
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13812099.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      魔法使いの嫁_|_Mahou_Tsukai_no_Yome_|_The_Ancient_Magus_Bride
  Relationship:
      Elias_Ainsworth/Hatori_Chise
  Character:
      Elias_Ainsworth, Hatori_Chise
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Fluff_and_Smut, Virginity
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-27 Updated: 2018-03-25 Chapters: 2/? Words: 8874
****** Morning Light Shall Burst Bright ******
by charmsfly
Summary
     The rich heat of the summer solstice approaches, and a new kind of
     magic stirs between them.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hi everyone! This is my first fic for this gorgeous, gorgeous story.
     I've torn through 20 episodes of the show, and I'm working my way
     through the manga...and maybe I should have waited until I had
     actually finished all of it, but I couldn't help myself. I've been
     itching to write about these two dorks.
     So...yeah, I don't really know what this is. Let's call it an AU.
     It's basically just me screaming "EVERYTHING AFTER THAT FIRST
     CHRISTMAS WAS FINE AND NOTHING BAD HAPPENED AND EVERYONE WAS HAPPY!"
     We're going to ignore canon and curses and sadness, and focus on
     fluff, okay? Okay.
     This is somewhat suggestive now, and much more explicit later. Chise
     is sixteen. Please keep that in mind before you decide to read. And
     if you do read it, please enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sometime over the seasons, she has grown into a woman.
She is still small. She will always be small. She will always have bones like a
wren, like a robin. Her head will always brush his chest. Her body will always
be a fragile thing - not frail, he reminds himself, never frail - and she will
always be small.
But she has changed. She has grown softer. Fuller. It strikes him one morning
over breakfast, when she's standing beside the kitchen counter in a pale wash
of sunlight. Silky is tending to crackling strips of bacon. Chise is reaching
around her, stretching above her head to one of the upper shelves. She pats
around inside the cabinet until her fingertips brush the edge of a fine china
saucer, and she pulls it towards her.
There is a new shape to her, as she stretches. A new curve. Her spine arches,
and her waist dips, and her hips flare. It has been a subtle change, and she
hides it well beneath heavy woolen sweaters and pleated skirts. But this
morning, in the bright summer air, she wears a simple shirt with sleeves that
bare her arms. It's one she hasn't worn for over a year - the color of
emeralds, of rain-soaked grass - and it clings more tightly to her than it did
before.
"Ruth?" She turns to call over her shoulder, and he hears a rustle of fur in
the hall. "Tea?"
"No thank you." The grim pads into the kitchen, morphing as he moves, shadows
gathering, spreading, rearranging. He takes his usual seat, eagerly tucking
into the plate already heaped full of buttery fried eggs.
She flashes the familiar a smile, gently pulling two saucers and cups down. The
hem of her shirt rides up for a moment - a fraction of a second - revealing a
snow-pale patch of skin along her waist. A snow-pale patch that Elias's eyes
lock to, until it disappears beneath the fabric, and she's weaving back around
Silky, preparing the kettle.
She flutters like a true robin this morning, all chirps and twitters. The air
is warm, and the windows are open, and the sun-soaked morning floats through
the house like a haze.
It takes him a moment to realize she's humming as she bustles about, doing the
one task Silky sees fit to leave to her - measuring out the tea leaves, heating
the water, fiddling with the strainer. She drizzles a spoonful of rich gold
honey into her own tea.
She keeps humming as she crosses over to the table, passing him his cup, and
turns back to the counter to collect her own. It's a bright, airy song,
tuneless and tumbling, but he feels it stirring in the air around him, feels it
plucking at his veins like a branch of dry thorns.
It continues as she settles down across from him. As Silky sets plates before
them both, and busies herself with the dishes. A song interrupted by sips of
tea and bites of bacon. By chatter between her and Ruth, who has already
scarfed down a mountain of food. She returns to the little song again and
again, whenever her mouth is still. And Elias finds himself clinging to it.
Sinking into it.
It makes the room warmer.
It makes the room blossom.
It makes the room smell of ripened fruits, and torn bark, and fragrant flowers.
A damp, heavy summer's eve.
Or perhaps it's her, he thinks, as the song in her throat quiets behind another
forkful of eggs. Perhaps she's the one bursting into bloom this morning,
dizzingly vibrant. Perhaps her cheerful presence alone - all magic, all myth on
the cusp of the coming solstice - shakes the world into aliveness, awakeness.
Whatever it is, her smiles or her songs or some latent spell in the air, the
world shimmers and spins, and the room is swept into the spiral of her voice,
her small kittenish voice, and the birds are quiet, and the breeze is quiet,
and each simple note hangs like a bud of clover on a garland, and-
"Is everything okay?"
The humming has stopped. She's watching him - looking from his face to the
untouched plate of food before him, and back up to his eyes.
He hasn't taken a bite. He's been too busy staring at her. At the swell of her
bottom lip. At the flash of her throat as she swallows.
"Yes. I'm fine." He fumbles for his tea, now stone cold. But he still raises
the cup to his jaw, suddenly anxious for his hands to be
doing something. "You're very chipper today," he says, as calmly as he can,
while he tilts the cup towards his mouth. Tepid liquid rushes between his
teeth.
"Am I?" She pushes away from the table, gathering her plate and Ruth's. She
does not hum as she walks to the sink. She's as silent as snowfall. But her
hips - new hips, softly curving hips, hips made to held, to be cradled - sway
with a song of their own.
So many changes. So many that have gone unnoticed, that have crept up on him so
silently, they may as well have sunk into his own shadow. She is no longer the
dour, half-empty girl who sold herself on the auction stage. She has grown
bolder.
Brighter.
Fuller.
She reaches for a rag, ready to help dry dishes. Silky swats her arm away.
"Silky," she sighs, reaching back for the rag. "Please. Let me-"
Another quick swat. The housekeeper stares, wide-eyed and flat-mouthed, at the
girl.
"Fine," Chise mutters, pulling her arm close to her chest, a bit of a pout to
her lips. "I'll do something else." She leans back against the counter. White-
gold sunbeams catch the edges of her silhouette.
She will be seventeen when the snows fall. Seventeen years in this world,
growing, nearly grown, but she is beyond young. She is a sapling, only
beginning to shoot through the damp soil. She is green and fresh, unfurling
delicate leaves one by one.
And this morning - a honey-golden, fruit-scented morning - he finds he scarcely
recognizes her.
Or he has scarcely been looking.
"Your outfit is different," he says. He hadn't really meant to say it aloud.
The words had been hovering like fog, just on the edges of his thoughts, but
they tumble out all on their own. A mouthful of honeybees stinging his tongue
until he lets them loose.
Her eyes go wide, and her brow furrows, and she blushes as she frowns down at
herself. "I thought...when I put it on, it...it doesn't fit right anymore, but
I didn't have anything else...I haven't done laundry…"
The words tumble out of her. Her own hive of honeybees, and she stutters and
stammers. He sees Ruth's face from the corner of his eye, shadowed, with
narrowed eyes locked on the mage's skull. The grim is displeased.
"It's...is it...is it okay?" She is skittish. Her hands are tugging at the hem
of the shirt, fussing with the fabric. Trying to stretch it away from the soft
curves.
"It is," he says with a nod, unsure of what exactly has happened. Ruth's eyes
bore holes through him. "You look...well."
Well isn't the word. It has the wrong shape, the wrong weight on his tongue.
There are better words.
"Nice," he says, testing it. That. That fits better. Feels better against his
teeth, in his throat. "You look nice."
She is silent.
"Oh," she says at last.
She opens her mouth, and a little cracked half-sound catches on her lips. No
more bees. Just blushing.
Blushing. Looking away, looking down. Smoothing her skirt. Tugging at the
shirt. Tugging and tugging, hands flurrying, fussing.
He watches. He sees that her hair is shining crimson in the soft morning light.
That her downcast eyes are a vivid green, springtime green, forest-and-meadow
green.
She's...lovely.
That's the word. That's the word that needs to be said. And he inhales, ready
to say it-
"Th...thank you," she mutters, trippingly, haltingly. "I should...the laundry,
while I'm thinking about it." She turns suddenly, racing out to the garden, a
shaking hand brushing some hair into place to obscure her cheeks. The door
swings shut behind her.
The room is silent in her wake.
He looks down at the teacup, and raises it for another tentative sip.
"She hates the way she looks."
Ruth's words hang in the air. They hover above the kitchen table. Elias
breathes them in, and they fill his lungs, and he chokes on them like they're a
cloud of gnats and one has managed to lodge itself in the back of his throat -
but it's not the words at all, not any gnats, it's just a mouthful of bitter
black tea that stings when he tries to swallow.
He coughs loudly. He thumps his fist against his chest once. Twice.
"Pardon?" he asks.
It isn't often that the grim speaks her thoughts aloud unprompted. Only when
she is heavily troubled. Only when he feels it's warranted. And now, the
familiar tilts his head. He's munching on a shortbread biscuit. Crumbs cling to
the corners of his mouth as he chews.
"Her body feels wrong. It fits wrong." He swallows. "She doesn't like the way
it's growing."
"I'm sure...if she wanted it discussed…"
"She never says anything." Ruth watches him with passive eyes, popping another
biscuit into his mouth. "You know that."
Elias leans forward in the chair, resting his forearms on the table. He sets
the cup down, fingertips tracing the gilded edge, the elegant handle.
"Why doesn't...she like it?" he asks, tentatively. It's a strange thought,
disliking a human body. Disliking a thing that keeps one alive and anchored.
Ruth shrugs. He chomps into a third biscuit, and grabs a fourth as Silky pulls
the tin away from him. "It's all a tumble," he says with his mouth full. "Wrong
shape, wrong skin, nothing's right, too small, too plain, not pretty, not like
Alice, gold hair and curves, not enough, just slight and plain and stuck in a
cursed body, never pretty, never noticed-"
The stream is interrupted by the clatter of Elias's cup on the saucer as his
fingers slip. A bit of tea sloshes over the edge.
"Like Alice?" he asks, tilting his head to one side, matching the grim's
movements.
He shouldn't probe. It's rude of him. Invasive.
But she is his teacher, after all. And this side of humans - this soft
sensitivity, this weakness in the shadow of others - is something he has not
yet grasped.
And if she will not teach him, her familiar will.
"She thinks about Alice a lot," Ruth says plainly. "The way Alice acts and
looks. The way Renfred looks at her."
Again, Elias fingers the delicate curve of the teacup's handle. "The way
Renfred looks at her," he echoes, weighing each word.
Ruth nods.
Elias has never noticed the way the alchemist looks at Alice. He has noticed
their closeness. Their synchronicity. The way they snap together like well-
oiled, turning gears. It is to be expected - a strongly forged bond between
master and apprentice.
"How does he look at her?" Elias asks.
Ruth lets out a puff of air. "You think I pay attention?"
Elias growls. He leans back in the chair. The wood creaks beneath him. "How
does Chise think he looks at her, then?"
The familiar hesitates, furrowing his brow. He parts his lips. Closes them
again. Squints into the middle distance.
"Like...she is the moon."
The moon.
"Like she is made of silver," Ruth says, gaze growing more distant as he taps
into old thoughts, present thoughts, a mad swirling tangle. "Shining white,
gleaming, pure and perfect. A mirror in the dark sky."
Pure and perfect. Never words Elias would use to describe the alchemist's
apprentice.
Loud, perhaps.
Rough, perhaps.
Willful or wild or wearisome.
But she has been a friend to Chise. For better or for worse, they too have
bonded. A strange connection made up of knotted threads. Two humans who,
without their masters, would be as different as day and night. Sun and shadow.
"Chise is...jealous, then?" Elias asks. He hates this hesitation.
This stretching, searching for words, sifting through grains of sand for half-
crushed shells.
He hates that word in particular. The memories it conjures up. Phantoms of his
darkest form. Tentacles, thorns, holding her tight, tight, tighter, his and no
one else's. His.
It was - is - a terrible feeling. Black and bitter, choking the light from the
world.
"Yes." The familiar melts back into his grim form, padding away from the table,
sniffing at the counter. Silky stares down at him, shaking her head. He plops
down beside her, blinking up at the leftover scraps with woeful red eyes. "She
is jealous," he says, watching Silky scrub a pan. "She is sad. She tells
herself no one will see her the same way."
"And how does that involve her body?"
"She thinks her body is…" Ruth sits, tail curled about his legs, and cocks his
head. "Ugly."
Ugly.
The word drips over him like thick, burning oil.
Ugly.
Her body is ugly.
Her body - soft, smooth, small. Pale skin. Scarlet shining hair that smells of
lilac. Forest-and-meadow eyes that sparkle with her smile.
Her body, with these new curves. More softness when he gathers her in his arms.
More places that dip and swell, that yield to him, that fit against him.
Her body wrapped around him in the night, burrowed impossibly close. Her lips,
pink and full, parted in sleep, moving in dreams.
Her body, full of magic.
The crystalline sound of china shattering rips him back to the present. He
looks down, and sees that the handle of the teacup has fractured between his
fingertips.
Silky is beside him in an instant. He pushes the chair back from the table,
giving her room to dust the fragments of glass away. A heavy puff of air
escapes his snout.
"How do I change these thoughts?" he asks. Ruth tips his nose up. A face that
says I don't know.
Useless, the mage thinks to himself.
"She wants to feel pretty." The familiar walks towards the door to the garden,
raising up on his hind legs and bracing his front paws against the door. He
watches Chise as she hangs laundry on the line. "I don't know why."
"Your connection-"
"She's confused," Ruth interrupts, nose pressed to the glass. There will be
streaks on it later. Silky will be upset. "She doesn't know why she wants it.
She doesn't know why it matters. She tells herself it's shallow. Silly."
"It is silly," Elias grumbles, pushing the fractured teacup away. "It's never
concerned her before."
"No," the grim agrees, lowering himself back down to all four paws. "But humans
are easily confused. And Alice-"
"Alice is an alchemist's apprentice." He stands abruptly. Something races
through him. A feeling that prickles like splinters of wood. "Alice is a
different being. Alice is crude, and rough, and-"
"Golden-haired and strong-chined and sharp-eyed." Ruth's red gaze meet Elias's.
"Tall. Slender neck. Graceful curves. A woman."
"That's what she's jealous of? Hair? A neck?"
"Humans are easily confused," the grim repeats.
There's a soft noise beside them. A rustle of skirts. A clatter of cutlery.
They both turn to see Silky's wide stare, eyes drifting back and forth between
them.
"Do you have advice?" Elias asks. She silently turns, raising one pale finger,
and points out the kitchen window.
Chise is still hanging linens, muttering to herself as one billows in the
breeze, refusing to cooperate. Her brow is furrowed. Her lips are pinched in a
tight frown.
"She wants to feel pretty," Ruth echoes. "Someone should do it."
Silky nods.
"Do what?" Elias asks, and his answer earns him a quick rap on the knuckles
with a silver spoon. He pulls his hand away from Silky, whose stare narrows a
fraction of an inch.
"Make her feel pretty," Ruth says. "Make her feel like the moon."
===============================================================================
The garden is in full bloom.
It is full of flowers. Full of birdsong. Full of gentle sunlight and feathery
breezes that filter through shining leaves.
He steps out the door to see her standing on the other side of the clothesline.
Only her legs - long, slender, pleasingly sloped, why hasn't he looked at them
before - are visible beneath the sheet that flutters in the wind.
"Chise?" She peeks around the sheet at the sound of his voice. "Do you have a
moment?"
"Yes." She hastily pins the sheet into place on the line, ignoring the
wrinkles. She brushes invisible dust from her skirt. She runs her fingers
through her hair - longer now, hanging just past her shoulders.
She has been with him just over a year. One year, a mere fraction of a moment,
and he has found he cannot imagine a life without her. She has carved herself a
place beneath his skin, in his bones.
"Walk with me." He holds out his arm, and she stares as it, as if she's not
quite sure what to do. But after a moment, she threads her own arm through his,
and they stroll quietly to the far end of the garden, away from the ears and
eyes of the house.
"It occurs to me," he says, as they stop beneath the shade of a gnarled oak,
"that the solstice is tomorrow evening. And we've yet to plan a celebration."
"Did you want to celebrate?" She looks up at him, and he feels her arm tense as
she tries to pull it free, but he keeps her tight against his side. "We didn't
last year."
"I believe we should," he answers. "Magic runs rich and deep during the
solstice. It's a time of many blessings, and one we often squander."
"Like Yule, then?"
"Somewhat. Nothing so formal." He turns towards the rosebush beside them. "It
is a gentler season. Simpler." Reaching out, he touches the white petals of one
blossom. "We'll prepare a meal. Something outside, perhaps."
"A picnic?"
He nods. It's a term he's never had reason to use before, but he's familiar
enough with the concept. A blanket, a wicker basket full of food. The
glittering twilight above them.
Her skin in the glittering twilight.
He clears his throat, looking pointedly at the blossom.
"I like these roses," she says, and he glances up to see that she's followed
his gaze. "The white ones."
"What about them?"
One shoulder rises and falls. A quick shrug. "I don't know." She touches one
fragile bloom herself, fingertips tracing silky petals. "They look like
clouds."
They're both silent for a moment. Wind whispers around them, and it carries
something of her on its wings. He can sense the potency of her, so close to the
turning of the seasons. The air around her feels richer. Feels charged. Every
movement seems to sing with magical energy.
She glows with it.
Like the moon, Ruth had said. But the mage could never look at her like the
moon. She is no cold, silver-faced mirror hanging in the sky. She does not
catch and cast off false light.
She is flame. Sparking, shimmering flame. She fingers the rose and it seems to
widen at her touch, pulled towards her, petals growing more fragrant, leaves
more verdant. And for a moment, for an instant, he feels himself pulled towards
her, sees himself reaching forward to grab her wrist, holding her flush against
his body, exploring her new shapes and curves and swells, indulging in her
radiant glow, entwining with her, branches and skin, branches and skin, early
summer petals unfolding -
An Ariel alights on her shoulder, twisting a lock of crimson hair between its
fingers, and she brushes it away. She whispers shoo.
The moment shatters like glass. Spiderweb cracks form across the surface.
Spiderweb cracks form deep in his bones.
"I haven't been on many picnics," she says in a contemplative sort of voice,
oblivious to the cracks. To the way her energy rattles through him. She tilts
her head as she lets her hand fall from the rose. "They've always
sounded...fun."
Fun is not a word she has used much.
And he's not sure what's fun about sitting in damp grass, eating food in the
darkness - but his mind flashes again to the idea of her skin in the starlight,
and he lets out a huff of air, gathering himself.
"Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?" He keeps his words tight
and his stance tighter. He takes her arm again as he asks, steering her firmly
back towards the house, and she stumbles alongside him. He pulls her away from
the outside. Away from the roses and the green and the nature. It saturates
her. It pulses with her, around her, through her.
It drives him to think things he has never thought before.
Perhaps the picnic - a night outside beneath the first moon of summer, with the
world swelling ripe and full and fertile around them - was a poor suggestion.
"I don't think so," she says meekly, struggling to match his strides. "Whatever
Silky makes will be fine."
"Silky will make whatever we ask of her," he says bluntly. His apprentice has
been more open with her opinions recently, but he finds that he still has to
coax them out of her, as though they were precious secrets. Sapphires and
garnets and glittering green wide emerald eyes-
"Do you have a favored fruit?" he presses, and the words seem to stick to the
roof of his mouth, and lodge themselves in his throat.
"Um." She hesitates beside him, stopping to think. Frowning down at the grass,
as if she were hoping answers might be hidden in the blades. "Lemons?"
"You say it like it's a question."
"I'm not...sure if they're my favorite. But I like them." She gives herself a
reassuring nod, after assessing the thought. "They're bright. Cheerful."
He nods once as well, steering her quickly towards the door to the kitchen. The
lush warmth outside has grown dizzying. "Lemons it is, then. And hopefully a
few other things."
She gives him a smile. He catches it from the corner of his eye.
Something stifles him, deep in his chest, and he feels as if he's breathing
through a dampened cloth.
It's the smile. It's the smile, that's what stifles him, and he cannot begin to
say why. It's the curl of her lips. It's the tilt of her chin. It's the fine
bones of her jaw, the slope of her neck, the dip of her collarbone, and he
imagines his tongue tracing...
He growls, letting her arm drop. There is too much of the world today. Too much
of its magic. Too much of it weaving in and out of her pores.
It leaves him feeling wild. Ragged. Raw.
"I have a few errands I must attend to," he says, more harshly than he meant.
Her smile falters at the tone. "I'll be back before nightfall."
"Oh. Okay." She turns away, towards the kitchen door. "I...should go study."
"Yes." He nods in what he hopes is a particularly fervent way. She should
study. She should lock herself away in her room, and lose herself in books and
potions. And they should both get far, far away from the thrumming strains of
summer in the air.
And he should get far, far away from her.
He takes another steaming, humid breath, bracing himself, remembering the
purpose of the conversation.
"Chise?" She pauses, glancing over her shoulder as her fingertips brush the
doorknob. "Silky is making you a dress for the occasion. It should be ready by
morning."
"Oh." She blushes again - a delightful pink color, one he'd love to see
blooming all across her skin - and glances down at her feet. "She doesn't need
to go to any trouble-"
"It's no trouble." He waves the words away. It's less than no trouble. Silky
practically unraveled at the proposition, melting into a puddle of sticky-sweet
pastels. She instantly threw herself into the task, fingers flying over
glittering threads, and she will not move for hours.
He doubts they will be having afternoon tea.
Or supper.
Or breakfast tomorrow morning.
Ruth won't take that news well. But the familiar has brought this upon himself,
sharing thoughts he should not have shared.
But perhaps, Elias thinks, as Chise retreats into the kitchen, shrinking into
herself, still fussing with the shirt, it is best that such thoughts be given
voice.
Whatever Silky sews, he hopes it makes his fire-kissed apprentice feel like the
moon. If that is what she truly wants.
Chapter End Notes
     So we're off. Thank you to anyone who reads/reviews/etc.! The title
     is from Eisley's "Marvelous Things" - a very gorgeous, very magical
     song, and one that keeps me daydreaming about this fic.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     HELLO I AM STILL ALIVE. Thank you all so much for the absolutely
     incredible response to the first chapter - it's truly humbling! I
     just kind of busted into this fandom without knowing anything about
     anything, and you've all been so kind and so wonderful. I can't tell
     you how much I appreciate that! I'm sorry this chapter took so
     long...but this fic isn't falling off my radar, I promise! Really.
     I'll be back with more soon! (Ish!)
He has been in the sitting room for half an eternity.
It isn't a phrase he uses lightly. Eternity weighs on him - ages and ages
passing like sand through an hourglass, each one settling into the nooks and
crannies of his joints. He's well used to time, and the way it drifts by him,
burrows through him.
But this - this waiting for her, this tightness that fills his chest and
wanders down towards his stomach - is always unbearable.
"What's taking so long?" he finally asks. He has been sitting, standing,
pacing, prowling. Listening to the unending ticking of the clock hands.
Silky turns from her perch on the couch at the edge of the room. A ball of
blush-pink yarn sits beside her, and her knitting needles move in a blur as she
raises her eyes to his.
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
She looks towards the silent stairs.
And then back down at the rapidly-growing garment in her lap, and there is no
sound but the click clatter click of needles, and the clock, and the rustle of
his clothing.
He sighs, glaring at the empty ash-grey embers. When the confines of his chair
became unbearable, when the circle he walked about the room became too small,
he took to leaning on the mantel. The pudgy salamander rolls at his feet, pale
belly pointed up towards the sky. It watches him expectantly. Its eyes beg for
scratches.
He glances down at it, and waves it off with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
"How long does it take humans to get ready for such a thing?" he asks again, a
bit more sharply.
The question is met with more silence.
Chise is punctual. Chise is practical. Chise is always bounding down the stairs
with something that isn't quite eagerness, but with a readiness, a fervor to
help with whatever needs to be done.
And now she has been upstairs in her room, silent as a little brown church
mouse, for well over an hour.
Dusk is falling. The meal is packed. The moon will rise soon, and -
Footsteps in the hall make him jerk back towards the stairs, but Ruth appears
at the top, padding slowly down to greet them.
"Is something wrong?" Elias asks. The grim ignores him, pausing to sniff at the
basket full of food as he passes it.
"You have fresh bread?" Ruth asks, tail drooping. "We haven't had fresh bread
in ages."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Lemon tarts, too. With raspberries-"
"Ruth."
"I can't tell what kind of cheese-"
"Ruth."
The familiar's shoulders rise and fall with a huff of resigned breath. "No,
nothing is wrong. And it is."
That also - very infuriatingly - fails to answer his question.
"What is it?" the mage asks. The grim pads away from the basket and hops into
Chise's usual seat, curling up on the cushion.
Elias watches him.
Elias watches him while he shifts into position. While he rests his chin on his
paws. While he cocks his ears, listening for movement upstairs.
Elias waits.
"It would be invasive," Ruth says at last, tail tucked up around his nose.
"If she is hurt, or if she is tired, I need to…"
"She's neither of those."
"What is she, then?" He has no time for delicately plucking answers from thorny
branches. And if the familiar was concerned about being invasive, perhaps he
should have considered it earlier...
The grim huffs again, physically drooping, as though the feelings were made of
a heavy black cloak draped around his shoulders. "Nervous. Frightened. Sad. A
twist of things."
"Frightened of what? Sad about what?" It's endlessly frustrating, this game of
half-feelings. Things that are and aren't. Things that were and will be. Things
that settle in between thoughts and emotions, things that have no name but
still work their way beneath the skin like a nettle. He clacks his jaw tight
together, glaring at the familiar.
"The world." Ruth pauses, giving another flick of his glossy tail. "Herself.
She feels...itchy?"
"Itchy?" Elias pushes away from the mantel, looking at his gloved hand. Itchy.
A rash. A bug bite. Irritated, red skin. "What do you mean?"
"Her body is humming. Prickling. Inside, outside, she can't tell." His red eyes
hover on the mage. "She's about to call Silky in and tell her she doesn't feel
well enough to eat."
Needles clack one. Twice. Three times, then pause. He can feel Silky's eyes on
his back.
"Is she truly ill?" Elias asks. He noticed no symptoms earlier today. She was
nervous, yes, and easily flustered, but she didn't appear fevered, or nauseous.
She didn't stumble or slump against him the way she might after a wave of magic
rushed through her. And he hadn't sensed any spells, any shifts in the air...
"No. Or...yes. Or no." The grim seems to furrow his brow. "She's been difficult
to follow lately. Her thoughts are everywhere and everything."
The mage turns towards Silky, who stares blankly. And not blankly at all.
Her eyes drift to the basket. To the stairs. Back to him.
Back down to the yarn in her lap.
He sighs. A weary, worn sigh. This is another thing he does not understand.
Another puzzle of string to unwind. A human who is sick but not sick. Who is
angry and sad and frightened all at once, and does not know why. Who is itchy.
"You are of very little help to me," he tells the grim as he steps towards the
basket.
"I'm trying," Ruth whines. "I'd like to see you pick through this. It's
exhausting."
"I'm sure." He stoops to grab the basket, weaving his arm through the handle,
and he turns towards the stairs. "We'll be down in a moment."
===============================================================================
A moment does not pass as quickly as he intended.
When he opens the door, the sight of her leaves him speechless.
She's sitting on her bed, eyes locked on the window. The dress Silky wove for
her is a sparkling shade of green, with elegant silver and gold embroidery. It
is simple, hanging off one shoulder, baring her neck and a swath of her back.
Fitting for the humid summer's night. A dress harkening back to traditional
faerie garb - a thing that gathers and pools and glistens, loose and willowy.
She is lovely. He thinks it again, and the words are still trapped behind his
teeth, snagging on curved fangs.
"You haven't come down yet," Elias says, setting the basket beside the door.
"Night is falling."
"I know," she says, not turning to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry."
She's speaking too softly. She's always speaking too softly, as though her
voice might scare away a flock of birds pecking seeds from garden. A voice
always quick with I'm sorry where it doesn't quite fit.
"Don't apologize." There's an unusual smallness to her this evening. A
shriveling he hasn't seen in months. She curls tighter and tighter into
herself, as if she hopes she might dry up, disappear in a puff of dust. "Is
something the matter?"
She says "no." And then she says "yes." And then she shakes her head, pressing
her lips to a thin, tight line. And then her hands curl to fists in the fabric
of the dress, and she trembles.
He decides he must forgive Ruth for his fumbling, when it comes to the young
apprentice's thoughts.
"I don't think the dress fits right," she says.
The dress fits the way dresses do. It clings to softer parts of her. It drips
down her skin like melted wax. It's all silk, all shine, and meant to mirror
the green of the world. Meant to let the magic touch her skin. Meant to be
open, organic, enchanted.
"It suits the solstice," he says, crossing the room.
He does not say it suits the emerald green of your eyes.
He does not say it suits your fire-kissed hair.
He does not say it suits the slope of your body.
He does not say it suits you.
He thinks these things.
He feels these things. They prickle against his skin, inside his mouth.
They itch.
He reaches the bed, staring down at her. Waiting.
And waiting.
All he has done tonight is wait. And he thinks to say something of it, because
he is no endless font of patience, until she turns, looking up at him with
bright green jewel-eyes. Eyes that have been crying.
"I don't think I like this time of year," she says, and her voice cracks.
He sits quickly, heavily, on the bed beside her. She turns back to the window,
and she holds herself, arms wrapped tightly around her chest, hands covering as
much of her skin as she can. She keeps her eyes on the darkness.
He reaches out, placing one gloved hand on her forearm, urging her to continue.
"I feel...wrong," she says, through gritted teeth. The way she does when she is
trying not to cry. Because crying is embarrassing, she told him once. Because
crying is childish.
He has never seen it as either, but she holds her jaw tight, willing the tears
back.
"What feels wrong? Does something hurt?"
She shakes her head quickly. "It doesn't hurt. It feels like I'm bursting out
of my skin."
"It is how a snake feels, I imagine, as it grows." He folds one leg across the
other, looking towards the window, and the growing darkness outside. "This time
of year...I told you it was gentler than Yule. And it is. But there is a
heaviness to it. A restlessness."
She tilts her face towards him. Just slightly.
"The magic beneath your skin tonight stirs wildly. The magic in the world as
well." He looks out at the clear sky, at the first glistening hint of stars.
"It will feel...odd, I'm sure. But breathe with it. Take it in, let it out. It
is only air in your lungs."
"It's more than magic." Her fingers dig into the skin of her upper arms. "I
feel like...like I'm stuck. Like I'm not a child anymore, but I'm not…" She
trails off, fingers relaxing slightly. "I don't know what I am."
This is new to her. This rush of of energy, of feeling, of connection. And it
is not just the magic, he reminds himself.
When he first purchased her, he spent some time studying human growth patterns,
knowing that she was still a closed bud on the branch. And there was much to
learn - about the way her body would change. The way her mind would change. The
way she would shift, bit by bit, petal by petal.
She is fertile, with regular menses. He smells it sometimes - a sharp metallic
tang, the scent of blood and tissue. He recalls, quite vividly, asking Angelica
about it during Chise's first month with him. If there was anything he
should do. Anything he should say, or anything she might need.
And he recalls - quite vividly - Angelica threatening to end him if he said one
word about it to the apprentice.
But there is more to it than that. There is more to it than a new body, a new
shape. There are chemicals that rage in her blood as it scrambles to keep pace.
There is confusion, and an unsettledness, and a messy tangle of conflicted
thoughts.
Always woven with magic. Encased in magic. Obscured by it.
She is a girl and a woman and a walking conduit for the world's enchantments.
She is too many things.
She is confused.
"Chise," he says, his hand not moving from her arm. "I have a question for you.
About something Ruth said."
She braces herself, glancing up at him.
"He said you think about Alice often. That you place yourself beside her
and...feel that you are lacking."
"He says too much," she mutters, narrowing her eyes. And he imagines she is
thinking some very pointed thoughts.
"Why do you feel these things?" he asks quickly, hoping he might spare the
familiar a bit of her ire.
She's quiet for another moment - another long, aching moment, and he feels as
though he should hold his breath while she gathers her thoughts, but if he did
that, he might never breathe again -
"It's...I don't know," she finally mutters. She makes a face, scrunching her
nose up. "Embarrassing."
"Embarrasing?"
"Melodramatic." She grimaces. "Immature."
"If you wish to stop feeling these things, then stop," he says, tilting his
head. It all seems very simple, and she is a quick girl. He is surprised she
hasn't ended the thoughts herself. "You see that they are incorrect. You see
that it is childish to measure yourself by her shadow-"
"She's pretty," Chise blurts, and her face turns a bright shade of pink, blood
rushing to her cheeks. "Alice is pretty, and she's brave. She's strong. And
I'm...I don't know."
And now he is silent as he watches her. As he holds her beside the girl in his
memory, the one who left the auction house in chains. The girl who is still her
and isn't her. Her skin is no longer pale and waxen. Her chin is no longer
tilted down. Her eyes, red as they may be from tears, are brighter, and the
bags beneath them have faded.
The lost, frightened girl is still inside them. He sees her there. He sees the
things that follow her. Nothing so clear as Ruth does - not memories, but
ghosts, shadows, things that hover about her shoulders and she cannot brush
them away...
He decides will hear no more of the alchemist's apprentice. Of her flaxen hair,
or her dull human body, or her false moonlight.
"Alice," he says slowly, lowering his hand to her thigh, "is all switchblades
and steel. Sharp edges. She is not you. You are not her."
"Right." She swallows heavily, choking on a lump in her throat. She shifts
awkwardly beside him. "I'm not."
And that is a good thing, he thinks. Because if she were Alice - if she were
untamed, with a spirit like a serrated knife, he would not have purchased her.
She would not have sold herself.
She would have died, never knowing the truth of her body.
Or perhaps another would have found her body. Another would have taken her
body, doing unthinkable things to it. He can see it so clearly - the bruising,
the breaking, the bleeding.
Her body enduring unspeakable agony. Her soft, slight body that sings to him in
a dress woven with stars. Safe in her bedroom. Safe with him.
A guinea pig, Renfred had called her.
His fingers curl to a fist.
"Come now," he says, rising sharply from the bed. He holds out his hand. "We
should not let Silky's work go to waste."
She hesitates. She stares at his glove, lips slightly parted. Face contorted
into a shape he cannot name.
"I don't...think I want to see the others…" She cannot form the words, but she
looks down at herself, at her hands folded in her lap, fingers twisting into
the fabric of the dress.
He grabs one of those hands, pulling her upright, pulling her close. She
stumbles against him.
"Eyes closed," he commands. When the first branches splinter and crackle around
them, she buries her face in the crook of his arm.
===============================================================================
She's quiet when they arrive in the clearing. It is the same one she slumbered
in nearly a year ago. A soothing place, soft and green, with creatures that
rustle quietly in the dark.
She shimmers. Light from the thin sliver of the moon, from the needlepoint
stars - it all gathers on her skin.
She does catch the light, then. She catches more of it than he imagined. But
she doesn't reflect it. She keeps it. She holds it close against her, and it
softens and spills out into the shadows of the forest, changed by her touch.
Lovely, he thinks, again and again and again. Lovely.
And his voice still doesn't come.
She settles back against a tree, running her fingers through a patch of moss.
She seems more at ease now, out in the forest, where things flow loose and
free. No obstructions, no barriers or interference from the enchantments around
the house. Just the charge of faerie magic in the air.
He expected they would need to keep the night short. That he would have to
whisk her away early. Carry her home, limp and exhausted from her body soaking
in the solstice energy.
Perhaps it will be healing, he thinks now, watching the way she softens,
watching her sink back against the bark. Perhaps it will not tax her.
"I still don't understand the dress," she says, looking down at the fabric for
what must be the eightieth time that evening. As if she cannot quite believe
it's real. "If we're just coming out here, it's going to get dirty-"
"Think of it as a tribute," he says. He walks forward, sitting the basket down,
and sinks to his knees across from her. "It is woven in the style of the
faeries. A way of showing gratitude. Of asking their blessing."
"So I'm the offering this season?"
He jerks his head up, but there's a slight smile on her lips. He feels the
corners of his own jaw pulling tight.
"I suppose," he says, opening the basket. It's predictably stuffed to the brim,
overflowing with fresh rolls, goat cheese, fig preserves. With Cornish pasties
the size of his skull.
And with lemon tarts. More lemon tarts than he's ever seen in one place. Enough
lemon tarts to feed them for a month. They're a cheerful shade of yellow, even
in the dim light - just as Chise wanted. They're topped with fresh raspberries,
and dusted with fine snowy sugar.
"This looks wonderful," she says, as she watches him lay out the items one by
one. "Silky did too much."
"She always does."
She eyes the tray of tarts as he sets them aside. "Is it rude to eat dessert
first?"
"Rude?" he asks, twisting the lid from a jar of preserves. It opens with a
soft pop and the smell of cooked figs and sugar fills the air, mingling with
the freshness of the forest.
"For the solstice. Is there a certain...order, or…"
He sets the jar aside, and holds the plate of tarts towards her. "I doubt
anyone will be offended if you eat one," he says.
Again, he feels his jaw pulling as she reaches for one of them. She raises it
to her lips, taking a bite, closing her eyes.
I've never had treats, she'd said shortly after she first arrived, as she
stared down at a tray of delicate chocolate-drizzled biscuits Silky had
prepared. And she had taken one hesitantly - as if it might reach out and bite
her, as if something might snatch it away from her hand - and had taken a small
nibble from the outer edge.
And she had grabbed a few more.
And she had eaten at least six, savoring each bite, licking chocolate glaze
from the tips of her fingers.
His apprentice has a sweet tooth. She makes a happy little hum in the back of
her throat as she eats. And there's another strange stirring through him, as if
the happy little hum penetrates his bones, and he feels it quivering up and
down the length of his spine.
He promises himself that he will give her enough sweets to make her hum for a
lifetime.
"So are there any rituals we need do?" she asks after she swallows, looking up
at him.
No sits on the edge of his tongue, poised and ready. There is no need for any
of this - for a celebration, for offerings, for her to be out in the night
draped in silk and staring up at him with springtime eyes.
But she is lovely tonight.
The crest of summer hangs over them as the moon rises, and magic flutters
through the forest leaves, and she is lovely, and she does not know.
"Dancing," he says, blunt and sudden, without much thought, and she seems to
choke on a bite of lemon tart. She coughs. Splutters.
He stares at the desert in her hand, then looks up to her widened eyes, her
half-parted lips. "Is something wrong with the food?"
"No!" She pops the rest of the tart into her mouth, shaking her head furiously
as she chews.
Too quickly.
He narrows the cant of his eyes. "Something is the matter. What is it?"
She chews. Her eyes dart away from him. Back to him. Down to the plate, the
basket, the opened jar of preserves. Up to the rustling tops of the trees. Back
to his eyes.
"M'not goolat dansin," she finally mumbles around the mouthful of lemony
custard.
He would blink at her, if he could. Instead, he stares.
"What?" he asks, a bit more pointedly than he intended. She ducks her head,
wiping some bright pink raspberry juice from the corner of her lips.
"I'm not...very good at dancing."
"I do not believe it is complicated." He's seen it done before. Simple things.
Swaying. Spinning. Holding one another, gliding together and apart and together
again.
Incredibly simple.
"Come." He stands, and extends his hand towards her. "There's no one to see
us."
"There are faeries-"
"They are often terrible dancers themselves, whether they admit it or not."
She bites her lip, looking at his hand, and hesitating. And something about
that - about that one simple, innocent act - is beyond tantalizing. The edge of
one white tooth pulling at pink flesh, disappearing again. Nibbling. A nervous,
remarkably human habit.
Something in his chest feels heavy.
"The food…" she whispers, looking down towards the basket. He gives a firm
shake of his head, hand still outstretched.
"It's best to do this before the moon is fully risen."
"Oh." She nods, and takes his hand, and he pulls her to her feet. "Why?"
His answer is something to do with the silver slant of moonlight. The way it
filters through treetops, dapples on her skin at this precise moment - and his
fear that the silver slant will change as the moon continues along its arc, and
her skin will lose this pale, perfect glow, and the night will grow still and
quiet, and it will all be one step closer to morning.
Morning with tea and bacon and eggs and the newspaper and sunlight and Ruth's
chatter and Chise's shirt riding up around her waist. Errands and studying
and life getting in their way again.
Something must happen tonight.
Something must happen now, beneath the heavy, cloudless skies of summer, to
show her she is lovely.
"It is a complicated answer." He shifts quickly into a position he's seen
before - one hand on her back, the other holding one of hers poised in the air
- and she makes another small sound in the back of her throat as he pulls her
closer. Not a soft hum. Something like a gasp.
They stand there for a moment. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest as
she breathes. Slight breaths, like a little warbling brushbird, shuddering
against him. He wonders if she is cold, even in the night's heat. Much of her
skin is exposed...and he curses himself for not thinking to remove his glove,
for not taking this chance to feel the skin of her back, her fingers entwined
with his...
He does not realize he is frozen until she mutters the slightest "um," and he
sees her peering up at him through green-glass eyes that catch too much of the
pale moon and the distant stars, and he curses the celestial light for
existing. Curses himself for thinking nothing of it before. "Elias?"
He holds her very carefully, as if she is made of porcelain. And it may as well
be. A body that crumbles if she breathes too harshly.
"Do we...start?" She speaks hesitantly.
"Yes. I suppose we do." He takes his own deep, bracing breath, and applies the
slightest pressure to her waist. She bends towards him, urged along by the
nudge. Urged closer to him. Unexpectedly close, though he did the nudging
himself. The deep breath hitches as she brushes against him.
His mouth is very dry. His fangs scrape together as he opens his jaw a few
centimeters. They snap closed again.
He is so rarely speechless.
She cocks her head to one side, watching him. And there is a quick flicker in
her eyes - a kind of understanding as she looks at him. At the way he stands
there, still, struck dumb.
It is the look she always gives him when she finds a name for his feelings. A
look of appraisal. Of precision.
"I like the way this dress moves," she says carefully, swaying a little in
place. "It's...really pretty. I need to tell Silky how nice it looked tonight."
She pulls back from his arms, from his body, and he is half-ready to reach out
and yank her back. But she holds one of his arms above her head, and beneath
it, she spins.
It's quick - a sloppy twirl that leaves her stumbling when it ends - but green
fabric sparkles around her calves, catching the night air.
"It floats," she says, smiles, looking down at the swishing skirt. Her eyes
widen with something like delight. And she twirls again, then once more, hair
whipping into her face, catching on her lips, and she splutters trying to brush
it away.
She laughs as the skirt flutters back into place. She is breathless, flushed.
The red of her cheeks deepens, and she stares down the length of her body. The
wide, childish smile falters a little. The corners dip.
He still hasn't said a word.
"I know I look ridiculous" she whispers. All at once, she's shy and shrinking
and he sees the shell forming around her, a hard crystalline thing.
She is ashamed of herself.
She truly - truly - does not believe she is lovely.
He does not understand.
He does not know how to fix it.
"You do not look ridiculous." He finds his voice, and it is stern. "You look…"
Lovely, lovely, lovely. Such an easy word, but it leaves him feeling
vulnerable. It leaves him feeling raw.
He does not understand. He hates not understanding, and there is very little he
has understood tonight. But something surges through him - some primal force,
some instinct - and he twirls her close again, amidst the swirl and the snap
and the shimmer of the high summer night. Her palms land against his chest. She
gasps again, tilting her head up towards his.
"There is...something I wish to say," he tells her. He stares out into the
shadowed tangle of trees. "And I cannot. And I am not sure why."
"Is it bad?" She asks, twisting to follow his gaze to the silent forest. "Are
you worried?"
"It is not bad." His hand rests between her shoulder blades. He lets it fall
lower, towards the small of her back. His glove glides easily over the silken
fabric, over her silken skin. "But I am worried, perhaps."
"Worried about something good?" She shifts uneasily in his embrace.
"I am...worried when I think of how you might respond," he says tentatively.
Each rise and fall of his voice feels like the sting of a wasp.
"You're...embarrassed?"
Embarrassed. He weighs the word. Rolls it around, flips it over, feels each
letter with the tips of his fingers.
Yes. Embarrassed. Of how she might respond. Of how she might shrink further
into herself, or pull away, or be disgusted.
His fingers clench around the fabric of her dress.
"Yes," he says.
The silver-white light of the world, of its magic, gathers and pools around
her, fitting tight to her skin, and he cannot look away.
He feels her heart pounding in her chest. Feels her trembling against him.
"Elias." She breathes his name. Her eyes never leave his.
"Yes?"
"We...we should eat," she whispers, and her eyes flutter to the grass beneath
their feet. "Before the food-"
He locks his arm tighter around her waist, and holds her impossibly fragile
body close. Closer. Her back arches. Her back bends. She is warm. She yields.
Something in him itches.
He must scratch it.
"The food will wait," he says.
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