the paper than just the Funnies section.” Once he threw another grin at the two adults, Aaron scampered back to the playground to hop on the swings. 

He tilted his head toward Ada. “You got any exciting plans this weekend or is your caseload going to keep you pretty occupied? I thought maybe we could catch Daniel Day-Lewis’ last film, since Aaron will be out of the house?”

It was a mistake many made, to assume Ada was cold. An easy one to make, but incorrect nevertheless. It was true that Ada was somewhat lacking in the friends department. At work, her colleagues were just that -- colleagues. Perpetually kept at arms different, to them the ambitious woman was a mystery wrapped in professionalism wrapped in black, tied off with a healthy layer of intimidating. She didn’t ask them out for drinks, never inquired about their personal lives, never offered any details of her own, cared little about office gossip, and, above all, oozed intelligence. They say the sound of heels clicking on the floor as you walk sounds like power, and no one disputed that that was true for Ada. She could run circles around them ten times over with barely any effort, and they knew it. It was easy to see why they would assume Ada was cold.

But she’d been raised in warmth. From a ( younger ) twin brother whom she adored, to parents who doted on her as well as each other, there had been no shortage of love in her family. There was light, there was laughter, there was affection, and warmth. Ada just didn’t see the need to extend this warmth to the majority of the world. It was a lesson she’d learnt very quickly as a child -- there were very, very few people who could keep pace with her, and she would never, ever lower herself to the level of those who could not. Ada had too much respect for herself and for her intelligence to soothe the egos of those around her by pretending she wasn’t smarter than all of them combined.

James was the exception. As little children, he’d been the only one who did not have to sprint to keep pace with her walk. Messy, mischievous, plaid-wearing and dirt-smudged, James was anything but Ada’s type. Yet, here they were, over a decade later as close as they ever were. She indulged in the warmth of his affection, relished in the brightness of his mind and, above all, took comfort in knowing that whatever happened, he would always be standing there beside her. 

“It’s karma, you know,” she said solemnly, with only the barest hints of mischief on her lips. “You’re predestined to go through all the headaches your parents had to suffer because of you with this one.” Ada inclined her head in Aaron’s direction. “Oh, how the tables have turned. I would apologise for being part of the reason you were so much trouble, however, as far as anyone knows it was you who was the troublemaker, not me.” Ada turned back to James, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck as she raised an eyebrow at her best friend. “Ada-ive influence? Sounds rather wonderful to me. You’ll have to keep me updated on this development. I’d be curious to see if he can beat our visits to the headmaster record or not.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Ada thought with a smile as Aaron finally realised she’d arrived. Full speed ahead, he barreled into her, all enthusiasm and energy and mischief. Aaron reminded Ada a lot of James when he was that age -- a thought that prepared her for future trouble --, and she ran her fingers affectionately through his equally unruly hair much the same way she did with James’s. “I did see,” she laughed, unable to help the swell of pride at how he was growing up, “you’re certainly a clever one, just like your Dad.”

It was hard to believe he was already seven years old -- seven years since James and Ada themselves had been teenagers, since James found out he was going to be a father when he was little more than a child himself. The thought of the next seven years going this quickly was frankly a little terrifying. “Coffee already?” Ada quirked a brow, watching Aaron scamper back to the playground. “Trouble has a habit of starting early in the Potter boys,” she teased, nudging James’ shoulder with her own. 

“Which movie, the Phantom Thread?” Ada paused to mentally run through her timetable for the weekend -- she was meticulous to a fault when it came to time management ( “workaholic”, her only other best friend, Gisele, had a habit of calling her ). It was a busy case, and delegating wasn’t Ada’s speciality, but she always tried to make time for James. Especially when it was sans-Aaron. As much as she loved the little boy and cherished her time with him, she did love having James all to herself sometimes, too.

“It’s a date, I’ll even pencil you in the diary.” While this was said with a teasing smile, Ada did mean it. When something was pencilled in the diary, it was locked in and only something catastrophic could have it moved. It was her way of staying organised and also ensuring she had a life outside of work. While her mind protested when forced to put a case to rest, however temporarily, Ada knew there were times when work needed to be left at work. Like when she saw James and Aaron. Being so busy she didn’t get to see either of them as often as she liked, but when she did, Ada wanted to focus on them, not work. 

@aliferovs

“Ada is going to be there, right?” 

“For the fifth time, I promise she’s going to join us,” James assured his seven-year-old. "And when has Ada ever let you down before, huh?” A hum was Aaron’s response, apparently satisfied with his father’s answer. “Now keep ahold of my hand.” He resituated his grip on Aaron as they crossed the street to the neighborhood park. Aaron, of course, knew that he could rely on Ada to stick true to her word. James, too, knew better than anyone just how dependable his best friend was. Without her, after all, James was not sure how he would have survived their school years, let alone his first years as a stumbling teenage parent. Ada had been there every step of the way, and James had attempted to do what he could to return the favor. 

He could remember them being Aaron’s age, two curious children who had a penchant for exploring and a hankering for mischief. He could also vividly recall how he was the one that always wound up taking the brunt of any punishment as Ada was nothing if not clever and she knew even back then how to talk her way out of something. Typically at the expense of James, but there were times where she would graciously swoop in and save him from a sure punishment. 

He didn’t share any of these memories with Aaron, not wanting him to get any bright ideas that would inspire and embolden his own adventures. James did not want another horrid glue incident. 

Today, he expected a healthy dose of fun and excitement that came with the promise of ice cream to reward good behavior. The outings with the three of them were a regular occurrence, something that James was grateful for as the years went by and Ada didn’t even seem to flinch before making time for them despite her ambitious, busy schedule. 

Aaron adored the blonde as much as James did, and appreciated her all the same. She had been a staple, prominent figure in Aaron’s life and James would never be able to repay her for her constant assurance and assistance that had empowered him to have the confidence to embark in the world of parenting at such a young age. James considered himself fortunate. Including Ada, he was surrounded by many individuals who had helped him. In a lot of ways, he didn’t feel like a single parent and Aaron he had never believed that Aaron was lacking anything in his life. 

When they stepped into the playground, James took a seat on the bench and bent down to retie Aaron’s shoes before ruffling his hair. “You can go ahead and jump on the swings if you want to while we wait for Ada to get here.” 

Aaron seemed to consider his options before puffing out his chest. “I’m going to go practice on the monkey bars! I want to show Ada how good I got at them!” 

With a rumble of laughter, James watched Aaron rush over to the jungle gym, pride gleaming in his eyes. 

In all the versions of the life plan Ada created in her youth, a child was never part of any of them. James was a constant, of course. Having been her best friend and loving scapegoat for as long as Ada could remember, a life plan without him was, of course, unfathomable. While they were no longer children getting into mischief with Ada placing the blame squarely on James ( it was far easier for adults to believe James, troublemaker extraordinaire, was the culprit as opposed to pristine, eloquent Ada who spent her time engaging in books and materials and discussions no child her age should understand ), he was still her partner in crime. Still her best friend, still the warmest, kindest person she’d ever met, still the person she felt most like herself around. He would always be part of her future.

Aaron, however, had never been part of that plan. For all the ways Ada imagined her life going, she never expected it would involve a child. At least, not at such a young age. Shock though it was when James told her he was going to be a father before he’d even finished high school, there was no doubt that Aaron was a surprise Ada would cherish. Though Aaron wasn’t her son, not being in his life was as absurd as not being in James’ life. At first, it was just offering support and comfort to James, as every person did when their best friend found themselves in a crisis. Then Aaron had been born, all pink and soft and louder than anything Ada was used to, and he became a fixed part of her future. Ada couldn’t imagine a life without him any more than she could imagine life without James. Someone had to make sure the poor boy didn’t grow up wearing plaid.

Precisely five minutes before she was due to arrive, Ada paused at the park entrance, brushing a few stray leaves off her dark coat. She was early, of course – late was not in Ada’s vocabulary, not unless she was making a point. Disappointing Aaron by being late ( even a few minutes to a seven-year-old seemed to feel like a hundred years ) was not how she wanted to start her day. Still, she didn’t make her presence known just yet. Watching Aaron dangle precariously from the monkey bars, yelling for James to watch his new trick, Ada felt the pride that she knew was written all over her best friends’ face. Except her pride wasn’t just for Aaron, but also for James. He’d been a kid himself when Aaron was born, scared and unsteady. Now Ada watched him, laughter in his chest and pride in his eyes, standing tall and steady like he was born to this. He was still learning – they both were – but he’d come so far from the stumbling teen, and Ada didn’t think Aaron could’ve asked for a better childhood. A fond smile touched her face.

The leaves crunched beneath her feet as she came to stand next to James, greeting him with her customary hug and kiss on the cheek. These outings with James and Aaron were her favourites. As much as she enjoyed being at work, Ada had to admit she loved spending time with her boys more – hence why she always did her best to make sure she could come, including keeping all of her Saturday mornings free for their traditional weekly dates. Aaron was family to Ada, and she didn’t take the honour of being in his life lightly.

She gestured to Aaron, still hanging upside down on the monkey bars. “He’s truly fearless on those things, isn’t he?” she said, observing the boy who hadn’t yet realised she was here with a mixture of fondness and amusement. “How long’s he been practising that one for?”

“Maybe,” Caspian said, a smile casually falling onto his lips as his head turned towards the moonlight. Anything to avoid looking at Esa. To see her mocking features, and the way her face seemed softer at night. Softer and more dangerous.

Seeing her as anything more than the enemy was the biggest crime he could remember committing. Every day felt like another prison sentence, another moment when he had to control himself–confined to his own caged mind. Thinking for himself has never created anything but pain and confusion, and now was not the time to turn his back on his family. But God was it so tempting. To just turn around and look her straight in the eye and tell her that he didn’t think she was some spawned demon sent to destroy his family. To tell her that every time she laughed he felt like flying. That every word she spoke felt like some song his heart had been begging to hear played on repeat for an eternity.

No, night was perfect because night, even in the moonlight, hid the obvious. If the sun was shining at this very moment it would have showed off a conflicted boy with too much responsibility in his hands, and a crooked crown choking him. Digging into his skin.

What had life even been like before Esa arrived? Had he been happy in his own mediocrity? His siblings had all excelled at something. The eldest being groomed to be king, the others being perfect ladies, and lords. And Caspian has been an attentive student. His manners were perfect, his bow exquisite, and still he had never been enough. Just another name to remember. Until that moment when his father placed a hand on his shoulder and told him he had a duty to perform. A task he had trusted none of his other children with. Spy.

“Isn’t it dangerous for a Princess to be wandering around at night alone?”

“Isn’t it dangerous for a Prince to be wandering around at night alone?” she imitated, a mocking yet amused lilt colouring her tone as she tipped her head back to follow his gaze. 

It didn’t bother Esa to wander a foreign place on her own in the middle of the night. Partially because she was fairly sure no one expected the royal Princess who was fond of shades of pink and kittens to be both armed with weapons and be trained as a weapon. She supposed her parents’ logic was that a war of some kind was inevitable, and they’d thrown her in the thick of it so she ought to be able to defend herself. Or, at least, avoid getting killed. It was the closest thing to affection she had received from them. Even Esa’s elder sister, the Crown Princess, didn’t receive much in the way of personal attention -- judging by the insights she’d gathered from her time here at Caspian’s palace, his parents seemed the same. Maybe it was a royalty thing. Not that she minded -- the freedom it gave was valuable, but there was something nice, too, from having someone who actually listens when you speak. 

Even if Caspian probably offered himself as her companion out of a sense of politeness or duty. 

Still, it was nice in this garden, in the moonlight and the darkness with the stillness and the quiet. It was nice finding a space she didn’t feel like she had to be more than what she was. it was a dangerous feeling, to be comfortable. Particularly when the person who made you feel so comfortable was the son of the enemy you were supposed to be figuring out how to detroy. But it wasn’t one Esa was willing to give up -- whatever her parents’ voice in her head might be saying. She did have secrets to hide and a duty to perform, after all -- Esa’s awareness of this coated every action, every word spoken. But couldn’t she, just for a moment, pretend she didn’t?

“Besides,” Esa leaned back on her hands so she might better study the boy next to her,  “I’m not alone, I’m with you.”

There was something unnerving about having a stranger living so near. There was even something more unnerving about wanting to make that person something more than just another ghost passing through the shadows of the too large castle. Caspian saw more wisps of humanity than he was sure anyone else ever had. Each servant who moved as if never touching the ground, and every dignitary who seemed to float above the clouds, untouchable in every way imaginable. That was the thing about being a spare son. He was largely invisible to most people, save his siblings, who they themselves had the bad habit of either giving him too much attention or none at all. Perhaps it was luck then that Caspian had a quiet sort of disposition that lent him towards the study of being the very thing he witnessed the most. A ghost.

And he had been a poltergeist to many a meeting until Esa. He knew who she was, it would be impossible to be that ignorant. Their family even had a meeting, and he had been given specific instructions to stay near the daughter of the family they were on the verge of war with. Her staying was a kind of treaty, a hastily patched together one, but at least, for the time being, it meant peace.

Caspian knew no peace while Esa was in the castle. At first he had found her to be too loud, too outgoing. Too much. But there were times, when he saw her ride a horse, or found her painting out on a balcony–when she was quiet, that was when he realized just how similar they could be. Being quiet, in this very moment, had worked towards her advantage. His head spun around at her teasing words, and he willed himself to remember the mission. To remember the job. His family was the important thing here, and no matter what he had realized. 

“Everything feels more alive at night,” Caspian replied smoothly, trying to contain anything that might give away what he had been just contemplating moments before. “Although, I could just say right back at you.”

It would be easy, she thought, to let the threads unravel. To let the web so very carefully constructed just collapse. To buy into her own ruse. The cobbled stones were cool beneath her bare feet as she ghosted through the garden, letting her fingers tangle in the thick vines adorning the wall. It would be so easy to just sit, to close her eyes and lean her head back like silence had a scent and she couldn't get enough of it. Caspian could be a curiosity instead of a threat, there wouldn't be three knives hidden in her dress and their families' feud wouldn't exist in the sanctuary of this courtyard. Esa wouldn't be a housecat with a target on her back in a lair full of mountain lions. Her fingers snagged on a criss cross of green, the vines so intertwined and tangled after centuries of being left to their own devices that there was no hope of ever separating the strands. A wry smile twisted her mouth, a flash of bitter amusement so brief it was barely there at all as she extracted her hand. The vines, she thought, reminded her of the threads. They even left cuts.

But while she could extract her hand from the vines, she couldn't extract herself from the mission.

Esa's presence here, with the nefarious villains from her parents' nightmares, served a purpose and it wasn't peace. Esa was not here to forge an alliance, her duty was not to unite the families through marriage or bribery or anything else. Peace was what she claimed, but leverage was what she wanted. Something to give her family, the Royal House Maresh, an advantage in the seemingly inevitable war -- or a way to prevent the Ainsworth royals from ever being a threat again. The threads binding this ruse were like the vines -- more bramble than lush, too stubborn to die but not enough air to live, either. A tangled snare that trapped anything foolish enough to get too close. The hatred that burned between the two families, nurtured and cared for and soothed in the cavities of their chests was that knot. Allowed to flourish since too many generations past, this little act of peace was merely a lie. It was a heavy mantle to wear. But Esa had been taught to lie before she'd been taught to walk, and she'd always been good at playing a part. And it wasn't the family failure.

So she smiled, lighter, genuine seeming, softer. Like she was just a girl all alone in a foreign court and Caspian was just the pretty boy about her own age. Not a fully trained spy with more secrets than truths and several knives hidden on her person who chose Caspian because he seemed the most approachable and malleable of all of his siblings. Those who went unseen always saw more than what was seen of them. Esa, herself, hadn't learnt his kind of quiet. She had never been content to be part of the background, always carving out a space for herself whether it was wanted or not. Plus, she found, people tended not to look too closely when they thought they were seeing everything.

"Does that include you, Prince Caspian?” She tilted her head to consider him, smile still playing on her lips as she claimed the space next to him, just like she claimed his attention. Esa never had been one to ask before taking. “Are you more alive at night?”

In the extensive repertoire of threatening skills she had amassed over the two decades of her lifetime, Gisèle Rousseau had yet to add road rage to the list, but she did get closer to the transgression on this one drive down to Dublin Airport and it wasn’t even her fault. Few things warranted such haste, she was well aware, but, well, Ada — Ada was coming home, and speeding was simply too trivial to care about when her best friend – nay, her sister – was just a few short minutes away from being right there, next to her, in the passenger seat, blasting some truly god-awful pop music that few besides the two of them were even aware they liked.

The entire conundrum depended on just one fact: of the literal handful of people she could actually admit to loving, Adelaide Asteria Greengrass had always come first and foremost. To have been rent apart from a relationship that was based on proximity as much as similarity might prove ultimately beneficial, and they had both discussed that possibility at length for the past year, but it also proved harrowing from the get-go. No matter how much they skyped or how many new people they met – brilliant, fascinating people, even though she was still in disbelief that one of them was fucking Cassius – there was just a perpetual hollow left in her side. The brief interaction at Christmas, cut short by family engagements, had not helped in the least. Gisèle was just bluer without her best friend by her side, more prone to the spells of dark, melancholic repose that manifested most often as sitting by the window in the dark and watching the rain for hours on end. They may have united to form a fearsome duo, but as individuals, each played the golden sun to the other’s raging thunderstorm. She, for one, was positively breathless at the thought of seeing her better half.

So much so that her parking was a great deal smoother than it ordinarily might have been, her gleaming onyx behemoth of a car slotting neatly between two SUVs on the first try, and she glared viciously at a remarkable total of just one family blocking her path before she was in the waiting area, having forced her way into the perfect vantage point to view both the flight schedule and the arrivals entrance.

And right there, in glaring neon yellow, were the best words she had ever read: arrived 16:16. Right on time. A quick glance at her mobile phone showed that the current time was half past four. If she knew anything about her best friend and the hilarious lack of patience for idiocy she had, Gisèle thought that she would out — right about now. With absolutely no warning, right as she looked up from returning her mobile phone to her jeans pocket, a flurry of blonde blurred her vision and she had just enough time to throw her arms wide before a body tackled her with all the force of the past seven months combined to power one single embrace. It was awhile after that before she could let go, content simply to stand there, in the middle of the crowd, swaying just a little in the perfection of the moment and getting embarrassingly emotional just at having the most familiar scent in the world engulfing her again as she tucked her face against the shorter girl’s shoulder. When Gisèle finally stepped back, it was with an involuntary happy little sigh.

“Welcome home.”

Ada had blood family, two parents and a brother more distant than the stars, and she had a chosen family, tucked safely into her heart never to be let go. At least, not without a fight. They were the ones she loved with not just her heart, but also her mind — like Tobias and Cassius. Though, she’d deny the latter if pressed. Gisèle, however, was a category all in her own. Not just a best friend, not just a sister. Gisèle touched Ada in a way that was hard for Ada’s rational, logic hardwired brain to explain. She was a piece of Ada, a part of her soul, and her absence was one Ada felt keenly. Growing up, all Ada and Gisèle had really had was each other, making the intolerable tolerable. Not having her with her, in one of the most important milestones of their lives, was like someone had carved a hollow inside of her and no matter how much Ada cared about and treasured her friends in Italy, they couldn't fill that hole.

Having Gisèle back made Ada feel like she could breathe again. Instantly she relaxed into the embrace, her hands wound their way into Gisèle’s familiar tresses as she sighed contentedly against her best friend’s shoulder. Even just her scent made Ada feel all warm and fuzzy. God, she had missed this so much. There was no one who made Ada feel as safe or as loved or as understood as Gisèle. There was no doubt that with Tobias, Ada felt special and adored and content, and with Cassius she felt challenged and heard, but Gisèle was something else. It was a relationship sacred beyond words.

“It’s so good to be home. I missed you -- your hair smells divine, did you switch shampoos?” Ada pulled back, face alight with unbridled fondness. She had missed this face. They spent so much of the year apart, only to be reunited for the briefest of periods during the year. Ada didn’t know if short but sweet visits made the separation easier or harder -- it certainly didn’t lessen the physical ache Ada felt when they were apart. But even if it was worse, taunting themselves with these brief visits here and there that left them both feeling bittersweet, Ada wouldn’t give them up for the world. It was better than not seeing her at all. Plus, frequent visits to Gisèle meant she had more time to investigate this boy of Gisèle’s  -- him occasionally crashing their skype dates didn’t count. There was nothing but the best for her favourite human, after all.

The joy was short lived, however, as a passing couple’s bag whacked Ada in the back of her head. Ada shot them a disgusted look. Humans. “As much as I love hugging you, though, this airport is not where I intended to spend my holiday with you. Too many peasants with fashion tastes they should be ashamed of. Shall we?”