#apsaraqueen

This was written as cheerupemofic for BAMF a few weeks-ish ago, I think? Never got around to posting it but here it goes. Somewhat experimental R/J. Some angst but... it’s, uh, for BAMF? So. Yeah.

***

“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” - Pablo Neruda

I.

The Moon is beautiful and stately, all marble palaces and graceful domes, but leached of colour in an eerie wash of silvery white. Jikokuten takes a knee in the throne room and looks askance at the royals, for even they blend into this ghostly dream-world with their pearlescent gowns and platinum locks. The weather and grounds are flawless, not a single leaf or stone out of place. It’s almost too perfect-- ominously so-- and to one whose kingdom only dons white for mourning, it’s jarring. 

And then he sees the High Queen’s court file in, the warrior princesses of legend, flanking the throne two by two, and there she is, a spot of scarlet in the sea of white. Ebony hair and auspicious red skirts, eyes like the twilight sky before it turns full dark. He blinks, and his heart stutters. 

II.

The sheep are languishing in the heat, and getting leaner by the day with nothing but dry brush to eat, and Jochi coaxes some of his own water onto the littlest and weakest of the lambs. It’s foolish, and more than likely the little animal would die anyway, too malnourished to survive the drought which had blighted the steppes this summer. His father had always railed at him for being too soft-hearted, too foolish and un-Mongolian, but a part of Jochi always had perhaps too much sympathy for the foundlings and the weaker ones. There is a nebulous memory, perhaps not his own, of standing up for a boy with eyes like the open sky and a shock of black hair from-- what? He doesn’t quite know.

He hears the sound of hoofbeats-- it is a grand procession, the entourage of one of the Khans, and that is both blessing and curse, for they would surely bring much-needed supplies and victuals if returning from a successful raid, but just as surely would bring death and doom against any interlopers or opposing factions. Jochi’s yellow hair would stand out like a beacon, and so he pulls up his hood despite the summer heat and draws back into the shadows to watch the group. The warriors are fearsome indeed astride their ponies, bows and sabers at the ready. There is an iron-haired Chieftain at the forefront, proud and indomitable with eyes as fierce as a falcon’s. And then right behind him, dwarfed by the stalwarts flanking her, must be the clan’s princess, wearing a fine red dress and ornaments of silver and amber around her neck and atop her raven hair. She’s beautiful, with eyes as fearless as her Sire’s, but more so, something about her face strikes such a pang in Jochi that he forgets himself, and steps forward, right into the path of the procession. He’s knocked senseless not a moment later under the marauding hooves, but he only has eyes for the desert-mirage loveliness of the princess’ face.

III.

Jun doesn’t meet Ru-Yi until the wedding. She’s brought over to his familial estate in a lavish palanquin, amidst loud, raucous music and the rapid pops of firecrackers, and escorted to the altar by the servants to kneel next to his older brother Kai. As the heir apparent, it is imperative that Kai make a good marriage to a wife who would not shame him and brings all the right assets to the match, and Ru-Yi’s father is a very wealthy, powerful man. The newlyweds courtesy to their parents and each other, and then someone lifts the bride’s red veil away from her face, and Jun almost drops his goblet of wine. It is a stunningly elegant face, all cherry lips and willowy brows, but what’s more, though he’s certain he has never met her before, it’s somehow familiar. She, too, seems to feel it, because her eyes linger on his for a moment too long, a thin line of confusion drawing between those brows, before she turns away with a bland smile for the procession of well-wishers. 

Despite the many presents of dates and lotus seeds on the wedding day, and, months and years later, the foul-smelling tonics and powders, she never bears Kai any sons, and Jun watches, heart heavy, as Kai takes on one concubine after another, carouses in the brothels night after night, as the lines between Ru-Yi’s brows grow deeper and deeper with cheated joy and thwarted wishes. He doesn’t care if she doesn’t bear any sons, but she’s not his concern-- will never be his concern. There are flowers left on her doorstep in the mornings, still wet with dew and with neither name nor note. It’s poor consolation for both of them, but she’s not his to love.

IV.

The air is arid and far too hot, almost tinged the same turmeric-yellow as the hot sun blazing down overhead. Captain Geoffrey Lindhurst with Her Majesty’s navy had been in India for all of four months, and is still getting accustomed to the local climate, so different from the ever-present London fog. The local food, too, is a far departure from the starchy Sunday roasts and meat pies and puddings of his boyhood, with its exotic spices and bountiful portions. The servants at his bungalow are politely quiet and do their tasks without complaint, but he has the sense that there is far more to their lives and customs than the scant glimpses that he sees now and then.

He’s out taking a walk on a balmy evening, and passes by one of the temples. He knows nothing of the religious beliefs of the locals, with their somewhat-fearsome-looking, animalistic gods with their fiery eyes and six hands and elephant heads, but many of the locals seem quite devout in their faith, praying several times a day and eschewing certain foods in their diets. Even at this late hour, the temple is open for worshippers, its air smoky with incense, and he sees a young woman emerge, clad in the flowing, traditional garments with a gauzy scarf over her dark hair. His gaze meets hers for only a split-second-- light blue to orchid-- but it jolts his system harder than a glass of raw gin. He has no idea who she is, and moreover, everything in his training and upbringing tells him that he has no business dallying with any of the locals. Geoffrey opens his mouth to speak, against everything that he’s known all his life, but she vanishes down one of the narrow paths and disappears into the night before he can say anything, or be quite sure that she wasn’t just an illusion, a trick of the light. 

He visits the temple enough in his years stationed here that he gets to learn the local traditions and customs, and indeed become quite familiar with their rituals. But he never sees her again.

V. 

The dame walks into his dilapidated hole-in-the-wall of an office on stiletto heels the red of fresh blood. Jack knows trouble when he sees it, and she’s all but radiating it like smoke surrounding a wildfire. “Help you, ma’am?” He keeps his voice brusque and businesslike even as she shrugs off a lustrous black mink stole to reveal crimson silk and fiery diamonds, curves in all the right places. “What brings you to this side of town?”

“I need a private investigator, and they say you’re the best. My driver’s outside, and he’s bigger and meaner than you,” she adds in a snide tone to match the diamond earrings. “My name is Rowena Warrington. Henry Warrington’s daughter.”

The Governor’s daughter has as much business in the seedy part of downtown as he would rubbing shoulders with millionaires in a fancy ballroom. “Don’t you have security, or lawyers, or whatever, to deal with whatever you’re dealing with, Ms. Warrington? This is a bad neighbourhood.”

“And no one’s been able to figure out the truth behind my mother’s death, so here I am.” Presumptuously, she makes herself at home, sitting down in a battered folding metal chair like it’s a throne as she lights a cigarette. “Price is no object, of course.”

“No.”

He won’t be swayed, because this is exactly the type of trouble that he doesn’t want, even though she turns on the wheedle, and later, the tears. He lets her leave in high dudgeon, and shuts the door behind her, and tells himself that his instinct-- one that tells him in no uncertain terms that he’d narrowly escaped a terrible fate-- was spot-on. And he busies himself with the usual mundane work which flows in every day like water through a leaky pot-- fraud cases. Stolen heirlooms. Prisoners on the lam. Cheating spouses.

He reads about the huge, tragic scandal some months later in the paper-- the cover-ups, the blood money, the extortion, the beautiful young woman whose life is tragically cut short because she’d had the audacity to poke her flawless nose where it definitely didn’t belong and wouldn’t take no for an answer, and is shocked at the grief which hits him. He owed her nothing, he tells himself as he broods into his second whiskey. She said herself that her driver was bigger and meaner than him. She should’ve been safe. Should’ve been careful. 

Should’ve been protected, with one’s very life. 

He throws the newspaper into the fire and watches it curl up into ash as he pours himself another one.

VI.

The busful of unconscious mortals is just where he wants them, of course, and Jadeite goes about the business of collecting their energy, siphoning it for Queen Metallia’s use. It’s rote and routine, but then a flash of scarlet catches his eye, and it’s the miko from the temple at the last bus-stop. Black and white and red all over, and he pauses, kneels down to move a strand of her lustrous black hair out of her face. 

“So beautiful. Ever since I’ve seen this girl, there’s something about her…” Something haunting, like a hint of incense smoke that clings to the air or a raven’s feather, black against white pavement, a memory that is-and-isn’t his. With a gentleness that he’s not had cause to employ in a very long time, he carefully shifts her into a more comfortable position, one more like natural sleep than the unconsciousness of a sinister spell, and lingers, unable to tear his eyes away from her exquisite, weirdly familiar face, until the all-too-unfortunate shouts of angry feminine voices tells him that he is not alone, and the Sailor senshi have arrived.

The miko opens her eyes and everything snaps into place a split-second before she transforms and a rage of fire heads for him, and he has but a moment to mouth the word ‘Sorry’, unheard and unacknowledged, before the flame hits in a wall of agony and heat. It’s no more or less than he deserves.

VII

The world is lustrous, glistening crystal, but unlike the Silver Millennium and the Moon Kingdom, the diamond brilliance of the towers bring colours into sharp relief, turning white sunlight into countless prismatic rainbows and reflecting the pale blue of the sky as rich sapphire. Jadeite takes a knee with his compatriots in the throne room and bows his head before the royals-- his King and Queen, united at last. Countless lives had been lived to lead to this-- an entry to a paradise hard-earned. 

There she is, still, raven hair and red skirts, and after, when everyone has broken off into their groups, he seeks her out. He has no reason to expect a positive reception, but the words are long overdue, and she has a right to them. 

“Lady Mars.” He makes an elaborate leg, as one might have done in a decadent court in the era of gilt and Rococo. She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t storm away or glare, and that’s something.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Lord Jadeite. We’ve met before. More than once, I daresay.”

“And I’ve loved you every time.” The words are baldly spoken and perhaps too blunt, in poor form, but they’ve been buried for far too many years and lifetimes already. She halts, and he notices that her breath isn’t quite steady, and that gives him the courage to remain where he is instead of making a hasty escape.

Finally, a queer sort of half-smile crosses her face as she tilts it back up to his. “You’ve been terrible about showing it up to now, haven’t you?”

“Up to now,” he agrees. “It doesn’t have to remain so. Unless you wish it.”

How I feel about this character:

My son. My babe. My good good boy. 

I mean at this point saying I like Jadeite just means I like fanon and headcanons lbr. BUT I LOVE THIS LITTLE FUCKER!

I love the idea of him being an obnoxious little illusionary trickster, a good little brother type to the other shitennou and just all around lovable dumbass. 

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character:

REI! I guess there are other ships you could fancy idk I’m too busy being blinded by the perfectness that is Rei/Jadeite. 

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character:

JADEITE AND THE SHITENNOU oF COURSE! All the BroTPs. Outside of that I really love the idea of Jadeite and Minako being blonde menaces. Or Jadeite and Usagi. 

OR Jadeite/Minako/Usagi JUST BLONDING IT UP UNTIL THEIR RESPECTIVE PARTNERS ARE FACE PALMING IN A CORNER LIKE, “good thing they’re cute I can’t handle this. I feel myself aging.” 

At which point Rei and Mamoru are like “I can feel myself turning grey” before looking at Kunzite with twin expressions of shock and pointing, “IT’S TOO LATE FOR YOU!”.... but I digress. 

My unpopular opinion about this character:

At this point I think the fact I like him is unpopular? The shitennou get an unprecedented amount of hate considering every other fucking brainwashed villain on the show got saved and redeemed and “cleansed” by Usagi or whatever. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon:

That we could have actually had SCENES from SilMil, gotten some idea of what Jadeite and the shitennou were actually like. What their relationships to Endymion and the senshi were actually like. 

That Jadeite and the shitennou could have been resurrected on screen, OR EVEN JUST LIKE “reborn.” Let them be some normal dudes who don’t remember shit about the Dark Kingdom and get reawoken as King Endymion’s guardians once Crystal Tokyo became a thing. 

Favorite friendship for this character:

This is difficult because I like all the dynamics that come out of fandom. I think at the end of the day I’m gonna say Rei. Because I do truly believe they are friends. 

My crossover ship:

@apsaraqueen​ wrote a beautiful poignant oneshot for this year @ssrevminibang​  reverse bang... it’s a sensuous, layered and thought-provoking piece, dealing among other things with musings on mortality/immortality, masterfully offsetting the Sailor Moon character  we know and love (and one unforgettable OC ) in a future Egypt - and world - dealing with the devastation of the past - but also their ancestors’ musings and wisdom on the meaning of life -  on the edge of promised eternity under the rise of Crystal Tokyo.  It achieved both enriching canon and trascending it. Ayyyyy <3. I feel so lucky we ended up paired together for this. And I’m not worthy but here we go, I tried to at least convey a bit of a meaningful suspended moment in the story. Art and full story here https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377620

For @apsaraqueen and @coppercrane2, follows this

**

The 18th Room is sleek yet dim, echoing the air of mystery surrounding Prohibition-era speakeasies but featuring all the modern amenities one would expect out of a trendy spot in New York City. Raven arrives at nine o’clock on the dot, because ‘fashionably late’ does not apply to everyday standards of etiquette, and furthermore, one does not turn up late on a reservation in Manhattan if one actually wanted to be able to enjoy one’s drink and food for that night. She’d offered to buy the UCLA professor, Jude Huntley, a drink for returning her bag in person, of course, and had given him the address to meet her up there that evening.

“Hello.” She hears his voice, warm and slightly gravelly, sound behind her, and turns to see the Good Professor, looking a bit less nerdy shaven and without the elbow patches, smiling at her. Weirdly, though the white shirt and dark gray blazer are certainly more appropriate night-out apparel, she thinks the look from earlier in the day had suited him more. He still wore the glasses, though, and the low lighting of the place glint off the lenses, shine brilliantly in his blue eyes. 

“You made it. Good. They have custom drinks here based on what you like, and pretty good food.” It’s a bit of an abrupt greeting, but Raven isn’t quite sure what to make of Dr. Huntley and his actual presence in New York City for apparently no other purpose than to return her bag. When in doubt in dealings with the male of the species, toughness was always a good default to fall back on. 

“It’s definitely some very cool digs. I can’t say that bars back at home look much like this. Like something out of an old movie, almost.” 

They get seated, and both of them opt for the custom-made cocktails. Raven gets a smokey-sweet Scotch concoction with ginger beer and Angostura bitters, and Jude opts for something with gin and an orange twist. They share some small plates, and of course when Jude asks her about her day, she is not surprised. These are normal pleasantries, and no one truly wanted to pass a cocktail hour in awkward silence, but he leans forward and listens as though he actually cares, and that’s a bit more off-putting.

“Morgan Austen? You were negotiating a contract with her? No wonder you wanted to kill me for grabbing your bag by accident.” His smile, even apologetically full of chagrin, is lethal. “I can’t say that I’m hugely in favour of starting kids out young in the entertainment industry, but she seems surprisingly well adjusted whenever we see or hear her on the news.”

“She was born for this, and as exploitative as the industry can be, she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and I definitely don’t just mean all that shampoo-commercial blonde hair.” Raven’s mouth firms, and she squares her shoulders. “She’s a good kid, weird unorthodox Hollywood upbringing aside. Nothing’s about to happen to her if I have anything to say about it.”

“I understand what you mean.” There’s not even a hint of a patronizing tone in his voice, just simple understanding. “I can’t say that I get to know every single student who enters my lecture hall, but you always get to meet some, and you always hope that whatever they learn from you academically aside, they’ll remember you as a positive figure in their development as young adults. I know full well not all of them will go into a Chemistry-related field, but I hope no one hates me or my class, all the same.”

“Aren’t you going to be exhausted, going to your class tomorrow after flying in all the way from here?” That still didn’t make sense-- the fact that he’d crossed the entire continental United States to return her bag. Not that she was ungrateful, of course. Or that she was hating this time and conversation right now. Jude Huntley might be a virtual stranger whose life intersected with hers in the most random of ways, but he was... nice. In such a low-key, easygoing type of way that it lowered even her fierce defenses. 

“Well, LA’s three hours behind, so it will still be early enough in the day by the time I get there that I’ll have a few hours to rest before having to stand in front of a bunch of grad students and talk about metabolism. And besides, I’ll have plenty of time to grade the rest of those lab reports on the trip back. There’s not exactly much to do on the plane, otherwise. I’ve already gotten a head start on them earlier today, before meeting up with you.”

That has her chuckling despite herself. “You’re in New York City and not during the tourist-mad seasons of Christmas or whatever and you’re holed up in your hotel room grading lab reports? You could’ve done a bunch of other stuff for fun.”

“I could’ve, but it’s no fun doing the touristy thing alone. I don’t exactly know anyone here aside from you, and I can barely claim that acquaintance, either, could I?”

“I don’t know, I don’t usually meet people up for drinks unless it’s somehow work-related. There are almost always too many fucking people, everywhere. At least it’s not a Friday afternoon happy hour in the Financial District. Banker Bro’s probably have a whole level to themselves in Hell waiting for them someday.” 

“Well in that case, I’m definitely flattered, and honoured.”

Their food comes, and it’s undoubtedly his relaxed, no-pressure manner that makes her linger over her Scotch and stuffed zucchini flowers and the easy flow of conversation. Jude-- and since when did she start thinking of him by his first name on such short acquaintance?-- had been born and raised in California, though he’d lived in the Bay Area before moving out to SoCal for school, then work. They talked about some of the more problematic youngsters they’d had to deal with in their respective jobs, as well as the merits of the dollar slice vs. the daily special off the taco truck. Raven’s a diehard bagels and lox and coffee for breakfast type of girl, and declared smoothies and avocado toast to be faddish and overrated even if a great deal of the models booked with the agency seemed to enjoy them. Jude laughs and admits that he’s not much of a green juice sort of guy himself, but claims that the mythical long lines at In-n-Out are worth it.

At some point during their conversation, some of the other patrons start dancing to the jazz music playing in the background. It is definitely not the sort of place most people out on a date night would expect to dance-- no grinding, or DJ’s, or top 40′s here. The music’s something from the Gatsby era, and tastefully muted so that conversations at the tables and bar could still be conducted without leaning in and shouting. After a handful of sets, Jude holds out his hand, one blond eyebrow slightly cocked, and gives her that should-totally-be-illegalized smile again. 

“I feel like I should ask you to dance. Of course, you can say no if you don’t want to.”

Because @apsaraqueen is responsible for like 90% of the R/J I write anyway so, you know?

Spiritverse, R/J, possibly rated PG13

**

FINALLY leaving for home now, how about you?

I suppose you wouldn’t want any company on the trip back? You HAVE been burning the midnight oil, hmm?

Oh, very literally, yes. But I’ll see you at the bridge in a bit!

The texts had started earlier that day, when she had first arrived at her Grandfather’s. Jareth had been in Manhattan, finalizing the project that he’d been working on, moving a Stone-Hewn from atop a crumbling church slated for demolition. He’d asked for her help-- her lineage was an old and established one in the city-- and it had been in her grandfather’s name that a new and quite-elegant-looking statue of a knight on a rearing steed had been donated to Central Park and installed in a shady corner. The Iele, Linden Thorne, had thanked him profusely, then kept vigil after he’d left, awaiting the moment her knight would awaken in his new home. Undoubtedly, she was just as eager to see her beloved as he was to see his.

That thought put a grin that he was quite certain was both obvious and wry on his face. 

Ember walks briskly but gracefully, dark coat and dark skirts and dark hair, but today, perhaps in honour of the Imbolc celebration, there is a silk scarf tied at a jaunty angle on her neck, cardinal-red with a milk-white fringe. She looks up and smiles when she catches sight of him, and reaches out a slim hand, which he uses to pull her close. 

The wind swirls her midnight hair around the both of them, and he pulls away after a too-brief moment of breathing in the scent of snowfall and scrying smoke and sandalwood. “You smell good.”

She raises an eyebrow at that, but then laughs softly even as her fingers twine with his. “I’ve spent the vast majority of this evening making candles for Imbolc. Lots of essential oils and herbs involved in the process, you know?”

She tells him of the traditional rites-- the weaving of crosses from the rushes, the making and lighting of spell candles, the feast to honour the goddess Brighid and entreat the gods for a mild spring. The bridge is not crowded at this late hour, and so they take their time crossing it, all the bright lights of Manhattan glistening in the background against an inky sky. 

“I love crossing the bridge at this hour, when it’s not full of people rushing from one place to another,” Ember pauses and glances back at the city skyline. “It’s sometimes a bit trying to be around a bunch of people who are all in a hurry and have a great deal on their minds.”

Jareth can imagine that well enough; anyone with even a touch of the empath or the clairvoyant would likely find crowds tiresome, and his wise woman has more than her share of those gifts. But neither would she expect pity-- Ember was nothing if not conscientious, and certainly ascribed to the notion that with great power came great responsibility. But he would see her smile again, if he could arrange it. “I will admit, one of my first times crossing the bridge was at the hour of quarter-of-four in the morning, alongside my kin. It was utterly deserted. And I may have climbed to the very top, ‘for the hell of it’, as they say.” At the look she shoots him, he grins. “’Tis not so different from climbing a tree. If anything, because of the building materials and the cables, it’s actually sturdier.”

Much to his gratification, this declaration does elicit a faint giggle out of her. “And what did your friends have to say about that, if I may be so bold as to ask?” She’d met Aeson and Aelene perhaps two weeks ago, when they’d planned out the moving of the Stone-Hewn over dinner and drinks, and though he’d endured a bit of gentle teasing from both of them, Jareth was quite certain that his friends had liked her well enough. 

He affects a preternaturally solemn expression. “Well, certainly, Aelene scolded me for sporting around excessively. And I’m quite sure I would have taken her more seriously if it weren’t for the fact that she herself has been known to cross town by rooftops rather than streets if the traffic is extra heavy. To be fair, we’ve all been guilty. Especially during rush-hour.”

The giggle becomes a full-on laugh. “Show-off.” She swats him lightly on the arm, but for all that, he’s pleased to see the merriment twinkling in her violet eyes. “I can’t judge, though. Grandfather amused himself last week by putting a faint levitation charm on his neighbour’s welcome mat. Not enough of one to cause any true alarm, but just enough to give the fellow the sensation of taking a step up for a few seconds even when he remained on level ground. That man’s got two months before April Fool’s Day and I don’t even want to contemplate what types of shenanigans he may get up to then.”

It’s a few minutes to midnight by the time they reach Jane’s Carousel on the other side of the bridge, and with a delightfully mischievous smile, Ember gives his hand a tug towards the unlit structure. “Come on!” A snap of her fingers and it comes to life, lights winking on and horses spinning slowly in a circle. She doesn’t spell on the music, though, likely in consideration of anyone who might be sleeping in hearing range. 

Her skirts are slightly too long to suit sitting astride on even a carousel horse, but Ember perches gracefully enough on the back of a dappled grey like a Regency-era lady on side-saddle. Half-enchanted, half-amused, he stands at her side as the carousel makes its circuit, one hand steady at the small of her back. She has one hand wrapped around the pole attached to the horse, but with an airy wave of the other, the air fills with rainbowy soap bubbles and glittery red firework sparks. Her eyes meet his as the carousel slows and gradually comes to a stop, and he thinks for a moment he can see a hint of the sweet, intrepid little girl she might have been, sometime in the distant past, before she’d understood the portent of her gifts. 

“I have never actually ridden this carousel before,” she says as she steps off the colourful structure, its lights fading behind the two of them. “I was grown up by the time it was built, of course. But life’s hardly worth living if one can’t trade off several hours of duty for a few moments of frivolity once in a great while, hmm?” A wry smile crosses her lovely lips. “I daresay I haven’t, perhaps, engaged in as much merry-making as my grandfather is wont to do nowadays. But every so often...”

He can’t quite resist the temptation to kiss her mouth, curved as it is in a smile, but keeps it gentle and brief. She glances at him through a fringe of sooty eyelashes as they make their way down the street. “I think I remember this street-- your friend Angela brought me to your place after I met her.”

“So she did,” Jareth nods. “She invited the both of you up for wine and sympathy after the ordeal of that evening. I suppose I could repeat that invitation.”

She had not been there since that day Angela had brought her-- indeed, it had always seemed more appropriate to see her safely home after meeting with her than bringing her to his place. But when he unlocks the doors, she looks around with avid interest. His loft is rather less luxurious than hers, but airy and spacious, with vaulted ceilings and buffed wooden floors. 

“It’s interesting how one can get a fairly true idea of another’s nature by visiting their home.” Ember accepts a glass of wine from him and takes a slow sip even as she makes herself comfortable. “Pale walls and plentiful greenery, windows that let in natural light. You display your bows and knives within easy reach, but elegantly so, not in a threatening way.” There is an intricately cast Medieval diptych in bronze on one wall-- love and war. On another is a Salish wall hanging. Over the mantel is a striking black-and-white photograph of the Manhattan skyline. “I can see where you’ve been, through the art you’ve collected. Perhaps even a bit of friends you might have made along the way.” Setting down her empty glass, she stands, pulling something out of her pocket, and beckons him to follow as she walks towards the mantel.

“It’s a Brighid’s cross and a candle for your hearth, such as it is,” Ember ties on the little rush-woven amulet to a nail. The candle is pale beeswax flecked with the mossy green of herbs, and when she lights it, the scent is redolent with something sweet and slightly herbacious. “Basil and blackberry for love and protection. Blessed be, Jareth Sylvane.” Reaching up, she lays her hands gently on his face, pulls him down for a kiss. 

Ember the witch, with her tarot cards and her rune stones. Ember the warrior, running to Angela’s aid against an armed mugger, dashing across Central Park to find a child before she drowned. Ember the woman-- thoughtful, quietly strong-willed and surprisingly sweet at the oddest moments, multi-faceted and fascinating and so beautiful sometimes that his heart ached with it. “I have all the love and protection I need wherever and whenever I am with you,” he tells her softly as he draws back far enough to look into her eyes, blue to violet. Those words are not ones that his kind ever bandy about lightly, but somehow, saying them to her is as easy as breathing. 

Her expression is soft as this late, quiet hour and solemn as his unspoken vow. The Ælf-kine lack a bit of humanity’s curiosity and evanescent interest in others, and to profess love for another is not only a statement of regard but of intent and eternal fidelity. She knows it, too, and stands back just far enough to take his hands in hers. Her fingers are warm and the crackle of power vibrates against his skin like static electricity, and though she whispers them, he hears every word of her promise in return in the incantation as the candle burns to its base in a flickering ball of golden light.

“By candleflame’s light I vow to thee-- Faithful as the tides of the moonlit sea, The shelter of my living heart is thine, May all thy joys and sorrows be as mine.”

She lets her breath escape with that last word on a soft exhale, then smiles tremulously up at him. “An’ as I will it, so mote it be.” The spell undoubtedly carries great power, but it doesn’t feel heavy or portentous at all, and simply fills the air with a comforting warmth. He can’t resist drawing her close again, but now when she presses her lips to his, there’s a frission of heat and sweetness stronger and far more profound. He’d certainly been aware of her beauty before-- the graceful balance of her features, the low harmony of her voice, but it’s a different, more primal awareness now, as though his very nerves and veins tingle with the way the scent of her skin warms the closer her holds her, the way her lips taste like cabernet sauvignon and chamomile tea. Her fingers trace a pattern-- probably a rune of protection, knowing his love’s careful heart, down his nape, then slide down to his back to brush against bare skin underneath the hem of his sweater. His breath catches even as he traces the shape of her jaw, the length of her neck with his lips. Her head tilts back on a moan, and those beautiful eyes, fiery-dark now as the edge of twilight, meet his. 

“Jareth, please tell me you have a bed in here somewhere.”

He does, and he seldom makes use of it, but now he lifts her up in his arms, ascends the shallow steps which lead upstairs. Even with his fleet-footedness, the trek up is slow, as they stop every few steps to kiss, to touch warm skin with fingers that quiver with wonder. He lands on his back on the white sheets and tugs her down over him, neither of them quite so graceful now, and fills his hands with fragrant skeins of her raven hair even as her own fingers fiddle with the fastenings of his clothes. 

It’s much later that he watches the sky lighten from black to indigo just as the sun is about to rise. Next to him, Ember sleeps soundly, dark hair spilled over white shoulders. Through the course of the night, she’d shifted to take over more than half the bed, and it’s certainly a different experience resting with another body lying half-sprawled over one’s own, warm and supple with breaths that tickled his skin.