#smdrabble

Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.
 

And the lights go out, the moon hidden behind a veil of clouds. Hot humidity sticks to her skin, to her hair as the only sound that reverberates in the room is her heartbeat. 

His gaze burns her skin, burns her like fire, like love, like things she isn’t ready to admit just yet. 

The Bog King, though, reaches out a hand, palm up and claws flat, a silent invitation for her to stay if she chooses. 

Marianne holds her hand to her chest–unsure, afraid, scared–because what if, what if he sees her. Sees her flaws, sees the scars on her heart, her hands, her soul if the moonlight shines down and reveals all that to him. 

But love is glowing, love is brewing as his sky blue eyes light the room between them, his smile gentle, his hand gentle as it hangs in the air between them, waiting and waiting and waiting for her to make up her mind. 

Warmth bubbles in her chest, a sun seeping out as she takes his hand and curls her fingers in his. 

He pulls her slowly, like the dance between moon and waves, between sun and earth, between him and her and brings her fingers to his lips. 

“I’m glad you decided to stay, love,” he says, honesty illuminating the air, confession bright like fireflies. 

Marianne takes his knuckles and kiss them too, her words bright like the sun in her chest, her soul, her heart. 

“Me too.” 

She hovers, her toes barely skimming the ground, as she navigates through the tree trunk castle. The fairy heir is thankful that the castle sleeps, tucked under mossy blankets and swimming in cozy goblin dreams. She too wishes that she could join them, wrapped in the arms of her lover, sleep restful and serene, but tonight it alludes her. 

Pushing open the back door, Marianne prays it doesn’t creak. It doesn’t and she swallows cold night air and welcomes the icy feeling that coats her lungs. 

It is the silence she greedily basks in, in this moment of control she feels like she has. Her mind is racing, but the cool air and quietness anchor her to reality that is not her racing thoughts. 

Folding her wings until they are pressed firmly to her back, she places one foot in front of the other with no destination in mind, just that she needs to move. The rhythmic motion of walking--left foot, right foot--in addition to the solitude of a chilly night creates a balance that her mind craves. 

Marianne wants to say she knows what’s wrong, but she can’t, the answer to that question as evasive as the rest she needs. There are too many thoughts, weaved from fears and doubts, tying themselves into knots in the pit of her stomach. Maybe, she thinks, maybe that is why she can not fly tonight. 

Or maybe, she ganders, it is the pressure that is building in her chest. And she wants to scream, from the top of her lungs, in fact, but she can’t do that either--sound refusing to leave her lips as she continues to walk in no particular direction.

Her thoughts are circling, needlessly continuing from wanting somebody, anybody to be awake to just wanting to be left alone. She’s caught in this loop between utter loneliness and sheer independence that she doesn’t see the person flying towards her. 

It is not until she walks straight into said person that her thoughts cease, if only for a second, and she sees the person she didn’t know she wanted: Bog.

His face is cautious, “Marianne?”

His voice the breaks the spell of silence and she doesn’t know if she hates him for it or if she’s glad to hear his concern, but she decides to not dwell on either. 

The princess takes a step forward and closes the space between them, wrapping her thin arms around his lean frame. 

“Can we just stay like this for a little while?” she asks, cheek pressed to his chest. Marianne doesn’t even know how to explain how she feels.

But when his claws stroke her hair, nails somewhat combing her locks, she doesn’t feel like she needs to, his reassurance of being something stable and not her chisels away at the interwoven fears in her stomach.

“Pay up,” she gloats. 

He scowls, a growl biting at the back of his throat. “I’m not going to bloody pay you silly little thing.” 

But Marianne only grins, showing off the gash on her arm like it’s worth a million bucks. “I told you that I was going to need more than ten stitches.” Throwing her hand out, she motions him. “Now, pay up good, sir!”

I’m dedicating this to goldwerewolf & thatchickwiththeheadphones! I’m not sorry.

It’s late at night when moonlight pools in her bedroom. The silver light freezes time, the constant ticking of eternity’s clock ceasing causing the only resounding tocking to be her heartbeat. 

She tosses and turns in her sheets, promising herself that she would sleep before reading the letter again, but sweet comfort from seeing his scrawl is too much of an allure. 

She springs to her feet and grabs the letter that rests on her vanity. Dashing back to bed, she giggles as she gets under the covers again. She received it this afternoon and she’s read it dozens of times since, but she can’t help the peace she feels when she reads:

To my dearest Marianne,

I wish that I could write a thousand words that will convey what I feel, but if I do that, I will delay what I want to say. Each second without you is dull and the moonlight is no longer as perfect.

So, to put it simply, Marianne: can I see you soon?

I miss you very much. 

Yous,

Bog, The Bog King

As she drifts to sleep, she relishes in his yearning just a bit longer, promising to swiftly write him in the morning.

He never knew that he could feel this way, never knowing that somewhere out there that there was a hand to fit perfectly into his. He never knew that before her that there is a comfort in knowing, in realizing that someone loves you.

Yet now he knows and he still can’t thank his lucky stars enough because she’s tucked tightly to his side as they watch clouds drift by. The sun is warm and bright, but it lacks the heat her touch contains as she absentmindedly draws circles and figures on his chest. 

“This is addictive,” she whispers, her voice vibrating his plates.

He closes his eyes and snuggles her close, a humming his question.

“You’re addictive,” she corrects herself. 

The grass tickles him as he turns to look at her, an urge to see her hazel eyes boring into his. She’s so close that he can see the specks of gold and hints of black. 

“You are too,” he says pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

When she enters her father’s study, it reminds her of the day her mother passed away. It’s lifeless. But he’s staring so intently outside the window, his back rigid, his knuckles white as his side. 

He didn’t hear that her opening the door. 

She pauses for a second, before knocking a bit and asking, “Daddy?”

Her father whips around, his face free of his royal mask and he struggles between wearing the one of her king and the one of her father. After a few moment, his king’s mask stays intact, but it is her father who is looking at her.

He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, the words unable to come out it seems.

But Marianne is braver than that. She’s to be queen one day after all.

She steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “Father,” she starts again, “what is it?”

Her father sighs, his shoulders sagging and he picks a letter off his desk. It rests in his hands for a few moments before he hands it to her. 

“Read this.” 

Tentatively, she grabs the letter and her eyes scan the page, cracking her heart the more words she reads. 

Moonlight pools in her room again, but the light no longer freezes time. Instead, it drags time sluggish forward, each second adding pressure to her chest. 

She promised herself she wouldn’t read it again, but she can’t help it. She has to read, she needs to read. 

Ducking her hand under the cool side of the pillow, she retrieves a letter that has been folded and refolded again and again. The creases and divots slowly fading white, marring the once pristine parchment as if aged.

She tries to read each letter as carefully as she can, almost as if she missed a word in one of her previous thousand readings. The words have already imprinted themselves on her soul and her heart,  whispering that she’ll never forget them. 

To Princess Marianne, 

We regret to inform you that the Bog King is dead. 

We send our condolences. We will have more news for you soon.

Sincerely, 

The High Royal Council of the Dark Forest 

She doesn’t cry anymore when she reads it.

Rolling over onto her back, she holds the letter over heart.

Once upon a time, Dawn became Queen of the Light Fields.

gigiree & suzie-guru for encouraging me! Only the prologue is up, but I should have the first chapter up soon. 

Once upon a time, the second born became Queen of the Light Fields, the Northern Fairy Kingdom. Yet, I’m sure you’re asking how I, Princess Dawn, received this high honor?

So, I have headcaonned that Marianne and Dawn’s mother aka Heaven to be from the South. Here are some things about her home and her family. 

carnations & chrysanthemums// skies and red strings// drizzle

Her days always start before dawn, the moon still fat in the sky and the stars still needed for sailors’ maps. She wakes up her brothers and sisters quickly, rousing them so that family chores can be done before her morning drills. They whine and moan as she kisses their heads before ripping off their blankets, exposing them to the cold sea chill. 

“If the sun is up before you are, I’m going to cuff your wings,” she always threatens. 

She flies down to the kitchen to help her mother prepare breakfast. Sunshine hair greets her, tied in braid that she wears as well. 

“Fish again today, Ma?” she asks while she grabs some seaweed to fry, the oil pot hot in the kitchen’s hearth.  

Her mother’s soft voice is barely heard as she chops of fish for the pan, “Well, my squires need their strength if they want to become royal knights.” 

“Oh, Ma,” she laughs. “What about some quail eggs? I like those.”

Her mother laughs loud for such a frail woman, her orange wings twitching, but her once healthy and glowy skin is more dull as she stays indoors. “Oh skies, Heaven. If we feed you eggs, the boys won’t have a chance to grow.”

The sun is peeking over the ocean’s low tides, pink and orange, turning the water golden. 

She can hear her younger twin brothers finishing up work in the stable, cleaning the rat pens and feeding them well. Berg and Adri, young men built like mountains, are laughing like hooligans. She can see their matching red wings and dark brown hair as they throw feed at each other. 

Shaking her head, she flaps her blue and golden wings and heads to the gardens in search of her younger sisters. By the strawberries is maidenly Rose, her pink wings bright against the green leaves. Beside her is the youngest one of all, Tara at Rose’s skirts, her baby wings barely budding from her back 

All siblings accounted for, Heaven speeds off for morning drills.

“Again!” the captain shouts, his voice stern over the squires as they train.

“Yes, sir!” they shout back, flying back up the cliff. 

They are sopping wet and cold, salt water coating their lips. The sky is blue now and the waters are clam during the transition to high tide.

The captain, who is also her father, is a strict leader. His dark blue wings flaring as he stands tall, the sun against his back. “We are not like those Northern Fairies,” he yells, but his face is smiling, his green eyes twinkling. The recruits laugh, knowing exactly where this is going. “Unlike our landlocked cousins, we Southerners are special. Does anyone know why?”

In the front row, a hand shoots up. It’s Darren from down the road, Haven realizes, a boy she’s known ever since before she could fly. The captain nods to him. 

“Well, sir,” Darren starts, his posture smug as he crosses his arms, “We Southerns can swim.”

The captain claps his hands together, his expression excited, his voice booming for all to hear, “Exactly! We can swim!” He gestures to the seas behind him, “Our Mother Ocean has blessed us with wings that can swim! A texture like leather, but softer than silk.” 

She can’t help but stroke her wings, she has been moisturizing them every night. 

“So do you know what that means, my young squires?”

“No, sir!” the reply unison.

From where she stands in the back, she sees her father’s grin and her stomach drops. That grin looks far too mischievous. 

“You’re going to be diving until high noon today!”

Everyone groans before jumping off the cliff again.

It is early afternoon once she’s washed all the sea and sand from her body. 

The sun is strong today, warming her skin and she feels that by tomorrow she will be even darker, a trait well loved by her people. She catches a summer breeze and glides down to the port, excited to see what new wares have come from far away lands.

There are ships of all sizes and makes, the citizens all looking more unique than the next. But she sees a small one that is her favorite and dives down to greet the owner. 

“Xu!” she hollers as she barrels into a small goblin, “You’re back!”

Xu laughs in her embrace, her bumpy skin rough against her hands, “Whoa, there Heaven! I’ve barely set up shop.”

The fairy spins her round a few times, before placing her friend back on the docks, “Tell me everything!” 

Xu clicks her tongue as if she is going to chide her, but barks a laugh, “Come in for a cuppa, love. I got great stories to tell you about the Dark Forest.”

Heaven giggles and wraps an arm around her friend. Some things are just irreplaceable.

It is evening when she returns home, bone tired from her drills and from Xu’s wonderful storytelling. 

Her father is outside smoking his pipe, the smell of spicy tobacco greeting her at the gate. He is watching the stars again, his face towards the sky.

“You know,” he says, “We almost named you Star.” 

“Oh?” she questions as skips to stand beside him.

He nods, “Yes, we almost named you Star.”

She bumps his side and he chuckles. “Why didn’t you then?”

He pulls her close to him and they both turn their attention upwards, “Because you’re going to be something great. Better than a star.”

“Hmm,” she hums, “You think?”

He squeeze her side, “Nah, I don’t think, kiddo. I know so.”  

So, I’m currently stuck on a bus, so here are my head cannons about how their mom and dad met.

XxX

Her name was Heaven and she was born in the Southern Beaches, a place where sun was bright year round.

Her wings were the color of the sky and sun at high noon; bright blue and gold. Her hair was sunshine weaved into silk, long and luscious, but always in a braid. Her skin was the color of sand when ocean waves kissed it and her eyes were the warmest brown you ever saw, chasing the cold front away.

Yet for all her beauty, Heaven came from a long line of royal knights, each swearing their honor to their King. Like her foremothers and forefathers, she wore a sword at her side and tore anyone who got in her way.

It was by chance one evening, as she danced on the sea’s surf, that she came across a man with dark auburn hair and blue eyes like clear water.

It was by chance that he smiled, sheepish and shy, staring at her like she was a treasure.

It was also by chance that she met his eyes, flying to him on a zephyr’s touch, a need pulling her towards him.

But as she neared, she knew it was fate as her heart pounded in her chest, tying them both in red strings.

“I am Heaven, a sword for my King.”

“And I am Dagda, a prince by right, but in this moment, just a humble man.”

Sometimes Bog wakes up in the middle of the night, his sleep disturbed and his dreams ruined. 

For a moment, he’s a ready to spring into an attack, yell at whoever woke him, but then a thin arm just holds tighter and a sigh is breathed on the back of his wings. 

It’s in those moments he remembers that she’s there, holding him closer, snuggling into him as they sleep. In her slumber, she tosses a leg over his own, an attempt to cover him as if she was his second skin. She mumbles something that sounds like his name. 

Warmth spreads through his heart and heats his chest. Because it’s her that wakes him on these nights, he doesn’t mind. Gently he grabs her hand and snakes his fingers through hers, Shutting his eyes, he drifts off to sleep again.