To Kingdom Come

A frog nearby surveyed her with what she deemed a dubious (if walleyed) expression, and Suvi made a face at it, before apologetically inclining her head, selecting the loose lily pad from the water’s surface to plop onto her head.

“I had to have a hat to tip to you,” the swan maiden said contritely, and did so. The bullfrog repaid her by flipping off its own perch and vanishing into the water, swimming away with rippling legs. Suvi snorted and twisted her hair out of her face entirely, making her way to the shore and hauling herself up.

She got dressed in the early rays of day, admiring the way the gold glanced off the water and gilded it; shaping sunlight in arrows and shields. She dawdled, trailing her feet in the gentle current, nibbling the handful of granola and the apple she’d packed for her breakfast by the estuary. 

It was her place of peace; of reflection. It was hers, she’d made sure–save her and the occasional frog, no spirit came here, no fey had claimed it, and she’d left stone offerings in the forms of tiny temples and dedications by the riverside just in case an old god wandered home from his or her (”or their!”) amblings in the wilds. 

It was here she felt safest, and here she swam away her problems, shook the water and woes from her feathers, and conjured inspiration from the Monet landscape to translate to fabric and art–

Thus he’d lit a single candle, and, in his own way, begun to pray. Or at least reflect. Was it not all the same? Was it reflection; without humanity? Did only man make it prayer to a visage of himself in the sky? Taniel wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to be sure, not of anything, not at the moment. He could only be certain that he didn’t want to be certain. All he wanted to do was disappear for a while, but not be forgotten.

It was...complicated.

He sucked in a breath that tasted of dust and decay in the back of his throat as Reilly settled a hand on his back, sliding out of the bedcovers to join him by the window. The stars were fading blearily into violet skies that tinted pink with the approach of dawn, and the world was awash in a vague indigo dye that made everything seem colder; more distant than it actually was.

“Are you hungry?” The inventor asked the city drowsily, rubbing an eye with his free hand. The man who was once walls and nothing more let down his invisible defenses just enough to extend an olive branch in the form of olive fingers curling around Reilly’s own without turning from the dripping wax and dripping dawn.

“...In a little while,” Taniel responded vaguely, pulling Reilly’s hand up to his lips and then his brow before letting it go entirely. “Perhaps I will be.”

“...I’ll draw something up,” Jonathon said, shifting the sheets aside and beginning to pad off into the dark. The smoke of the candle trailed after him, becoming an echo of Taniel’s eagerness, twisting itself in feline frenzy around Jon as he went. Taniel shut his eyes, and bowed his head over the heat of the candleflame, covering his face.

“I’m tired,” said the bricks and mortar that were his bones. “I’m hungry,” added his aching head and empty heart. 

He huddled by the fire until Reilly came to spark something else in him, his collection of souls that made one spirit singing under his skin.

“I would,” Prospero said stoically, flicking the polish brush meticulously in one last arc across Angel’s middle finger before putting it back in the bottle (called “Cupid’s Kiss”, of all the stupid things, in her opinion--from what Prospero had read of cupids, they were either fat little cherubs the color of pulled taffy OR morose, funereal-looking men who were black and silver and bronze. Not a single red hue to be found.). “But then I might lose my concentration. You know I am all about my focus, my lady queen.” Angel’s lips flinched at that, nearing a smile, and the monarch hummed, sprawling a bit more in Prospero’s lap. The knight dutifully shifted to accommodate her, brows furrowing as she blew on Angel’s nails.

“After this,” said Angel idly, “we should probably pay that school a visit again. Make sure everything’s set up alright for--” she caught Prospero’s disapproving stare and lifted a brow. “Oh, come now, Schmendrik isn’t all bad. He’s funny, and he takes note of my superiority. What’s not to like?”

“That man is a big-nosed daydreamer who lives in a world of fairytales and spun sugar,” said Prospero bluntly. Angel snorted, covering her mouth with a hand that Prospero quickly redirected to avoid smudging. “It’s the truth.”

“It’s A truth,” Angel admitted, her grin devious. “An opinionated truth. I like him. He’s alright. However,” she added with a languishing sigh, “after that, we should stop by that Flynn Rider’s house. Give him a good talking to. He’s been far too quiet lately, I don’t like it. Means he’s up to something, no doubt.” Prospero opened her mouth, still holding Angel’s hand, and found herself cut off by an impatient, “and by talk to him, I mean string him upside-down and take off his toenails one at a time, or you challenge him to a horrifically outmatched duel. Just so we’re clear.” Prospero hid a smile against the hand she kissed before returning to Angel, nodding once.

“As clear as your voice, your majesty.”

Waddles paid her no heed, snorting and snuffling around in the trees. Pursing her lips, Mabel debated her options--the makeshift trail Waddles had woven through the dense brush was waning and thinning. It was getting darker and more difficult to maneuver, and she really didn’t have time for this. Well, she did, but she didn’t. There was always time for adventures, but she was supposed to be seeing whether or not she could knit Jackie a tiny bird sweater to match her own. With the rainbow on it and everything. Waddles had really thrown a wrench in the works by deciding to try a new game of hide-and-pig. Pighunt? Pighunt. That one definitely sounded better.

Sighing to herself was she paused to mark yet another tree with a triangle and an eye (”it just seemed right, yanno?”), Mabel squinted up at the surrounding pines--which all looked unfortunately very much the same, especially in the twilight hours. She inhaled, steadied herself, and took a mental note of purchasing or making a harness to walk Waddles in. No more free-range bacon. Oh, that was an awful thought--she wouldn’t go there again.

She caught a glimpse of a curly tail through the trees and shuffled more quickly after Waddles. The pig was trotting merrily along, occasionally nosing the damp earth of the Fall forest, nary a care in the world. Mabel had half a mind to give Waddles something to worry about, but as it turned out, she didn’t need to--the pig stopped not five feet ahead of her and let out an alarmed squeal before dropping to her belly on the forest floor.

“Waddles?” Mabel said; alarmed. The pig didn’t move, her head wedged between the bushes at the edge of the almost-path. “Waddles!” Mabel ignored the tugging of insistent briers and loose branches, frantically pawing her way over to Waddles. It was no longer a game, but an urgency. “Waddles, what is it, did you find a--”

She reached the bushes to find Waddles not hurt, but simply staring at something Mabel couldn’t see at first. She followed the pig’s gaze into the semidarkness and pushed aside a few leaves to better see what Waddles was apparently getting an eyeful of. Squinting in the dusk, Mabel watched as a shimmery curtain flickered to life across the glen, then wafted away like a wisp of gossamer smoke on the breeze--

Revealing a vibrant world of a thousand different colors; tiny winged folk, and impossible, out-of-season flowers. The smell of cinnamon and pumpkin filled the air, accompanied by a gasp of cooler breezes and the hint of incoming rain. Deer with two heads and antlers made of golden branches flew by, galloping West. Spirits more air than person drifted on the wind, moving like oil in water. The stars fell from the sky to fill the clearing, becoming the long trains and shapes of dresses. Fair folk of every hue convened, sucking rainwater from the dying leaves, some impossibly tall, some smaller than the bats they flew in on.

Mabel sat open-mouthed with Waddles beside her, one hand reassuringly on the little pig’s back.

The wind whipped her hair into her face, then out of it when she moved to chase it out of her line of vision. Gulls cried and flocked to the dumpsters behind seaside restaurants, ignoring the clam shells and oysters washed up on shore--gifts from the stormy tides. Her sandals in one hand and her phone in the other, Andrea kicked her left leg to nudge a loose clam back into the ocean, stumbling a little on the uneven ground.

She had a lot to think about.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her phone case, worrying the upraised lip with nervousness she usually never let show. The news about her mother--and her father--had rocked her world. She felt not unlike the granules of sand she watched getting tugged out to sea--helpless against the current’s pull, and just as minuscule.

Depressing.

She was just about to turn around and walk back when she heard a cry that, while not a gull, held a similar note of high-pitched triumph.

“Andreaaaa!”

Glancing back around, Andrea spotted a flaming head of hair pop over a sand bank, one hand upraised in a wave displaying expensive-looking bangles. A sundress of peach and cream followed, as did a somewhat-exasperated looking crowd of unusual individuals who couldn’t seem to believe they’d been pulled along for this adventure--a nightmare, a sorcerer, a cat of some kind walking on two legs, a redheaded half-harpy and her blonde siren sister, a small-yet-tall wolf-girl, a shaggy-haired puppy, and his icy tiger boyfriend.

All this Andrea could see between blinks, as if the tears gathering under her eyelashes (from the wind, she’d like to point out) granted her some kind of enchanted clarity. Stasia caught up to her in a moment’s time, pink-cheeked and beaming, and tugged on her arm.

“Gelato!” The young woman exclaimed breathlessly. Andrea blinked, wiping at one eye. 

“Gelato?”

“Gelato,” Stasia agreed, motioning with her head for Andrea to follow them all back up the bank (”why the fuck did we walk down here in the first place then” “not now Ish” “I’m asking for a friend”). “My treat.” Her hazel eyes flickered across Andrea’s face with a look of understanding, and she briefly clasped a hand to either side of the young familiar’s head. “Seriously. You can get the biggest size.” Andrea laughed faintly, her worries ebbing away like the waves from the shore.

“Well, okay. If you insist.”

It was last call of the evening, and the sun threatened to spill over the horizon and flood light on her mistakes. Her fingers drummed a casual line of notes across the side of her sweating glass, and the atmosphere of the bar had dulled from constant chatter to exhausted muttering. The loss of noise gave her too much time to think, too much to dwell on.

AJ wasn’t a big fan of dwelling. It’s why she refused to pin herself down--stick to one particular job, or home, or anything. She didn’t like being tied down. Too restless, too wild. The latter being an argument she’d heard more than once from more than one person. But she didn’t view it as a negative. There was nothing wrong with being a little wild.

Until it wound a person up alone with a glass of whiskey at last call, at a bar in the middle of bum-frick nowhere. 

She downed the glass and sighed faintly, tapping the bar with it before setting it down altogether. It did nobody any favors for her to sit here moping. She could go for a run, maybe--clear her head and call it a night. It was the ultimate avoidance technique: to procrastinate until the problem was no longer a problem. Not that AJ viewed herself as a problem--but maybe you should, the nagging voice in the back of her head that refused to be placated with liquor said snidely. AJ scowled to herself, paid her bar tab (it never did to stiff the bartender due to one’s own bad mood--she’d been on the receiving end of THAT scenario way too many times) and slipped her denim jacket on, fingers brushing the apple stitched into the breast pocket absently.

She’d go for a run, but this time, not running away, she fibbed to herself as she headed out the door. It was just a run.

The only thing she had left to run away from at this point, after all--

Popped crackers and confetti alike littered the air and the floor, dangling tinsel snowflakes twisted and spun overhead. Somewhere in the kitchen, he could hear Mackenzie singing something in Portuguese he couldn’t quite translate--the eloquence and vernacular had been significantly occluded by a margarita that, while mostly blood, still had a surprisingly high alcohol count at the end of it all. Tahno, for example, had already passed out (blood-drunk and otherwise) about half an hour ago, after complaining vehemently in thickly-accented English about the state of the garbage bins in the borrowed flat. That would be the last time, he said, that he’d trust Abdu to find them a suitable dwelling space for the holidays. It was rare any of them got together like this, anyway--hence Quinn’s unease with the celebratory extravaganza, and his comfort zone being in that of his chess pieces as opposed to among the fledglings and grand-fledglings and all the company of Tahno.

“You’re not much of a dancer, then?” Ella playfully swung his hands to and fro, shimmying her shoulders. Her stunning smile; a crescent that caught the dimples in her cheeks and tugged them with white hooks toward the heavens, settled his nerves somewhat. But she was a far more skillful dancer than the gangly and awkward Victorian, and he had a feeling she knew it. Especially since flapping seemed to be in her very blood; and she’d inherited, Quinn felt, some level of Mackenzie’s grace when it came to maneuvering her frame. He’d have to research the transference of characteristics from sire to fledgling and so on, and made mental note of that as he freed one hand to fix his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Ah--well--the waltz, mostly,” Quinn offered nervously. “There’s not much point in it these days--” the late 60′s were proving to be more about electronic sound; something tinny and insubstantial in the audio that didn’t exactly thrill him. Peace and love and the optimal revolutionary aspects of the music prior to this were at least tolerable. Quinn brushed lengthening curls out of his eyes and awkwardly twisted to and fro, trying to match Ella’s rhythm. The vampiress slowed, watching him with a dry look of amusement. “What?”

“You know, it probably wouldn’t kill you to loosen up,” the lady said teasingly, relinquishing her hold on Quinn’s hands to motion him to move freely. “I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly certain.” Quinn made a face at her, awkwardly waving his arms to and fro, down and up, as he’d seen at various gatherings. Ella had to stifle a smile behind her hand, nodding encouragement. “There you go. Now the hips. The shoulders! Shake out your hair!”

And that is the story of how Quinton wound up knocking over an incense stick with his flailing and setting Abdu’s borrowed flat ablaze in a wave of spilled champagne, loose confetti, and patchouli. 

Ella never let him live it down, either.