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Down, Down, Down – a Patreon Story

This is written to Clare K. R. Miller ‘s request for “…more Doug being awesome? More of this.”  It follows after the linked story, which itself follows, in part, after Addergoole: Year 9.

~

Doug was back in a war zone. They were in the bowels of Addergoole, battling creatures that would not see reason. They’d brought Agmund down with them — three of Doug’s cy’ree, two of Luke’s, and two of Agmund’s were guarding the rear, in case anything got through — but these creatures seemed impervious to Panida Workings. Just in case, they’d tried Intinn and Tlacatl. Nothing.

“They are either animals or they are Makers,” Agmund had declared firmly. “If they cannot be read by Intinn, they are animals.”

Whatever let him sleep at night. Doug ripped his blade through another one and began to burn the body before it had stopped bleeding. These things, if you didn’t get them all the way dead on the first go, they got back up again. Whatever they were.

“That’s the last of them, I think.” Luke cleaned his blade on the scorched, ashy hide of the creature. It looked like the unclean offspring of a warthog and a wyvern by way of a platypus, and now by way of a woodchipper and a fireplace. “I hope Laurel’s figured out what the blazes they were doing down—”

“Hsst.” Doug moved forward, tracking the faintest sound. “There’s still something down here.”

They each muttered their own not-here Workings, silencing them, hiding them, and strode forward. Doug’s wing-stubs twitched with each broken wall and glass-windowed door. He wanted to cleanse this place with fire, the whole thing. He wanted to bury it.

He saw a faint shimmer as Luke — hopefully it was Luke — pushed open the next door. Doug readied a fireball and his blade.

That wasn’t a monster. He pulled the fire back so quickly it nearly scorched his throat, before he had processed more than that. Those weren’t monsters. They were people. Those were kids.

Want more?

An Educational Visit, Part I/?

Written to [personal profile] inventrix‘s request/commission after I Should Visit; 1,447 words

“I’m impressed.” Regine snorted dryly. “She’s managed to reinvent bureaucracy.”

“Just a few more forms, ma’am, sir.” The guard – human, Regine was nearly certain – smiled a tight, efficient bureaucrat’s smile and brought forth another ream of paper. Where had Cynara even found a papermill? “Now, are you bringing any animals into the city?”

“This is a short visit to see an old student. We’re not immigrating.” Next to her, Feu Drake said nothing, only smirked inscrutably as he’d been doing for hours. “No, there are no animals with us. Tempero Intinn Rodger–”

She had quite a bit of practice sliding Workings such as this into conversation, but utterly none at doing so when a klaxon started blaring. She faltered, frowning; the door to the tiny waiting room thumped open.

This guard was openly displaying her Change: sharp, short horns and very large wings. She was also wearing Captain’s stripes and a frown. She hit a button, and the klaxon silenced.

“Ma’am, you may not have been aware — being a visitor to our city — but use of mind control in Cloverleaf is strongly discouraged, and use of such powers on an officer of the law is illegal and punishable by exile. This will be your only warning.”

She left while Regine was still formulating a response. The guard still remaining smiled very tightly at her, squared his papers, and started again. “Are you bringing any plants into the city?”

Three excruciating pages of inane questions later, the guard stood up. “All right.” He opened the door for them. “Head down Main Street here until you reach the large tower at the center of the city. A guide will meet you there.”

“Finally.” Regine stood and brushed off her skirt. Next to her, Feu Drake had risen, still wearing the same implacable expression.

“By ‘tower,’” he asked dryly, “I assume you mean that giant edifice stabbing into the sky?”

“Yep, that’s the one. Ah, sir, one question first. I’ve got – well, I’ve only got one but I’m holding onto it, would you mine signing it for me?”

“Signing… what?” Drake raised his eyebrows. Regine tried not to chafe at the wait. It would not hurt them to wait a few more moments.

“Oh, the five-hundred Clover bill. It’s a really good likeness, sir, I recognized you right away.” The guard carefully pulled a small, flat box from his sleeve, and from it he rifled through a couple bills until he came on the five-hundred clover.

It was made, Regine noted, much like an old Canadian bill, before the Collapse. And it was definitely a very nicely-etched likeness of Feu Drake, complete with trademark sneer. It was in mint condition, crisp and new.

“Some are harder to track down than others. You, I never figured we’d see you here, it’s been so long.”

“I see. Well, certainly I can autograph it. If you have a pen?”

“Right here.” The guard produced a very nice fountain pen.

While Feu Drake was signing, Regine cleared her throat. “What is the buying power of this bill?”

“Buying — oh, like, what’ll it get you? Um. I dunno, it’s the only one I’ve ever gotten and I saved up for it for a while for the collection. But, oh! That’s starting guards’ salary for a week.”

“Interesting. Thank you. Feu Drake…”

“Very interesting. And a nice likeness. I remember when that picture was taken.” He straightened up. “Ah. Yes, let’s continue.”

“Just down Main Street,” the guard pointed. “Like you said, you can’t miss it.”

The tower rose up over the rest of the city, a twisting edifice. Regine wondered how it had been built; with pre-collapse tools and equipment it might have been easy, but there had been nothing like this here before the catastrophe. From the guard station, it was very clearly visible, and, as the guard had said, the main street pointed, straight and wide, directly towards it.

The sidewalks were nearly as wide as the street; considering there was much more foot traffic than wagon or car, this made sense; considering both sidewalks were also full of small tents of street vendors, tables for cafes, musicians with hats out, and children playing, Regine wondered if maybe the sidewalks should not have been wider still.

“It’s quite active here,” she commented. “And the buildings look quite intact.” They were walking past an inn, according to the sign, and coming up on a small cafe, its tables full of people taking in the late-spring sunshine.

“Well, it is a city, with walls and safety, electricity and plumbing.” Feu Drake pointed at the streetlights which, in the bright sun of midday weren’t on. “Those are still rare, so I imagine even if the immigration requirements are as onerous as our visiting paperwork was–”

“I can’t imagine it would be less onerous!”

“You, sa’Lady of the Lake, have often suffered from quite a lack of imagination.” He delivered it so calmly that it took Regine a moment to realize she’d been insulted. “They recognized me on sight; they knew your name. And there, settled in for lunch and already on dessert,” he gestured at the cafe, “is a family that was three behind us in line entering the city. ‘Do you have any plants,’ indeed.”

“You are saying we were deliberately stalled?”

“I am saying that they reached for the form Ess-Tee-four-one-one and decided instead on Ess-Aitch-One-Seven, which was twice as thick as their first choice and four times as thick as the form they had picked for the couple in front of us. Yes, sa’Lady of the Lake–” It was not Regine’s imagination, she was sure, that Feu Drake was smirking, “–they wished to make us irritable and impatient. And you, uncharacteristically I might add, took the bait.”

Regine twisted her lips. “She was trying to make me angry.”

“I don’t think it was aimed specifically at you, but, yes, I believe she was attempting to irk us. Are you going to walk into this situation angry, sa’Lady of the Lake?”

She looked at the man thoughtfully. “I have a name as well as a Name.” Unlike him, who chose only to be the Fire-Drake. She could have researched him deeply enough to find his given name. She had respected his wishes and not done so.

“I believe this situation calls for formality. You are irked, and when you are irked, you often resort to full formality. And, in this case, that would not be a bad choice. They were your students, but this is their home.”

There was a warning there, one even Regine could hear. But, as she chose not to be lectured like a student herself, she ignored it, instead returning to looking around the street and the city.

“You said you imagined that, even with the oddities of paperwork, there would…”

She had interrupted him. He was correct; it was the time for formality, if she had been shaken enough to be rude.

He was not the sort of man to bring it up directly. “Yes. It seems like the sort of place that one might want to immigrate. True, there are still a few enclaves, and those have more obvious higher technology–” He held up a finger, and Regine tolerated this, because she had interrupted him. “–I say more obvious, because although there are no signs of pre-collapse or higher levels of such things visible, we do not know what lies beneath the city or behind walls. Even so, if Addergoole and the Village or an Enclave were not an option, this would be a very lovely place to live, indeed. And the walls seem to provide a bit of safety.”

Regine mulled over that. “It’s quite real-seeming. Genuine and proper looking, like a city ought to appear.”

“My dear Regine.” And now, the Fire-Drake smiled. It was not, Regine mused, a particularly pleasant expression. “You allow great feats from those students with whom you get along. I would suggest you believe the same from those that disagree with you.”

Regine frowned. “You’re certainly not suggesting that I’m underestimating these children because they were difficult students.”

“I’m suggesting exactly that. Rather than arguing with me, why don’t you look around the city? We’ve got, it seems, perhaps a quarter-mile before we reach the Tower.”

“You want me to sight-see.” She pursed her lips tightly.

“You came here to look at what Cya and Boom had wrought. I’m suggesting you look.”

He was much less obnoxious within the confines of Addergoole. But she had brought him along to advise her, and, thus, Regine took Drake’s advice and looked around.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/948562.html. You can comment here or there.

On the Lifeboat, a continuation of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call/Kuro_Neko

Written to Kuro-Neko’s commissioned continuation of Survival, of Fae Apoc, sometime in late 2011/early 2012.

Three, two… “Are you saying…” Ross Wetherschilde spoke slowly, as if not quite wanting to get to the end of his sentence. “…that there is a ‘fae’ onboard this life raft?”

“Of course that’s what she’s freaking saying, you freaking nincompoop!” Tanya Jones spoke fast enough for three Ross Wetherschildes. “The question is, how does she know! And who?”

“I think it’s obvious, don’t you?” Yonrit thought she knew every voice on the raft, but this one made her open her eyes: small, sardonic, and very quiet. Aah, the slender woman who had barely spoken since the crash, of course. “There’s one way to know for certain that someone is fae.”

She met Yonrit’s eyes; Yonrit didn’t look away. Around them, the conversation seemed to roil and bubble.

“…stab ‘em with rowan, that’s how!”

“Iron, you hang a horseshoe on your doorway.”

“We don’t have any horseshoes and we don’t have any doorways. Or rowan.”

“You spill rice, don’t you?”

“No, that’s vampires. Hey, do you think vampires are real, too?”

“Taylor, you’ve asked that at least seventeen times since we ended up here. Nobody knows.”

“Except maybe the fae on the boat.”

It kept going, people talking over each other, people shouting and swearing and repeating themselves. Yonrit kept her eyes on the other woman. After this many days on a lifeboat, she looked as unwashed as the rest of them; like Yonrit, her clothes were already beginning to hang loose on her body.

“So, who is it?” In the end, it was Tanya Jones who asked Yonrit. “If there’s a fae here, and you know who – who is it?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Yonrit swallowed around her nerves and repeated herself. “Would you rather die or be helped by a fae?”

“That wasn’t the question,” the slender woman pointed out. “The question was, would we rather die or be on a boat with a fae?”

“They’re both important questions.” Yonrit could feel every eye in the boat on her. She tried not to shrink in on herself.

“So,” Tanya Jones tried, “we have to answer the question, and then you’ll tell us?”

Yonrit nodded mutely. What was she going to do if they said die? What was she going to do if some of them said die?

“Well, I’ll go first.” Tanya Jones leaned forward in her seat. “Look, if it was Poseidon or the dick who called himself Hades or that cadre of bitches that ruined his town in Illinois or someone like that, yeah, I’d die trying to kill them. But what was the news saying just before we went overboard? Hundreds of thousands of fae have been living here on earth forever? I mean, that’s what some of the awful ones have said, too. ‘We were born on Earth.’“ Her voice dropped down to a deep super-hero imitation. “‘We want to defend Earth.’ While they’re ripping up buildings. I guess what I mean is, if it’s a fae saving my life, well, my life is still saved, isn’t it?”

She nodded to the man next to her. “What about you?”

“I’d die. I don’t want any of those filthy creatures touching me.”

And so it went.

Yonrit struggled to keep her face calm, to not show fear or anger or even hope. She struggled to not look like she agreed with anyone. For the most part, it was wasted effort — the whole lifeboat was watching whoever was talking at the moment. Everyone but the thin girl, who had not yet stopped staring at Yonrit.

Finally, they were back to her. Tanya looked down at her fingers. “That’s fourteen people saying ‘please save my life’ and seven saying ‘screw everything fae, even if I die.’ And you.”

Yonrit took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, Tonya, Miss Jones, since you took the vote, I’m saying you’re in charge. Anyone argue?”

One large, obnoxious guy looked like he wanted to argue, but in the face of a boat full of nodding, he only got out half a sound.

“All right. Okay, remember what you all said.”

“Are you going to tell us who the fae is now?” The woman was still staring at Yonrit. Her eyes were drilling through her, and her voice held an unpleasant urgency.

“I don’t think that’s really the necessary part.” They might kill her. They were going to die either way, she was likely to die either way. It was that or start eating each other. “All right.” She closed her eyes and cupped her hands in front of her. “Meentik Huamu delta αβοκάντο.”

She heard the gasps. She heard the swearing. She heard nothing at all from the thin woman. More importantly, she felt the thud of four avocados in her hands.

“Now.” Yonrit’s voice was very quiet, but it didn’t need to be any louder. “It’s up to every one of you if you eat what I provide or not. It has its limits — if I do too much, I’ll pass out — but I believe I can make enough food to keep us alive until we’re rescued.” She set the avocados down in front of her. “These first, because they’re easy to eat and more calorie-dense than, say, an orange. And then some beans, I think. That is…” Yonrit swallowed hard and looked around the lifeboat. “That is, if you’re not going to kill me.”

Everyone squirmed. Everyone but the thin woman, who was looking at Yonrit now with mostly confusion. Finally, one woman spoke up. She had been the most vocal about hating fae; one of the returned gods had killed her husband.

“They say that the fae can’t lie. That if they promise to tell the truth, they have to. Is that true?”

Yonrit nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

“Can you… can you swear that you’re not one of those fae who’s been causing all those problems? Because so far, you’ve only acted like a normal person. No pointy ears, no blowing ships up. And I haven’t seen any of these ‘gods’ raining down avocados.”

That was relatively easy. Yonrit nodded, a little less slowly this time. “I can promise you that I have never, through action or inaction, caused a human death. That’s, that’s why I spoke up.” She hugged herself. “Because it would kill you all if I didn’t say anything.”

She shared a look with the slender woman, who looked away, frowning. The widow was speaking again, just as slowly.

“Then I can’t see any reason to punish you for risking yourself to save us. Can you make enough without straining yourself?”

“It won’t be haute cuisine. And it won’t be enough to gorge ourselves. But yeah, yeah, I think I can.” Yonrit might still be stuck in a lifeboat, but for the first time in weeks, for the first time since the gods had returned, she felt like she was on solid ground again.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/948171.html. You can comment here or there.

The Light, a microfic of Fae Apoc for Thimbleful Thursday

Leave a Light On(4)

Every evening, just before dusk, Margolotta lit the two blue lamps by the front door. They burned all night, every night, even when oil was scarce, even when they had been struggling the worst. It had been fifteen years, and still she walked out the front door and put a flame those lights every night.

“For guests,” she said, whenever asked. The roads weren’t safe to travel at night, and no guests came after dusk. But still, she lit the lamps. “For guests.”

On clear nights, she’d wait on the front porch, staring down the road. He’d promised he’d come back, and she’d promised she’d leave the light on.


written to May 28th’s Thimbleful Thursday prompt.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/947791.html. You can comment here or there.

All the Schools Ever: Addergoole East

Staff

Dean Storm (Kailani)

Tempest, her granddaughter and a doctor

Petra, daughter of Taro, the Dean’s bodyguard.

Kavan Pensus (seems to teach martial arts; male)

Houses: possibly by this comment – http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/725782.html?thread=2700566#cmt2700566

Motto: “We Learn so that we might improve.”
“To learn, ergo, to improve.”

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Professor Heron (name pending)
5 ft. 8 in. tall., slim athletic build, mid back tight curls black hair.
bluegrey eyes, ebony skin.

waterbird related Change; Significant physical Changes include hands and/or feet
Innate ability can transform furnishings in some way.

She teaches Transfiguration?

She teaches applied mathmatics and was a friend of Reid Solomon’s. While she had no interest in the original program, she liked the idea of teaching fae children.
Her best words are Yaku and eperu.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/946885.html. You can comment here or there.

Misery is a Privilege, a story of ~fae apoc for #3WW in re. our current twitter conversation

Sometimes, the 3 words just write the story.
3-Word Wednesday, Misery, Privilege, Stale.

“Misery is a privilege.” Her jail-keeper – her Mentor and teacher – dropped a heel of stale bread through the slit in the door. It was followed quickly by a very small tureen of what would probably be equally-stale water, and a very thin slice of sausage.

Cha didn’t answer this time. She had tried answering last time, and the meat had gone away. She sat, the way she had been instructed, head pressed to her knees, and accepted her instruction.

“Misery tells you several things. It tells you that you are still alive, first and foremost. It tells you what you want. And, like pain, it tells you what is wrong.

“So tell me, Charla, what is it you want?”

Cha didn’t look up. She had not been instructed to look up. “Ma’am?”

“It is a simple question… but it isn’t, is it? The first thing that comes to your mind will do for now.”

“Sunshine, ma’am.”

A second slice of meat slipped through the door slot. “Well, then, Charla, I think you better figure out how to find it. It’s time to start learning, dear.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/945709.html. You can comment here or there.

Kin and More Kin

After Kith & Kin


“There are ten,” Caitrin told Regine. “Ten of them, and as far as I can tell they’re genetically identical. You can’t bring them in all at once; it would be half a class. But if they Change early…”

Regine had considered the problem for a moment. “We’ll start them early, and bring them in two at a time. That should give them time to adjust to their clone siblings.”

“At least one more.” Trijntje walked into the suite she shared with Kat and two non-clones. The non-clones — Aria and Mariah — were nowhere to be seen, common for when they had sister-company over. “She looks like she belongs to one of the superreligious cults, that’ll be fun.”

Caileigh coughed quietly. She was the one of the two fourth-year sister-clones this year, and had always been the shyest of them. “Maybe, ah, maybe I should talk to her? It can be hard, coming here, if you grew up in a Simple place.”

Only Caileigh could capitalize Simple with her voice. She capitalized a lot of words; Trijntje couldn’t imagine what she’d been like when she first showed up. “You’re in charge this year. You and Ríona.” She nodded her head at the other older-sister-clone. “She’s pretty obvious, I mean, she’s wearing one of those smock-dress things.” Her hands trailed over her tight shirt, indicating the baggy pleated-front of the new clone-sister’s dress. “And a bonnet. And also, she might be fainting.”

“Three!” Ríona glared disapprovingly at Trijntje. “You didn’t let yourself get seen, did you?”

“Well, a little, yeah.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m new at this, remember? Last year, I was the new girl.

“Besides,” she added, in a mutter she knew her sister-clones would hear, “I wanted to see if she recognized me.”

Echoing silence pounded at Trijntje from all three of her sister-clones. She turned away and stared resolutely at the wall. How had she ended up the freak, when they were all, technically, the same person?

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/945410.html. You can comment here or there.

Outrunning the Fireball, a story of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call (@jeriendhal)

Written to [personal profile] jeriendhal‘s prompt here to my Giraffe Call.

Aiden is the grandson of Shahin and Emrys from Addergoole, via their son and daughter Morganna and Arturo. So when he thinks about his grandparents, ah, there’s only two of them. (And only three great-grandparents).

Year 53 or so of the Addergoole School, 2047

The problem with leaving the family business, Aiden was discovering, was that it didn’t really leave you.

He was trying, trying very hard, to be a good guy. Which, he supposed, his mother and grandmother and so on had as well, but let’s be honest, his grandparents were the sort of people who would take over a city for its own good and take ten percent off the top for living expenses and wardrobe before they worried about the starving children in the streets.

Aiden was trying not to be that person.

The problem was, when your only tool was a hammer, as the saying went — or, in Aiden’s case, a fireball — everything started to look like potential targets.

In this case, he had been moving through a small town when he found out that something or someone had been stealing livestock. “I can help with that,” he’d said, because right, that’s what he did, Mysterious Stranger who wandered through towns and helped fix problems.

And he’d found himself sitting up in a tree, watching for the something or someone, all ready to scorch a wyvern or tiger or whatever and save the city. He’d literally had a fireball to hand – well, of course he did. He was named Fire. He always had a fireball to hand.

The zip of motion that went by was too fast for him to catch. It was too fast for his fireball to hit; it had ended up lighting a portion of the pasture on fire, which had further delayed Aiden as he tried not to set the town alight. That would not be helping.

He was pretty sure the unknown… whatever… had come back twice more while he was doing that, but at least they’d only taken the one sheep. It was only when he was done with the fire and beginning to spin an actual tracking Working – dead gods alone knew if it would work on something that fast – when he actually saw her.

She was skinny, wild-looking, probably-blonde with a dark, burnt-in tan, wearing scraps of rawhide and not much else. She was staring at him, or, at least, he thought she was. She was also vibrating.

“Don’t follow me,” she hissed, and she was gone, very literally outrunning Aiden’s thoughtlessly-thrown fireball.

He stared at the streak where she had been, and thought, a little desperately, that he might be in love.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944921.html. You can comment here or there.

Cya’s Printing Press, a story of Cloverleaf

Johannes enjoyed his new job quite a bit.

The work was rewarding and just challenging enough to be interesting. His co-workers were pleasant, the pay was good, and it left him plenty of time to pursue his primary hobby.

What was more, in Cloverleaf, he and Adella didn’t have to hide. He didn’t have to keep a shop full of fabric and paper just in case someone wanted to see him making something. He didn’t have to Mask if he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to live in fear of a slip-up dooming both him and his sister. In Cloverleaf, people walked around un-Masked all the time. In Cloverleaf, if you said you were fae at the front gate, they asked you what your skills were.

Which was, incidentally, how Johannes had gotten his job. He’d been in the middle of the immigration paperwork when a red-headed woman had grabbed his hand. “You can Create. That’s what you said, right? Create and objects, and you can do cloth? Paper?”

“…yes.” The woman had the most phenomenal mink stole… no, it was her tail, wrapped around her leg.

“Good. I need a printing press. I hope you need a job.”

“…my sister.” he was not normally left this without words.

“We’ll find her a job too. You – you I have an immediate need for.” She’d hesitated for a moment, and then added, “I’ll throw in lodgings, a good two-bedroom house near work. But I really need you.”

Ad thus Johannes had found himself settled in a very nice office in a building called simply The Press, teamed with a woman whose power allowed her to take in the entire contents of a book and whose Words allowed her to download that information into someone else’s mind without utterly overwhelming them. Zayda didn’t talk much, but since she spent large portions of the day in Johannes’ brain, they didn’t need much conversation.

The most interesting part of their job came when the Press got its hands on a book – often borrowed-slash-requisitioned from new immigrants to the city. Zayda would absorb the text, and then Johannes would get the artistic task of reproducing the feel and heft of the book, although often in better shape than the original. There was a craftsmanship to it, and Johannes marked every book with their combined chop with pride and a sense of a job well done. The Press supplied both the Library and a book store, which, Johannes was given to understand, paid most of his salary.

The best part of his job, however, was that it gave him time to pursue his hobby, and it gave him plenty of practice with the Words he needed. In Cloverleaf, nobody thought it strange if he and Adella had a new outfit each day, or if Adella sold copies of their outrageous get-ups in her little shop. Indeed, a small, select group of people might know that he was one of the two people who made Cloverleaf’s money (as well as the city’s books) – but everyone knew him as the guy with the best clothes. And wearing a Johannes original was quickly becoming a status symbol in this little town.

Johannes was enjoying his new life quite a bit. And, on top of everything else, he got to make money.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944884.html. You can comment here or there.

In Which Mieve Explains Some Things (FaeApoc, Amrit/Mieve)

First: A beginning of a story which obnoxiously cuts off just before the description,
Previous: In Which Amrit is Confused.

Fae Apoc, approx. now.

Content Warnings: This setting, although not this ficlet, contains rape, mind control, and dubious consent situations.

This particular story contains kidnapping and slavery, bondage, violence, and will eventually contain Stockholm Syndrome.

Mieve

Dinner went quietly. Mieve was exhausted, and she imagined her new slave was as well. He ate slowly and steadily, spoon to mouth, scooping up the rice-and-beans she had made wordlessly, sipping the beer she set in front of him, not looking like he was tasting any of it.

He was watching her cautiously between bites, like he was trying to figure her out. That expression Mieve was used to. Most of the Kept she’d brought had that look in their face for at least a while. She kept her face neutral and non-threatening. Not that she probably wouldn’t have to hurt him again before he settled, but she wasn’t going to hurt him now. Hopefully.

They finished dinner in silence, with no catastrophes and no arguments. Mieve cleared the table, loading the dishes into a sink of hot soapy water.

Even with her back turned, she could hear when he pushed his chair back, when he stood up, and when he sat back down again, remembering, she assumed, that he was tethered to the floor. He cleared his throat. “I could — I could help with that.”

She hadn’t expected that. “If you do the dishes,” she said, thinking it through quickly. No knives in reach. There was another chain-loop by the sink. The skillet could be a weapon, but not a threat; you couldn’t hold a frying pan to someone’s throat. “If you get the dishes all done and put away, that gives me time to make a dessert.” She turned the oven on to pre-heat. It was a pity she didn’t trust him to use Words; he might have the right one to refill her propane tanks.

She used a thread of telekinesis to unlock his tether from the floor bolt and waited for him as he stood, looking surprised and cautious. “Just like that?”

“I like dessert, too, and I hate doing dishes. Why do you think I bought a slave, anyway?”

He nearly stopped walking; she could see the way his shoulders hitched. “Fuck you, lady.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to do the dishes?” She was level-voiced and calm; being sworn at might irritate her but it wasn’t going to break her stride.

“…Fuck it. You going to share that dessert?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll do the damn dishes.” It was a small kitchen; it didn’t really give him room to stomp, but he stomped the two steps to the sink anyway. Mieve relocked his tether and ignored him. There were apples to peel, there was pastry to roll.

“…Did you really buy a slave just to have someone to do your dishes?”

“Yes, of course I did.” She sliced the apples into broad chunks. “I bought a slave just for the dishes.” She dripped sarcasm into every word, and then regretted it. “No, but in a sense, yes. I need help with the farm. Firewood. Plowing. Hunting.” Not that she’d trust him with a weapon any time soon.

“Hunh. Why not hire someone – no, never mind.” He shook his head. “Makes sense.” He was washing slowly now, watching her. “What happened to your last Kept? You had one, didn’t you?”

“I freed him.” She’d had four, here in this cottage. “I Kept him for a year and a half and then I freed him.”

“Hunh. Wasn’t working out?”

She shook her head. “No, we got along all right. But a year and a half covers the cost of his purchase in terms of work, and people… people shouldn’t be collared for the long-term without getting a chance to decide that for themselves.”

“Hunh.” He thought about that, or at least was quiet, while he washed the last of the dishes. Mieve cut the rest of the apples and tossed everything in a bit of cinnamon she still had left. “I’m still not going to Belong to you.”

“It’ll be a long year and a half in the gag and leash.” She poured in a bit of honey and a bit of maple syrup. “Promise me you won’t use Workings?”

“No fucking way.”

“Promise me you won’t run off?”

“No way in fucking hell.”

She rolled out the crust and fitted it into her pan. “Promise me you won’t attack me?”

“…not likely.”

“It’s going to be a long year and a half then.” She poured the filling into the pie shell, making sure to get every drop. “But I think you knew that.”

I haven’t tried this recipe yet, but the pie is something like this

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