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Break open my ribs and dig my fingers into the soil, plant bulbs of soft looks and softer voices.

Creation is gentle really, when it is born of affection. My soil stained hands find their place in yours.

The first time she hears them she is in the garden.

The voice is sweet and low, and asks her to be good.

At 13, she is raised with the word of God on her lips and flowers in her hair.

How could she be anything but?

At 17 she is struck by an arrow.

Fueled by her Lord and His grace, she storms Orléans. 

Her channeled divinity laps at the edges of her skin like waves, pushing her ever forward. 

She cannot breathe too deep for fear of drowning in it.

The arrow hurts as it tears through her skin and muscle. 

Despite it all she is 17.

The vessel of her Lord is clay worked by holy fingers. 

Even holy, clay cracks. 

They call her Maiden and Saviour, 

Her name uttered by the same tongues that utter His name with such devotion. 

She sees His approval and affection in the sunlight that falls on her armour, the cool breeze that turns her head towards Reims and to her king. 

It is summer and she is alight. 

Her king does not understand. 

He calls for peace to ears that have long since turned from holy word.

When she is struck again, it pins her, and she is defeated at the foot of Paris. 

She prays that night on bloody knees,

Her hands are clasped tight enough that they do not tremble. 

When she is 18, she is ambushed.

For 7 months she flees that tower, only to be brought back like wave to the shore. 

She leaps, still sure that He will catch her safely as she falls.

She is alive. It is enough. 

The men call themselves holy. 

She laughs to herself in the long moments she is left in her cell. 

They ask her questions and misunderstand. 

She answers them but they are not the judge she cares about. 

She knows the outcome of this trial as well as she knows the outcome to His.

Joan does not fear death, but in the quiet of her cell she might admit to herself that she fears the flames. 

It is here, alone and accused, that she turns 19. 

When they tie her to the wood, she does not hear voices.

Clay was made for the fire, she knows. 

The light it casts is holy and cleansing.

Only- 

Only It hurts. 

She didn’t think it would hurt like this

She tries to form words, prayers, but she can’t breathe 

You are still asleep; I can see the shape of you outlined by blankets through the partially open door to your room.

You took the smaller one, although I know you wanted the bigger. We could have shared.

Castiel gives him a watery smile, “Because it is.” He pauses, then speaks deliberately, “I love you”

Dean hears it again, that clanging of that bell as Cas speaks, and Cas- he looks lighter, like a great weight has been lifted off of his chest.

Dean’s head is reeling, “Wait, wait, Cas.” He steps forward, almost falls towards him out a necessity to do something. Castiel’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and this time Dean mirrors him. “I- I’ll go with you.”

Two lives passing simultaneously: the first, full of those clamped-down worries for you know, its name never spoken or if so, in a shorthand, because of course we know. The second is unusual only in its relation to the first, for it is everything ordinary made unordinary by its perpetuation in the face of, well, you know. 

Yesterday was sunny. I threw open the windows of my house and cleaned. They say you can sweep the spirits from your place with a broom and I had a mop to follow after it. Yesterday I did nothing productive for either of those paths, yesterday the schrodinger cat decided to lie in a sunbeam and leave the atomic physics for another day. Quite right too. 

Yesterday it was announced that it was now mathematically impossible to reach the 5 case average, Daniel Andrews stood in front of reporters ready to tear him apart and announced it, his Northface jacket sorely missed. Soon it will be too warm for jackets. 

Noise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him. The fall of everything around him only augmented Grantaire's prostration; the crumbling of all things was his lullaby. The sort of halt which the tumult underwent in the presence of Enjolras was a shock to this heavy slumber. It had the effect of a carriage going at full speed, which suddenly comes to a dead stop. The persons dozing within it wake up. Grantaire rose to his feet with a start, stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyes, stared, yawned, and understood.

Too late. Perhaps in another time Grantaire had awoken before the final blow. Perhaps he had stood as he was now, and crossed the room to stand with Enjolras in defiance.

Enjolras was not standing now.

Grantaire stumbled forward, his foot having connected with something, and looking down he saw Combeferre, his glasses broken. Grantaire found a sound escaping him and he clamped a hand tight against his mouth, stifling it. He shuts his eyes for a moment before resolutely continuing forward, the need to be sure, to-

Enjolras was lying, pinned against the wall by bullets as unforgiving as those who shot them. Grantaire falls to his knees, hands hovering over fabric that is sticky and a dark dark red, no sign of any other colour on the flag that Enjolras had worn. Another sound rose in his throat and this time he could not stop it, a broken cry bursting from his throat. Enjolras’ eyes fluttered, opening just a crack.

“Oh, Oh Enjolras, I- I am sorry I do not know-” Grantaire’s hands stilled at the expression on Enjolras’ face. Uncertain. He shifted, coming to sit beside the man. He very carefully moved Enjolras’ hair from his eyes, cupping his head, and letting him lean against Grantaire’s chest. “I have you. Rest.” Grantaire shook, just a little, but he clamped down on it. There would be plenty of time later in which he could shake, when he would have to- have to- “Rest, Enjolras. The sun will be rising soon.”

 -

 “Enjolras! You are still here? For what reason? Surely your bed’s call is as strong as mine is, though we differ on almost everything else I do believe that this is a universal fact.”

Enjolras had stared at him blearily, “I do not find myself able to dispute it.”

Grantaire had laughed, “To bed with you, Monsieur.”

Enjolras had nodded, looking far younger than he usually did. “And for yourself as well, a universal fact after all.” He had stood up, wiped at his face before looking about himself. “My bag…”

He turned, pulling his coat tighter around himself against the wind and thanking his stars that he had remembered it unlike the poor guy standing across the road. The poor guy who brightened upon seeing him. Ah. The poor guy who was his boyfriend.

“Theo.” He said slowly, “How long have you been standing there? You could have come inside where it was warm at least.”

Theo, who had been grinning a moment ago, looked pained. “Okay so here’s the thing. I was going to come in, but I was worried that I would distract you on your shift, and I know how hard it is anyway at the end of the day and I didn’t want to make it harder or anything so I-”

“Stood out here in the cold?” He interrupted.

“Only for 20 minutes or so.” Theo replied determinedly.

“Only for- Come here, you’re going to freeze.” He opened his arms, already unbuttoning his coat as Theo scowled but came forward to meet him.

“I’m not going to fr-umph” Hafez wrapped him up in the coat, pressing Theo against him chest to chest and resting his forehead on Theo’s head, who glared up at him from under his hair (longer every day. Hafez hoped he never found scissors) before sighing and tucking his head into Hafez’s neck properly.

“So.” Theo said after a moment, his nose cruelly cold against Hafez’s skin as he moved, “How was your day?”

Hafez sighed, “Long. It’s better now.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah.” Hafez said simply, not moving.

“Okay well, that’s going to require us moving.” Theo said, already starting to pull away.

“Nope.” Hafez said and listened as Theo tutted before it was cut off in a squeal as he was lifted into the air. Theo flung his arms around Hafez’s neck and knotted his legs around his waist as Hafez happily carried his boyfriend down the street, the coat still covering them both, albeit not as well. No matter, they’d be home soon enough with plenty of warmth between them.

“You’re incorrigible.” Theo said, dropping a kiss on his forehead as they went. He waved at a very confused woman across the road to them, and then blushed, laughing, and buried his head in Hafez’s neck again.

“Mmm yes but you love me.” Hafez said happily, “so I am certainly encouragable.”

“Like you need any further encouragement,” Theo said, poking his sides. “Let me down, you’ll hurt your back.”

“Atlas carried the world, I am pretty sure I can carry you.”

Theo eyed him, “What are you trying to say, Hafez?”

Hafez looked innocently up at him, “That you’re my world.” He drew out the last word, dipping Theo down and kissing him before he let him stand. “But I guess that Atlas never had to carry the world after working all day.”

Theo took his hand, “Sap.” He paused, “I guess you are the sun then.”

“Because I light up your life?”

Grantaire could feel his gaze like a physical weight, aware of it like he was of little else in the dark like this. 

He opened his eyes, correct to find Enjolras sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him.

“You are unreasonably fair in the moonlight, Enjolras. And it is unfairer still to be at such a time in which sleep must take us. Would I lie in the moonlight you yourself cast if not for” he yawned, “for the needs of the flesh to close my eyes.”

Enjolras looked away, “I cannot. Sleep, that is. My mind is too full to be taken by it.”

Grantaire reached for him, always, “Are you afraid?”

“No.”

“No one would fault you for it, Enjolras.” He said. “It is too large a thing not to feel some fear, and despite appearances Ange, you are human.”

Enjolras turned to the window, gazing out over the city. “And yet I feel nothing at all.” He said softly, before he turned back to face Grantaire, eyes full of something, “So what does that mean for my humanity, Grantaire?”

The sun was warm on Nia’s face as they sat in the backyard with a cup of tea. Molly stood behind them, eagerly brushing their long hair. 

“Ahh it’s so unfair, I wish I had hair like this.” She said, tugging on part of it to accentuate her point.

“I mean,” Nia replied, “I feel like it’s more yours than it is mine. Considering the fact that you’re the one yanking on it.” “Oh hush,” Molly said, “like this is a hardship for you, you’re practically purring.”

Nia hummed, taking a sip of their tea. Molly took that for the admission that it was and started separating their hair into sections with a smug look on her face. Nia couldn’t see her face, of course, but they knew. 

It was nice in the sun, Nia really should sit out here more. The breeze on their skin, the smell of grass and was that jasmine? Absurdly pleasant. Having Molly braid their hair was certainly adding to that pleasantness as well, which is probably why she tutted a moment later. 

“Could you wait until the braids are done? It makes it hard to see.” She said, depositing a few small flowers into their lap and putting one behind her ear, the yellow of it bright against her dark skin. 

Nia grinned, “Sorry,” they sighed happily, “it’s just nice out here.”

Molly’s face appeared again over their shoulder, a smile just as bright as Nia’s flowers on her face, “It is nice.” 

“Okay,” she said, coming around to face them and continuing the braid to the front of their head before pinning it in place. “Go on then, Nia.”

Nia took a breath and grinned, letting the good mood that had been settling around them condense until their braid crown became a flower crown. 

Molly grinned, pleased with herself, “Nice indeed.”

Her friend looked up from the pot, her humming trailing off. She picked up the wooden spoon to continue the now slowing stirring as the other came to her hip. “Do what?”

“Do… the magic. Without speaking, I mean.” Vaer clarified, turning her body to face her friend. 

Pona smiled, wiping her hands on her brightly coloured apron before coming to sit cross legged in front of Vaer. 

“Magic,” she started, “is less about what you say and more about what you attach it with. We use words because they have certain ideas, feelings, built into them. But the actual sounds don’t matter, it’s your intent.”

Vaer frowned. “Like, the will to make it happen?”

Pona hummed, the air vibrating with it slightly. “Like the desire to shape what is around you.” she brought her hands up, fingers sitting lightly on invisible strings, “the suggestion of change, to push and pull reality.” 

“But you still need the sounds, you can’t just pull at the world.” Vaer said, the ghost of a question lingering at the end of her statement.

“Sure,” Pona smiled, “but all I have to do is tag it and the space will move to meet the sound.”

Vaer was aware that she had leaned forward, pulled in her own way she supposed towards Pona. “Show me.”

Pona stood, and pulled her long hair up into a ponytail. She breathed out and lay her palms parallel to the floor, arms beside her. As her breath settled so too did the energy in the room seem to shift and lay down. Vaer felt pressed at, even as the hair on her body stood. 

“What do you want me to say?” Pona said, her wrists turning and fingers winding those strings again. 

“Uh. I don’t know. Um, a nursery rhyme?” 

Pona grinned, “Creepy”

Vaer released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Oh hush, like you’re not already the cliche of a kitchen witch.”

Pona stuck out her tongue and then hummed a note, the sound travelling along her strings. “The itsy bitsy spider,” she started to sing, and Vaer could hear it but she could also almost hear whispers of… something else underneath those words. She shut her eyes. 

“Climbed up the water spout,”

There was definitely something, a pull but also a drive to do- she wasn’t sure.

“Down came the rain and washed the spider out.”

Not a word, no. Pona was right, it was more the feeling. She said ‘down’ but Vaer felt... Up. high. Rise. 

“Out came the sunshine and dried out all the rain.”

Vaer opened her eyes. The room was filled with cutlery, books, small objects that were floating in the air around them. Vaer’s own hair was rising around her head and there was even a floaty feeling in her chest as she watched Pona in the centre of the room. She was grinning, eyes on Vaer, and the words seem to fall from her mouth to join the objects in the room. 

“And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.”

And then the pause. The end of the song hanging as if a held breath. Pona raised an eyebrow at Vaer, and then released her hold and her breath, and the feeling shifted. Return, home, back, as the books slotted themselves on Pona’s shelf, the cutlery found its place in the draw and the other object drift slowly back down to the table. 

As if he could feel Hafez’s gaze, Theo shifted, his eyes blinking open to look blearily at him in the soft light of the morning. 

“Hi” Hafez whispered with a small smile, not quite willing to break the quiet.

“Hi,” Theo responded at the same volume, wiggling forward to let himself be wrapped in Hafez’s arms. “It’s raining.” 

Hafez got his hands in Theo’s hair, quietly satisfied at that, “Mhmm, the sky has opened up.”

Crowley said nothing, just summoned a vintage and two glasses as Aziraphale continued.

“Filled to the brim with squawking, noisy, fans with no respect for the books,” here he paused to let his finger trail down the spine of John Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’, Crowley following the action with eager eyes even if Aziraphale was too distracted to notice. “And the author himself, just as much of a- practically preening, Crowley. A flock of birds is what I had let into my store.” He finally stopped pacing, coming to sit with a defiant drop on the couch beside Crowley. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. “Never again.”

Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s hair back, and let his fingers continue to brush through it gently as he nudged Aziraphale to lie on him. 

“Here, angel.” He said softly, pressing a glass into Aziraphale’s hand, his eyes fluttering open long enough to hold it properly. 

Aziraphale sighed, “Thank you dear.”

Crowley hummed, “So, I take it the book signing didn’t go well.”

“On the contrary, it was a great success.” He muttered darkly. “They want to have another hosting next month.”

“Terrible.” Crowley said, sympathetically. He pulled the angel closer to him, and took a sip of his own wine. “I could always arrange for something to scare them off?”

Aziraphale visibly brightened for a moment before he settled down again. “No. No I suppose we can’t very well do that. But thank you Crowley. I think we will just have to put up with it.”

“We’ve survived worse.” Crowley pointed out, settling into the couch. “I’m sure we can survive this.”

“You certainly make it easier, my dear.” Aziraphale said, putting his glass down to properly rest against Crowley who brought his arms up to circle Aziraphale. 

“You certainly make it worth it, Azira.” He replied, and marvelled for a moment yet again that he could say things like that. 

Aziraphale propped himself up on his arms and gave him a soft kiss before he settled back down again.

 “What are you doing?”

Hafez was sitting cross legged on the floor, his arms contorted across his body. He looked up at Theo but didn’t stop in his efforts to… do whatever it was that he was doing sat here like that.

“I” He began magnanimously, “am going to lick my elbow.”

Theo sighed, “babe, we’ve been over this. You can’t lick your own elbow.”

“Wanna bet?”

“You’re like a 5 year old.” Theo said, getting comfortable on the couch. He would be here a while.

“5 year olds are weak,” Hafez replied, “I am a fully grown, responsible adult. I am perfectly capable of licking my elbow.”

Theo didn’t quite know how to respond to that.

“How long have you been sitting here?” He asked eventually, “I didn’t hear you get up.”

“Oh, I-” He unwound and then rewound himself, “couldn’t sleep, thought I’d come sit out here, rather than wake you up tossing and turning.”

“Which of course results in you trying to-”

“Lick my elbow, yeah.” He grinned up at Theo from under his fringe, “Aw babe, you know me so well.

Theo rolled his eyes but smiled back at him. “Alright, I’m getting sore just looking at you, get up.”

Hafez hummed his disagreement but stopped trying to bend himself. “I’m good down here.”

Theo stood above him, reached a hand down. Hafez sighed and took his hand but pulled him forward instead until they were both tangled on the floor. Hafez took Theo’s arm and licked it triumphantly, laughing as Theo wiped it back on Hafez’s shirt. “Gross, what was that for?”

“Well, that’s sort of my elbow. I count it as a partial win.”

“You shouldn’t.” Theo said, rolling his eyes

“What, so I have your heart but not your elbow?”

“Keep going and you won’t have that either.”

 Combeferre took his glasses off, sighing into his hands. The candle in front of him was almost melted to a stub, the flickering light more shadow than source. He should leave, really, he should have left hours ago with the rest of them. The only member remaining in the small room at the Musain, other than himself, was Grantaire. He was slumped over the table he occupied, awake but not entirely lucid, and although Grantaire’s lucidity did not always seem to be linked to his drink, it was clear that wine had certainly contributed to his state tonight.

“Are you finished?” He asked at Combeferre’s sudden movement. “I would rather like to go home.”

Combeferre frowned, “I am not impeding that, leave at your leisure.”

Grantaire smiled at that, “My leisure,” he said, rolling the word around his tongue, languid, “But I am duty bound.”

“By whose command?”

Grantaire smiled pleasantly at him, his eyes unfocusing a little, “You look like him, did you know?” He rested his chin in his hand, “Although you wear it better, as well he knew. Always he said, ‘oh he will be incredible! A doctor! A scholar! The son our parents had prayed for! I can see the reason now,” he added, still smiling at nothing, oblivious to how Combeferre’s hands clasped at the desk, his knuckles white and his jaw tight.