#five fics

Yet despite the poor weather, the wrens and the robins persisted with their sweet songs. They lined the roadways, perched on the wilted greenery that lined the road to the capital. The bushes had tirelessly battled against the cold elements that had unwontedly ravaged the continent. Where they once offered fresh wild berries, the plants were now scarce of produce.

Two proud Cleveland Bay horses faithfully pulled the Persian blue carriage through the wetlands. They crossed a bridge that was saturated with rainwater careful and slow. 

Known affectionately by their owners as Thunder and Bird, they had trotted down from the Faulks Estate, through the mud and the puddles that had defined their journey thus far. They followed the command of their coachman, William, obediently. For the most part, William had tried his best to help guide the horses to avoid the more difficult, sloppier terrain on their travels, though this had been an arduous task.

They had already been delayed long enough. Business back at the Faulks’ Estate had meant that Scott Tracy was travelling back to London later than he’d previously planned. It had already been bad enough for him to have left London during Tanusha’s debut into society but, as had been established by unwritten rules long ago, business waited for no man, and Scott had no choice but to travel back up north to deal with the problems that had arisen. He couldn’t recall exactly what the issue was now, but it had been important.

Important enough to leave his family in the lurch anyway.

William had attempted to reason with Scott to take the journey slow—the last thing they needed was him being further incapacitated through the recklessness of the horses in such dire weather—but, at first, Scott had refused to listen to caution. He’d ordered William to “not dally”, but William had offered him up a few words as example of what certain brothers would say if they learned about Scott’s recklessness. Every single example had all been scarily accurate and, reluctant though he was to take it slow, Scott soon relented to a speed that left much to be desired by the commonly thrill-seeking passenger who seldom enjoyed taking anything slowly.

The wearisome ride back to London had provided him with one advantage, however. Paperwork that Scott should have completed back at the Faulks Estate was neatly piled on the upholstered seat of deep navy beside him. Over the course of the gruelling journey back down south, the pile had been slowly picked away at, papers being devoured by keen, cobalt eyes. Scott had been reluctant to leave the family estate before completing all of the business that had required his attention, but London was calling him back. Two weeks away from the bon ton and Scott figured it was only fair for him to return to his family.

Inked sheets detailed new ways in which the Tracy family, and the county at large where the Faulks Estate sat, could offer help to those who had been left devastated by the recent famines. In some of society’s opinion, such a task would have been viewed as some sort of fool’s errand, but Scott Tracy failed to care about what society would have done in his stead. 

The work occupied his time for some of the journey. Sleep took hold of him for the rest.

Scott wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep. From his perspective he was certain he’d only caught a few minutes of shut-eye, but the change of the skies outside the carriage informed him that it had been hours.

He’d been awoken by a turbulent bump in the road. For all the skill that William and the two horses possessed, they had been unable to avoid every perilous pot hole or mud hole. The carriage jostled from side to side and some of the papers had fallen from their piles on the seats to the floor. In the few seconds they lay there, before Scott had managed to gather them back up, they had grown soggy and damp from the wet puddles he had trailed into the carriage with his boots earlier. He grumbled indignantly as he observed the mess, picking them up with a pinch of his fingers. It was a shame that it was the more important files that had fallen into the swamp at his feet.

“Drat!”

There was no time to ponder on the tragedy that had befallen the papers however as, from somewhere in the near distance, perhaps only a few feet away—Scott was unable to decipher exactly how far due to the incessant rain that was now pouring down outside—the echo of an almighty crash rung through the countryside. Silence followed but, just as he began to believe there was nothing to be concerned about, a piercing scream followed.

The horses were eased to a stop by William and the carriage rolled to a halt. Bird, the younger of the two horses, interrupted the raindrops that pelted down upon on the roof of the carriage with soft thuds of her feet and a snort of discomfort.

Scott rapped his knuckles against the top of his carriage. “What is it? Why have we stopped, William?”

“I’m afraid there has been an accident up ahead, sir.”

“An accident?” He repeated dumbfoundedly.

With the current weather conditions it shouldn’t have been a surprising answer. Travelling in the best of weather could still prove perilous, and in this torrent that raged outside, it was even more so. A sudden urge to jump out of the safety of his own carriage to help the poor souls, whoever they may have been, overwhelmed Scott.

“Yes, sir,” William answered. “A carriage by the looks of it, around twenty yards ahead. I’m afraid I can’t see much. The rain isn’t half coming down, sir.”

A woman’s voice cried through the distortion of the rain. “Don’t hurt her! Robert, please! No! Help her! Stop!”

All his previous caution was thrown to the wind upon hearing that cry for help and Scott Tracy gallantly threw his morning coat over his head—a pathetic attempt to protect himself from the deluge outside—and leaped out of his carriage.

“Sir!” William called to him when he spotted his master running across the grassy verge, over to the other side of the fork in the road. “You’ll catch your death!”

If he had heard his coachman, Scott gave no inclination. He continued to wade through the wet and the wind regardless of the warning.

The woollen fabric of his jacket over his head did little to shelter him from the elements. The light blue hue of the fabric quickly turned a shade darker, matching the paint of his carriage, whilst mud began to smother his boots.

As he drew closer to the accident the haziness of the downpour died down, clearing up his previously obstructed view. Scott halted a few feet from the shivering lady who, dressed only in the finest muslin and silk, was freezing as she observed the scene with horror.

The horses that had been pulling the carriage had tried to jump a farm gate. The reason was currently unknown to Scott—perhaps they had been frightened by something on the road, or perhaps they had grown weary of travelling in the dreadful weather. But in their haste to escape whatever it had been that had caused their fright,the animals had clearly forgotten, or had entirely disregarded the fact that they had been a pulling along a carriage behind them.

If the gate been made of wood rather than iron, perhaps the carriage would have crushed the beams and gone straight through. It might have dealt the poor occupants inside the carriage a little bump and bruise, but the situation would have ended up in a less precarious situation than the current predicament. As the carriage was unable to jump over the fence after the horses, it had instead plowed into the cast-iron gate and had become lodged in the metalwork at an awkward angle.

Only one of the horses remained. The other? A fact that was also unknown to Scott at present. Perhaps it had continued to run, to escape whatever horror had caused the accident in the first place. All he knew was that the reins on the left side were empty, hanging limply in the absence of the unaccounted for horse. The horse still attached on the right side was trapped and clearly in distress.

Now the horse was on the other side of the fence to the carriage, scrambling and whining, faltering in the slippery mud, trying desperately to break free from the carnage. Although Scott could not be certain from his current position, he was inclined to believe that the horse’s hoof had also been twisted.

The only thing he could be certain of was the current threat that was posed to the horse; of the man who was pointing a pistol towards the hapless mare’s head.

Dressed in the livery of a coachman, much like William’s, the man appeared to be conflicted. He pointed the gun but was refraining from shooting. 

To Scott’s side, the woman who had been screeching became aware of his presence and lunged towards him. She grabbed the lapels of his turquoise waistcoat with trembling, wet hands. Now she was closer to him, Scott could see her pupils had dilated with fear. He felt pity for her.

“Don’t let him hurt her! Please! Don’t let him hurt her!” The lady pleaded.

Scott’s first instincts upon arriving on the scene had originally been to check on the humans who had been caught up in the accident, to make that they had not been injured or too distressed. The horses had not been a concern prior to his triage, but this had now quickly changed.

“Take this first,” Scott ordered the woman softly. From over his head he peeled off his already soggy coat and placed it over her ruined bonnet instead. Blonde curls were laying flat, miserably framing her face from under the head covering, proving that her hat had done little to protect her from the downpour. He doubted his own coat would help, given that it was now soaked through itself, but he’d be damned if he was to leave her on the grassy verge without some way to shelter her.

“Please, help her,” the woman pleaded.

“I will.” It was an easy promise, Scott found. “Stay here.”

The woman nodded her understanding and Scott jumped over the gate without another moment of hesitation.

Cautiously he approached the coachman who was holding his hand pistol aloft. The man was visibly shaking, Scott realised as he inched closer, and that his trembling was far more violent than the woman’s had been.

A variety of options of how to tackle the situation were laid out in Scott’s mind but he only had seconds to choose one. He hoped he’d chosen correctly.

“If your aim of this tomfoolery is to frighten the horse more, then you’re certainly going the right way about it,” Scott commented. He stood a few feet behind the coachman, his arms raised and extended outwards. “Please, lower your weapon. You do not have to shoot her.”

The coachman didn’t move an inch. His gun remained trained on the animal, eyes blinking back hot and angry tears—angry at himself, Scott soon came to understand.

“She won’t feel no more pain if I shoot her right, mister.” He spoke with a thick Northern accent, the pain audible in his grave tone.

“Have you ever shot a horse before?” Scott pointedly asked him. When the coachman shook his head, Scott continued, “It’s not as easy as you might think it would be. When you have to watch them crumple, their legs buckling beneath them; when you see the light leave their bright eyes for the very last time; when that mighty beast takes its last breath, and God’s green earth loses yet another magnificent creature… You may think that you’re doing the horse a favour but that is only true if shooting her is the very last resort.” Scott took a step closer, his hand upturned and aiming for the gun. “Let me help you. It isn’t too late. We can save your horse, sir, together.”

The coachman’s dark eyes darted briefly from the horse to Scott who now stood beside him, but he still held his nerve. “This ain’t your horse and, to be perfectly honest with you, sir, this here ain’t your problem.”

His words ignited a blazing rage that rushed through Scott’s system. “Now, you listen to me, sir,” Scott emphasised the word with enough bite that the coachman looked at him for more than a brief second. “On the other side of that bush there is a very distraught young woman who does not want you to harm this horse.  She is tremendously disturbed by this whole situation as it is, and I’d rather you do not further add to that distress. Lower your weapon and let us help the poor creature!”

The gun wasn’t lowered easily. Scott could see the man’s arm shake, but eventually the weapon was down at his side. The coachman staggered backwards, looking at his pistol as though he was seeing it for the first time. He hadn’t wanted to shoot the horse, that much was clear now, and Scott was all the more glad that he’d managed to stop him.

He wasted no more time. The mare was still attempting to free herself, kicking violently, and she was at risk of doing herself more of an injury if they didn’t work fast. Scott quickly took the place of the coachman, in front of the animal, and held his hands high to show the mare he was of no threat.

It did not work.

The horse, wild with pain and confusion, lashed out whenever he tried to approach her or her tangled reins, and Scott had no choice but to jump back to avoid being injured himself.

“What’s her name?” He called over to the woman; the coachman had since broken down behind him, perhaps an after effect of shock.

“Fireflash! Fireflash is her name!” Her voice was still trembling but it seemed that the disappearance of the pistol had given the woman a moment of respite.

What a remarkable name for a horse, Scott thought to himself. He was certain he’d heard it before, though he failed to place where and when. Given its uniqueness, perhaps he’d previously met the horse… No, he couldn’t recall a time when he would have done. Why was the name so familiar?

He shrugged off his concern—compared to the very real issue at hand, it was trivial—and returned his attention to the distressed horse. “Very well, Fireflash. Let us see if we can’t help you out of this tangle. Come on, now…”

But it was still no good. Despite Scott’s attempts to calm the horse by using her name, Fireflash still thrashed around. He managed to get all of two steps forward before he had to duck away again. Thankfully, he managed to catch his balance on time, else he’d have fallen right down into the mud!

“We should’a shot her. Put her out’ta misery…”

Scott ignored the coachman’s pointless opinion. Surely the rescue wasn’t over yet and he hadn’t exhausted all his options. Desperately, he sought an alternative.

“Unfasten one of the reins.”

The man didn’t move an inch at first, and Scott feared he was completely unresponsive. He whipped his head around and with his baby blue’s piercing like ice, he snapped, “Quickly, man! Here, this one on the right.”

Behind him, the rein was unfastened, but it was not by Fireflash’s pilot driver. William stood with the reins in his grasp, joining the rescue attempt. “Won’t she bolt, sir?” He queried, far calmer than Scott would wager any of them truly felt.

“No. She’s still attached here, see?” Scott pointed out the last loop of leather that had tangled around a metal wrung. “Besides, I doubt she’d get far on that leg.”

William winced, a soft hiss escaping gritted teeth. “There’s no help for that injury until we make it to London, sir.”

“I’m aware, but for now I’m focussing on getting her free.” He grinned at his coachman but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “One problem at a time, William. One problem at a time. Now, stand back. She may kick and we don’t want anyone else getting injured.”

William did as he was ordered, taking a few steps away. His boots had lost their usual shine, mud spattered across the black surface. “Be careful, sir.”

“I intend to be.”

As Scott had expected, the loosening of the right-hand rein provided Fireflash with enough room to become a little more stable. It wasn’t enough for the horse to fully right herself however, and Fireflash snorted in fear.

“It’s all right, girl.” Scott stepped closer slowly. “I’m going to try and help you. Will you let me do that this time?”

He could feel the eyes of William and the distressed woman on him, but he kept his eyes solely on the horse. He watched for any inclination of further distress and slowly stretched out his hand. The velvet of Fireflash’s nose greeted him and Scott stroked down gently. The mare ceased her trembling, though her whines were still prevalent; understandable, given the circumstances.

A relieved smile formed on his lips. “There, see? Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Only once the horse was calm enough for Scott to say, with absolute certainty, that the mare would not bolt for the hills, did he give the order to William to release the left-hand rein. Scott, gripping the bridle, had control of the horse just in case, though, as he’d expected, she did not take flight.

———————————————

Half an hour later, the rain had calmed down from it’s heavy pelting to a soft, light drizzle. The change had made their work much easier to finish.

After much manoeuvring and gentle coaxing, Scott and William had managed to bandage up the injured leg of the horse and the coachman—Robert they had since learned was his name—had helped them where he could. He’d apologised profusely to Scott about his earlier behaviour but had been waved off. Scott had known the man had meant no ill-harm at heart and that was all that mattered.

William had been advising Robert of the best place to go when they eventually made their way to the capital when Scott had left them to it, approaching the woman once again. Like her horse and the weather, she too had calmed down considerably. She handed him back his coat, now entirely soaked through from the rain, and Scott thanked her with a warm smile.

“Your horse should make a full recovery, so long as you make it to London today.”

“Do you often make a habit of appearing out of nowhere to save the day?” She asked him humorously.

Scott gave a small nod towards his own carriage, abandoned on the side of the wet road a few yards away. “I’d hardly say I appeared out of nowhere, Miss…?”

“Lady.” She corrected him softly. “Lady Norma Hanson.”

“My apologies, Lady Hanson.”

Hanson.

The name sounded as familiar as Fireflash had done, and Scott found himself mentally searching again for a previous event in which he might have heard of both of them. He didn’t ask Lady Hanson, however. After such a successful rescue, he selfishly didn’t want to feel any shame if he had indeed forgotten her.

“You just saved my horse,” Lady Hanson replied with a pretty smile. “Believe me, sir, you are forgiven. We surely would have ended up with a veritable bloodbath had you not shown up on the scene.” A glare was cut across to Robert. Stern words would be had between the two of them later, Scott had no doubt of that.

To try and soften the inevitable blow for the poor coachman, he inclined his head. A soggy curl dangled over his eye. “Oh, I’m sure your man would never have pulled the trigger.”

“No?”

He shook his head, causing a few more chestnut curls to droop. Scott smoothed them back. “No. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure at first, but now I truly believe that he is just as fond of Fireflash as you are. I suspect the horse would have been safe.”

Lady Hanson seemed disinclined to believe him entirely but said nothing more on the matter. “Nevertheless, I shall be eternally in your debt for such a gallant act.”

Before Scott had the chance of replying to her, William hopped over the gate with Robert in tow.

“Sir, we really should be getting on,” William declared. “Your brothers will begin to wonder where we are and I wouldn’t want to worry them unnecessarily.”

“Quite right, William. I shall return to the carriage in a moment.”

His coachman offered him a look. It was a look that Scott knew all too well and one which implied William did not approve. Given his previous behaviour in the past, he couldn’t exactly fault the coachman, but, this time at least, Scott had meant his words.

Once William had departed, Lady Hanson asked, “Are you headed to London for the Season?”

With a lopsided smile, Scott nodded. “Unfortunately so, Lady Hanson.”

“Please, Norma is perfectly acceptable after these circumstances.”

Scott was acutely aware of his social status. He couldn’t have escaped the gossip rags that circled London, what they wrote about him and his family, even if he’d wanted to. He knew what rumours swirled and the general opinion of the Ton; his family was nouveau riche and, above all else, American.

But the charm that naturally exuded nullified most of that. His brother often teased him for it, more so whenever Scott failed to notice the effect he had on most people. Anyone, regardless of gender, who entered into a conversation with him ended up hard pressed to leave, though women were typically more troublesome. They would smile and swoon and giggle bashfully at any anecdote he shared, and they would often insist on disregarding the proper formalities, which was one thing he wasn’t willing to risk.

Lady Hanson was no exception, it seemed.“In that case, perhaps we shall meet again at some soirée?” She suggested with a not-so-subtle flutter of her eyelashes.

“Perhaps we may.” It was his best diplomatic reply. He was thankful none of his brothers were currently present. He’d never have lived it down. “For now, I shall bid thee farewell.” Scott took her gloved hand and briefly raised her knuckles to his lips. “Lady Hanson, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I wish you a safe journey into London.”

Sometimes a man needs (E, 5.5k, Flower Shop)

Quote: Harry knew what a huge mistake the whole thing was, but he’d already fallen for Malfoy, so what harm would a few more nights do? What harm would it do to kiss Malfoy some more and inhale his intoxicating smell? What harm was it that Malfoy spent almost every evening with Harry and whispered things in the dark that he never alluded to in the day? Harry was in love and in pain, but he might as well get what he could while he could.

My thoughts: I love the magical flower shop I created here, the types of flowers I came up with, and, craft-wise, I love Harry's voice. I remember I'd struggled with this fic, starting and deleting, starting and deleting, until I got a handle on Harry's voice and then it flowed in a morning.

The Gift (E, 29,5k, Captive Prince references)

Quote:  Draco’s desires — at least where Potter is concerned — are a tangle, messed up like he is. A war of contradictions: Draco wants to please Potter, and he wants to hurt him. He wants to see Potter in ecstasy, but he can’t allow himself to be the one to do it. So, he’s chosen another way, a way that gives and takes at the same time. ‘You’ve been such a good boy so far,’ Draco tells Potter and watches with pleasure his instant reaction, the blood colouring his face. ‘I think you deserve a treat for being so good. So… obedient. Which is why Adam here will give you a… gift.’

My thoughts: Used to have complicated feelings about this one. I'd hidden it for years and only revealed it a couple of months ago. Draco is a writer here and channels many of my doubts and insecurities. It's not a fic that has a wide appeal, not cute or fluffy at all, but I love my prose here and I had fun with inserting CaPri nods and writing excerpts of a magical CaPri story.

The Boy Who Died (E, 26.8k, Voldemort Wins AU)

Quote: At times he thought he noticed his own lust mirrored in Malfoy’s gaze, like when he cooked and Harry sat on the kitchen table, mouth and fingers sticky with treacle syrup or brown sugar, or when Harry left the shower in his pyjama bottoms, his hair soft like a waterfall down his bare shoulders. Harry had taken to sleeping topless; he couldn’t get used to Malfoy’s fancy pyjamas, and although Malfoy had looked extremely put out the first time, he didn’t object.

My thoughts: I'm just so fond of this one! I thought of the reincarnation plot because of wangxian and I peppered some wangxian Easter eggs in this fic, but I didn't expect to fall in love with this dystopian, Voldemort Wins 'verse. It's a bleak world but somehow this fic has become one of my comfort reads and I've reread it often since posting it.

Through the Looking Glass and What Draco Found There (E, 17.4k, Mirror of Erised alternate dimension)

Quote: Getting to know Harry was to love him: hearing him laugh at Weasley’s jokes, watching him sleep, witnessing his passionate devotion to what was right and the ardor with which he supported his friends. He had butterflies in his stomach just at the sight of him; a sentiment he attempted to hide under a mask of cool detachment, because if anyone found out, Draco would be kicked out of Slytherin for incurable soppiness.

My thoughts: I love the Mirror universe I came up with, and am proud of the treatment of the Shrieking Shack in this fic, which I haven't seen elsewhere. It's one of my works I'm most proud of. I didn't expect it'd be emotional, but I've received a bunch of comments, some of them very recently, saying it made readers cry. oops?