As small as the world

caffeinewitchcraft:

writing-prompt-s:

write a story about how you became the world’s most powerfull person… by accident.

1. You learn about the butterfly effect in school. The concept is interesting, but not so interesting that you don’t fall asleep partway through the movie. You hear something distantly about a butterfly beating its wings and hurricanes. You think it will never apply to you.
2. You know now (not then) that power comes through and from favors.
3. If you had known that then you would probably not have done so many.

(This is where it starts.)

One.

There is a strange creature crossing the road behind the lecture hall. You stop on your bike and frown at it. It looks a little like a turtle, but it’s limbs are longer than any turtle you’ve ever seen. It’s stretched out on the hot asphalt, long, pale limbs clawing forward towards the small stream that runs on the other side.

 You hop off your bike and gently pick the creature up, hands under the belly of the shell like you learned from the internet.

Imagine your surprise when the shell slides off the creature instead, dropping a tiny woman onto the asphalt.

“Water,” she croaks, tiny eyes screwed shut.  Her eyelids are the size of yours which means they’re huge on her. “Please.”

(You will not know until later what exactly please means to the fae.)

You feel yourself move through your shock. You pick her up and take her to the water’s edge. She slips under the surface, pale skin flashing like the scales of a fish, and she’s gone.

You’d wonder if your roommate slipped you something this morning if she wasn’t back a moment later, pushing a small rock into your hands.

“A boon,” she says. Her eyes are large and black, suited for her underwater world. “For a favor.” She smiles, showing teeth jagged and sharp like a piranha.

When you blink, she’s gone.

You stare at the rock in your left hand. It’s smooth and worn from years in water, an interesting swirl of granite and quartz. “I wish I knew,” you tell it.

The rock ices over so fast that you don’t have time to drop it. The frost swirls across your skin, burning you where it touches, and you watch in horror as your skin turns a mottled black and blue.

 You fall to your knees from the pain and choke on a scream as the stone sinks into you, touching your bones and sending more ice through your marrow. It climbs up your arm and touches your eye, changing you vision so now that you’re see double, a strange, blue world juxtaposed next to the one you know and love.

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caffeinewitchcraft:

writing-prompt-s:

You have this… friend. Really nice bloke, buys you a beer when you’re feeling down, kills the people who’ve wronged you, etc. You don’t actually know his name though.

You watch him make his way through the crowded bar, clapping seemingly random people on the back and shaking his head at others. One woman leans forward and plants an enthusiastic kiss on his mouth. He responds by spinning her to the pub’s music and releasing her with a good-natured smile.

You wonder if she knows his name.

The pint in your hand is cold and exactly what you need right now. You can’t get the image of your husband’s body lying broken on the ground out of your head. You think you should be angry or scared or sad, at the least, about his death, but all you can drudge up is a mild sense of relief.

You drink half the pint in one go and the bartender looks a little more approving of you. You’ve proven that you’re not just a well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties who’s out of her depth in this dive bar. You’re a well-dress woman in her mid-thirties who’s out of her depth in this dive bar who can drink. That makes all the difference.

You actually don’t remember when you and he became friends. You didn’t know him in high school which is where you met your husband. Ex-husband. You didn’t meet him in college either, you would remember if anyone had died then. Surely you would have?

You are no longer sure. You don’t even know his name.

You see him on the other side of the bar, talking lowly to a rough looking group in the corner. They all seem friendly, nearly worshipful, of your friend. He’s clearly asking them for something, a favor maybe, and no one seems to be denying him.  They look happy, glowing under his regard. 

You know the feeling. 

When he comes back, he’s smiling comfortingly. “My friends will take care of the body. I know that you can’t afford the police involvement right now, not with Senator Hudson’s reelection so close.”

Somehow my boss’ seat at the table is the last thing on my mind, you almost say. But you don’t because, as usual, he’s right. Police involvement right now would be disastrous and would make it so that you never worked on the Hill again.

“You’re always looking out for me,” you say, looking down into your almost empty pint. You are actually no longer sure that that’s true.  In fact, the more you think about it, the more sure you are that it’s not true.

He pauses for a moment, head cocking. “I want to look out for you. I’m happy to do it. I think there’s something else on your mind, though. Wanna talk about it?”

There is a chill working its way up your spine. it tells you that your…friend must not know that you have doubts about his ‘looking out for you.’

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caffeinewitchcraft:

corvidprompts:

“All in all, you truly don’t mean anything to the rest of the world. I’m the only one who truly cares for you. Not the symbol you bear, but you” the antagonist cooes, cupping the protagonists cheek.

(Tagged with dark, creepy, possessive character. And just kinda sad and scary)

Jason doesn’t remember what he looks like. The days pass by in long smears of darkness, of words grating up his throat, of his hands clenched too tightly around his sword, of lights going out and out and out. Mirrors don’t reflect his russet skin, his buzzed hair, his strong nose, his full lips. Instead they yawn in front of him, eternities of endless space with no stars and no trace of his brown eyes.

He watches the world like sand passing through his fingers and wonders why they think he can save anyone. Because he’s a prince? The prince? Because his father never wanted him on the throne–and yet here he is? Or maybe it’s because of that damned prophecy Gilbert, the court sorcerer, once whispered over his head as a baby.

The people have always loved Gilbert. Immortal and timeless Gilbert who’s been a constant leader in their lives, their parents’ lives, their grandparents’ lives. 

How much more blood would stain Jason’s hands if they knew? The Sorcerer’s Council–the highest magical body in the land– is only their ally because they think Jason has Gilbert’s full support. They provide aid to the parts of the country Jason’s limited army can’t reach, they hold the borders against the monsters and the hungry thrones beyond the sea, they do what Jason can’t since his father fucked off with nearly the entire army to fight a useless war for land.

Jason breathes deeply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut, as he tries to push the black feelings down and down and down.

His father may still be King, but Jason is the one who sits on the throne in his absence. And he’s got work to do.

————————————————————————

“The people are calling for a coup,” Gilbert says from the shadows of Jason’s office. Jason doesn’t even look up from his reports, though he’s no longer reading them. The letters had started swimming hours ago and it’s only been through sheer force of will that Jason has even attempted to make sense of the pages in front of him. “They want you to be King.”

“You know why I can’t do that,” Jason says. He signs off on a diplomatic meeting between his country and their neighbors to the south and then looks up, leaning back in his chair. “Father would just turn around and kill us all. He’s got control of the army. I thought you were staying out of this.”

Gilbert’s long, black hair slides across his shoulders  as he leans forward to tap Jason’s finished paperwork. “I’m staying out of this.” A small smile flashes across his face. “Well, until you ask that is.”

When he was younger, Jason hated Gilbert. Hated how it was his prophecy that led Jason to growing up in a tower, in exile, all alone. 

Now?

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