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turquoisedays · 4 years

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Grimscribe Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Grimscribe. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, gore, nihilism, unreality, body horror, clowns, and insects.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Tagged by: Me, myself and I, because I’m ALWAYS A SLUG FOR THOMAS LIGOTTI.

Tagging: @choujin @mothersins @flowerytruth (You decide which muse! >:3c) @givealls (For Kazuma mayhap?) annnnnnnd my other blog.

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The Last Feast of Harlequin

A place behind the clownish mask / an enthusiastic urgency / sunny fields and farms / steeply roofed houses / a weird distortion of perspective / an album of old snapshots / a pointed hat jauntily askew / a billboard displaying a group of grinning vegetables / a neutral, bureaucratic voice / blue-green ink / a brilliant and profound circus of learning / a quotation from Poe’s “The Conqueror Worm” / a feeling of frigid numbness / dull, earth-colored scenery / the snowfalls of late autumn / black, ragged clumps of abandoned nests / the thin light of a winter afternoon / poles raveled with evergreen / holly wreaths / green lights / green streamers / peacock green floodlights / an eerie emerald haze / chthonic divinities / miniature candy canes / colored lights that bloom out of flower-shaped sockets / a chilling brilliance of manner and expression / sea-green lights / the face of an adept clown / a heart bathed in green / another coldness within the cold / warmly wrapped bodies and green-scarved necks / worried and guilt ridden glances / a wormy mass / the black void of winter / the brightness of an artificial spring / a great green rainbow / green gleaming streets / the dark immensity of a winter night / an effect of stricken horror and despair / an inhuman likeness more proper to something under the earth than above it / a festival within a festival / depressingly pallid clowns / the particular kind of hatred of resulting from some powerful and irrational memory / optimistic greenery in a period of gray dormancy / a kind of obnoxious intelligence / freezing atop an icy throne / commitment to a meaningful mania / bodiless invisibility / seeing without being seen / a sea of zigging and zagging celebrants / the darkness of narrow country roads / innocent normalcy / icy wind / trembling with cold / lanterns that beam with dazzling and frosty light / cadaverous clowns / the apex of darkness / a long snowy robe / moody malignancy / pure unlived lives / all the many shapes of death and dissolution / a dirge for existence / a sea of thin, bloodless faces / icy beauty / a moment of frozen trance / the death known to those whom the gods have first made mad / the welcoming glow of green / slow and silent and entrancing / a velvety white abyss / the paradise of the unborn

The Spectacles in the Drawer

A double-handled dagger with a single blade of polished stone / tall cabinets / ceiling-high shelves / tantalizing arcana / glistening fog / a tedious clarity / a cyclone of strange patterns and colors / spasms of sardonic hilarity / a pale-blue blade / stiff, crackling pages / a seeker of recondite knowledge / undying hope / a gutful of shame and regret / a small and silvery knife / a razor-sharp letter opener / a pair of old-fashioned wire-rimmed spectacles / everything that fascinates / the wish to look away / an infinite and overwhelming scene / the dazzling diffusion of all known universes / landscapes without end / landscapes that are themselves alive / a life unknown to mortal eyes / form and motion / design and dimension / cilia wriggling / mammoth shapes lurching in outline / an obscure oceanic niche / a mere fragment of all that there is to see and to know / labyrinthine astronomies / constant transformations of both appearance and essence / a witness to the most cryptic phenomena that exist or could ever exist / the ultimate thing waiting to be born / still greater visions / a cataclysm which will be both the beginning and the end / unbearable anticipation / ecstasy and dread / the ultimate source of all manifestation / the absolute and the wholly unknown / a revolution of all matter and energy / the visions remaining active inside you, deep in your blood / to be dazzled in the worst way / the total substance of things / an occultist auction / a disreputable quarter of a foreign city / a student of the Gnostics / artificial eyes / a malicious aim to undermine / a child’s awkward embrace / rusty scales / cockeyed bookcases / broken toys / standing ashtrays / desolate bazaars / the charm of disenchantment / a tilting mirror / a climate of dull horror / sinister whispers that make no sense yet seem filled with meaning / sensations of infinite expansiveness and ineffable meaning / astronomical emotions / a mutilated carcass / something of terrible rawness / a torn and flayed thing / microscopic precision / twitching and quivering like a gory heart / hellish giggling / a haunting, lifelong memory / unfathomable depths of feeling / to suffer over and over / a way to kill a dream / the sheltering shadows of one’s home / sobering shadows / a cold and stagnant peace / esoteric ecstasy / vulgar pain / a broad expanse of empty field / a mosaic of mirrors / a shocking galaxy / redundant reflections / dark stars on a silvery firmament / to see with countless eyes / a body ripped raw / a gallery of glass and gore

Flowers of the Abyss

The first rank scent of autumn / a glass of water / a thirsty walker of the woods / a pale flower amongst the dark summer trees / a ghostly flower of autumn / grayish planks / a pallid lily / a pulpy toadstool / a roof of rippling shingles shaped like scales from some great fish / sea-green and sparkling / attic gables with paned windows / the tip of a tear / hundreds of raindrops / light rain / an icy autumn storm / a fragrance damp and decayed / walking ahead of the clouds / the echo of hollow words / a long crooked arm / malodorous gardens of misshapen growths / an oval mirror in an ornate frame / cobwebbed corners / tilting books / something shapeless and nameless / something dampish and submerged / something swampy and abysmal / the pure cold of an autumn storm / a dusty green bottle / a sparkling glass / a world of frozen light / cool and limpid water / the hardness of a jewel / a small music box / stars of sound / twilight shadows and silence / infinitesimal flakes of light / barren decor of dead days / yellowish haze / silvery tones / a tenebrous expanse / unknown exploits / the madness of things / a vagabond of the universe / a drifter among spaces / a mess of hacked pieces / dark horizon meeting dark horizon / a universe of darkness / a convulsing tangle of shapes / the radiant entrails of hell / rain-softened soil / parted waters rushing to remerge / corrupt waters / sticky and pumping veins / slimy tendrils / aberrations of the abyss / a night-gowned figure / a crowd carrying lights / lamps and lanterns bobbing in darkness / clusters of flames / buried like a forgotten dream

Nethescurial

Delicate, crinkly script / greenish-black discoloration / dark waters / moonlit skies / earth mounds / mountain peaks / northern leaf and southern flower / each star and the voids between them / blood and bone / watchful winds / murky waters below / contorted rock formations / pointed pines and spruces of gigantic stature / sea-facing cliffs / stagnant fog / an omnipresent evil / a sleeping sense of doom awakened into full vigour / evil, beloved and menacing evil / sunshine and flowers / darkness and dead leaves / some shaping force of demonic temperament / wartlike hills / tumorous trees / oil lamps scattered about / a sacral glow / a degree of mutual ease / the verdigris of centuries / decomposing jade / pandemonism / cold gray waters / a mere mask for the foulest evil / an absolute evil whose reality is mitigated only by our blindness to it / the universe as a dream / the feverish nightmare of a demonic demiurge / an abstract monster of metaphysics / an altar of coarse stone / skinny shadows / to be actually bound in blackness / white-faced shadows / luminous smoke / glowing, ectoplasmic haze / something thick and oily and strangely colored / an ancient anonymity / spirits beyond all hope or consolation except in the evil to which they would abandon themselves / a ceremony of the chosen / an ancient, darkened mould / petrified lichen / wrought iron tracery / great overgrown gardens of writhing coral / a chaos of little carvings / a world of demonic faces and forms / oneiric visions / inkish waters / an infinitely extensive body of evil / the gods of the ordinary world / dream-induced illusions / visionary intrusions / a banquet of fear / what is squirming beneath every surface / penetrating the usual armor of objects / dark and greenish / garbled whisperings / an island of grass and trees in the middle of the city / globes of light balanced on slim metal poles / a glowing orb / set in the great blackness above / trees swishing overhead / muddied green / walking some indefinite time along some indefinite route / strings of colored lights / a tall, illuminated booth / clownish creatures / expressionless faces and dead puppet eyes / slow, monotonous phrases mingling like the sequences of a fugue / the faces of the living and the dead / wind-blown trees / the greenish darkness of the night / mold-colored smoke / a squirming, creeping, smearing shape / a great deformed crab / the black oceans of infinity / the island of the moon / the cancerous totality of all creatures / oozing ichor / dying in a nightmare

The Dreaming in Nortown

A solitary perdition / a mind to remember the stages of their downfall / a mirror to multiply their abject glory / a memoir of dreams / peculiar powers of sympathy / a decaying and spacious apartment / an ill-mapped world of dreams / a slightly infernal aroma / an acrid combination of tobacco and autumn nights / a small red glow / a long threadbare overcoat / many pungent Octobers / the remote heights or depths of an artificial paradise / the stumbling words of a returning explorer / a stuporous and awed voice / midnight assemblies / in the grip of strange mystical ecstasies / long red hair / esoteric development / a general tenor of chaos / a quality which may or may not make for good company but which always offers promise of the extraordinary / a contrived noisiness / a strange catalogue of sounds / low moans emanating from the most shadowy chasms of dream / sudden intakes of breath / the suction of a startled gasp / abrupt snarls and snorts of a bestial timbre / expressions of unknown turmoil / the calm darkness of the night / staccato groans / the entire audible spectrum of nightmare-inspired terror / mingling overtones of awe and ecstasy / a willing submission to some unknown ordeal / the deeper registers of somnolence / the smell of a freshly lit cigar / the dun colors of dawn / a flood of eidetic horrors / fleeting scenes of nightmare / a reverberating slam / a note scrawled upon a slip of paper / a disproportionate anxiety / the imagined threat of a reprimand / the frayed end of a disciplinary whip / colors twisting in blackness / a tentacled abyss / bone-colored stars / a dream-distorted voice / a spiral notebook with a cover of mock marble / mystical masochism / feats of occult daredevilry / glimpsing the inferno with eyes of ice / a doomed determinism / the striving for horrific dominion over horror itself / wobbling glitter / a field of venomous colors / the glistening inner skin of deadliest nightshade / the entrancing fragrance of fear / the city’s lurid glamor / cryptic badges whose significance is known only to the initiated / comic colors from an electric spectrum / a chilly autumn evening / engraved brass / dingy neon / a black autumn sky / scattering sparks across the sidewalk / flea-market antiquities / calling feline-voiced / colorful chaos / neon signs streaming across the night / clothed in flashing colors / a many-hued phantasmagoria / a flickering and disorderly rainbow of dreams / a multitude of indecisive thoughts and impulses / a brick and neon landscape / a frigid and fragrant October night / darkness and a voice / a coarse scream / a pulsing opalescent aura / a delirious blend of images derived from nightmare / an ominous sunrise over a dark horizon / a field of fear / a painfully lush iridescence / a burnt-out patch of earth / newspapers mutilated by time / two fresh cigars / a thin book-like box / a scene from some Boschian hell / a hideous series of transfigurations / the screaming mass of a damned soul / an abyss of nightmares / explorations in a hell of one’s own choosing

The Mystics of Muelenburg

Trees made of poster board / houses built of colored foam / mud and dust and ashes / a nightmare of nonsense / fantasy, that misty domain of pure meaning / dim and empty storage space / an ancient armchair / reposing far beneath crumbling rafters / surveying remote worlds / a burst of fireworks / buzzing like flies in the blackness / glow worms flitting in the blinding sun / to keep the sun in the sky / to keep the dead in the earth / a universal vice / a parasite of chaos / a maggot of vice / the prospect of absolute terror / men in the mouths of demons / withholding heaven’s light / the pointed shadows of peaked roofs and jutting gables / faded artifacts of a dead town / high castle turrets / grayness undisturbed / ashen twilight / the yellow light of lamps / sumptuous chambers / humble rooms / the lost luxury of shadows / an infinite vault of glowing dust / a deception by demons / old deities formerly driven from the earth / shadows streaming horribly / the twitching light of a thousand candles / prismatic jewels / a greyish whirlpool / indefinite twilight / the blackness which is the domain of death / necromantic learning / drunken dialogues / unparalleled credulity / fluidity, always fluidity / an ornamented void / the stars and moon / the legions of the dead

In the Shadow of Another World

Walking down streets at twilight / watered lawns / the edges of leaves / pale specters within a fog / the infinite sky itself / gently stirring trees / old silent houses / strange cities disguised as clouds / the depths of a vast, echoing abyss / a blurry little window with a crack in it / a tree-lined street / a pale sky at dusk / peaks and porches / worn wooden steps / dreams and vapor posing as solid matter / a fabulous overlap of properties / petrified flesh / gigantic bones from great beasts of old / chimneys and shingles / a shadow on the horizon / a thing of nightmarish beauty / impossible hopes / a kind of ceremonious desolation / translucent festivals / the faraway sounds of mad carnivals / an instinct for mystification / dubious spectacles / trumped-up histrionics / immaculate to the point of being suspect / a plush and well-tended mausoleum / where the dead are truly at rest / oppressive awareness of other times / secret conspiracies with departed spirits / the unnatural mood of twilight / sinister echoes / dark, polished floors / lofty, uncobwebbed ceilings / a malign presence in the cellar / an insane shadow in the attic / thaumaturgic curios / a hermetic chant of the heavens / no hint of hauntedness / an innocent ambiance / a spiritual wasteland / spiritually antiseptic surroundings / a twisting and tenuous stairway / shattered panes of glass / misshapen glyphs / the shadowy nuances of clouds / a twisted kaleidoscope of colors / the aura of stained-glass cathedral / some obscure desecration / prismatic lenses / that of the dead or the demonic / an eclipse of this world’s vision / a quivering translucence / iridescent sterility / the aftermath of a strange exorcism / neither hallowed nor unholy / a pristine laboratory / a science of nightmares / a small, lamplit library / night’s darkness / a voice that’s accustomed to speaking of miracles / mystical freakshows / a grave sincerity / dissonant overtones of fear / the shadows of another world / forms of specter or demon / the eyes of the flesh / a luminous hell / psychic survival / hopelessly dreaming / terror recollected in tranquility / mazy trauma / the sensations of the soul / a monstrous mystery / a theoretician of nightmares / crude and cryptic designs / a remote and shadowy stage / an adept of pasteboard visions / mucilage and gauze / pulling the strings of light and shadow / shadows gathering / a strange radiance / phosphorescent panes / superlunary light / some cosmic tapestry / a haunted world / the marriage of insanity and metaphysics / a spectral ontogeny / a pageant of nightmares / sunlit bazaars in exotic cities / transparent masks / insectoid countenances / moonlit streets in antique towns / a strange-eyed slithering / dim galleries of empty museums / a ghostly mold / the sullen hues of old paintings / sticky luxuriance / pulpy warmth / an uncanny flux of sounds / cadaverous generations / sculptures of human coral / bodies heaped and unwhole / limbs projecting without order / eyes scattered and searching the darkness / a monument to Terror / a maze of interconnecting doors / spectral monstrosities / the cover of masks / the concealment of stones / feverish properties and intentions / a framed phantasmagoria / grotesque transfigurations / a systemless cosmogony / the caprice of the immaterial / weirdly lucent rooms / chaotic fantasies / narrow, spiraling stairs / the gazing eye of some god / a pyrotechnic craze of colors / a vibrating echo of vocal utterance / swirling sights / a vacuum and a void / doubtful strategies / unknown and extravagant possibilities / occult theories / arcane analyses / the irreducible certainty of nightmare / great shadows in the stars / an infinite catastrophe / protective sigils / the full glare of starlight / stars and shadows / privileged arcana / the enchantments of hell / cold sunlight / the visionary time of twilight

The Cocoons

A gloved hand twitching / a rather unapologetic tone / egg-shaped pills / a half-glass of water / a soft grinding noise / a quietly urgent voice / blotched vapors / a growl of exasperation / unpeopled avenues / a mass of shadows / a landscape without pattern or substance / the moon shining / a doubtful glance / a devastated plain / an open field heaped with debris / bits of glass and scraps of metal / lunar spaciousness / a skeletal structure with all markings of identity scraped off its bones / a densely tangled nest of houses / the dull light of the moon / a yellowish swatch of illumination / high wooden fences / a ruined turret grazed by moonlight / a minor mania / a cobwebbed corner / a blank battered wall / warped floor moldings / a watery light / the quivering light of candles / an old-fashioned film projector / the whirring of a projector / a visual record of a scientific experiment / dark wiry appendages / a pair of slender snapping pincers / tiny translucent wings / glistening but useless / malicious eyes / a dubious look / candles flickering like fire-flies / a cold swamp of shadows / a collection of bones / dazed silence / a clockwork world / sunrise schedules / lunar routines / a pandemonium of forces / a phantasmagoria of possibilities / the shadow of a laugh / a curious hedonism that can’t be controlled / the vagaries of omnipotence / breeder of indulgence / languorous exhaustion / a psychic matter / unheard of habits / a clown’s oversized grin / bliss on the brink of apotheosis / a universal process of transfiguration / restless skittering / a pitiful delight / giddy pride / demoniac undercurrents / the grotesque ultimatums of creation

The Night School

A high, full moon shining among the spreading clouds / shadows singing with the clouds / a slowly flowing mass of mottled shapes / a kind of unclean outpouring / the black sewers of space / the wall of night / smoke, dense and dirty, rising up to the sky / the spastic flames of a small fire / a slender gentleman / a dark suit / broken bones / the process of degeneration / the mulchy rot of autumn or early spring / yellowish light / dark scabby bricks / ruined factories / ravaged mausoleums / abandoned orphanages / a blossom of the cemetery or the cesspool / guttering candles / blurred remnants of past lessons / cloacal forces / time as a flow of sewage / drowning in the pools of night / a thousand molting autumns / the melting soil of spring / a pair of yellowish eyes / undiluted darkness / a darkness far greater than the night itself / consolidated darkness / the science of a spectral pathology / a philosophy of absolute disease / the metaphysics of things sinking into a common disintegration or rising together / dark rottenness / filthy smoke from some smoldering source of expansive corruption / the scent of corruption / the nostalgic perfume of autumn decay / the feculent muskiness of a spring thaw / smoky blackness / the offal of worlds in decline / the dark compost of those about to be born / the primeval impurity In which all things are founded / native putridity / pieces of paper with strange symbols on them / the very face of a plague—pustulant, scabbed, and stinking terribly / a black fog / many voices crying and calling from total blackness / tightly packed earth in a grave / the disease of the night / bright flames / the noise of a fire and the wind / a full moon / shining bright and blurry / a luminous mold / the great sewers of night

The Glamour

A fine aura of fantasy / both blurred and brightened / a starless evening / diamonds of plate glass / old buildings of dark brick / the display window of a toy store / a chaotic tableau of preposterous excitation / mechanized monkeys / fated antics / tiny cymbals / the destined pirouettes of a music-box ballerina / a newly sprung jack-in-the-box / strangely picturesque / dreamily illuminated / sculptured frosting / a winter landscape of swirling, drifting whiteness / snowy rosettes / layers of icy glitter / a glacial kingdom / a brilliant arctic scene / a vitality of enterprise / a glossy light / the placidly enigmatic expressions of a different time / faded lighting / an old photograph / the kind of acute anticipation that a child might experience at a carnival / a possessing impulse without object / wretchedly aglow / a long, narrow corridor with a single light set far into its depths / a strange shade of purple, like that of a freshly exposed heart / a purple lamp / arterial light / a deep pink / a richly blooded brain / a beating heart / wispy shrouds / sparse hairs sticking to the scalp of an old corpse / purple-tinted glass / the darkness of a theater / a swarm of filaments / an elaborate chandelier / a sickly, liverish shade / an operating room where a torso lies open on the table / a palette of pinks and reds and purples / diseased viscera imitating all of the shades of sunset / headstones in a graveyard / endless filthy alleys / long desolate corridors in an old asylum / the dripping passages of a sewer / a dust-blinded window / a dark unvisited cellar / a mirror gone rheumy with age / facets of murky crystal / cobwebs / long pale threads / hazy purple light / the slow curling of thin smoke / a great rectangular web / the ever-mutating images of clouds / a surge of dark elation / a sudden chill announcing bad weather / a vibrant presence / an expression of avid malignance / inner webbings / swirling fibers / wild shocks of twisting hair / a portrait of atrocity / lust for sites and ceremonies of mayhem / writhing cobwebs / reaching tendrils / graveyards and alleyways / a joyous hysteria / a pale purple / sinister and seamy regions / spectral ambiance / all pervasive purple coloration / the labyrinth of a living anatomy / palest pink / a purple light / putrid chambers and cloisters / an infernal land / fleshy, gelatinous integuments / translucent tissue / the theater of a mad surgery / hair-thin sutures / unseen hands designing unnatural shapes and systems / weaving a nest in which possession would take place / the weaver and web-maker / an old puppet-master / setting a helpless creature with new strings / through eyes unknown / purple shadows / a type of degraded rapture / a seizure of debauched panic / webs of hair / great evil / an appeal for deliverance / eyes that would see what should not be seen / stray threads pulled from a sleeve or pocket / a paralytic silence / eyes gazing fierce and malignant / a purple glow / two shafts of the purest purple light / an old woman with glowing eyes

Father Sevich’s Visit

A manner at first vaguely troublesome and afterward rather attractive / the arrival of a priest / the very echoes of the air / mellow afternoon sunlight / dark wooden floors / pale contortions of ancient wall paper / invisible games / abstract dread and a bizarre sort of indebtedness / a thick maze of propositions / a well-made bed / a relentless failure / cloistral tunnels / vaulted penetralia / a single column-clutching hand / the necessary features of fear / a maddening task / a series of completely irrelevant expressions / misty-eyed wonder / cretinous bafflement / smiling in an almost amiable way at one one’s impending doom / the trap of expectation / a sleepy whisper / the sound of soft conversation / the world of good manners and polite talk / a look of incompleteness / some unfinished effigy in a toy maker’s workshop / something vital to expression / the purple-robed mysteries of priesthood / animated eyes / withered things reeking of medicine and prayer / a painfully delicate subject / varnished wood / salvation through suffering / sacred horrors / the divine destiny toward which the paths of anguish have always led / volumes of blessed agony / an attitude of prayerful pleading / torturing demons / a single squatted devil / bristling lashes that sprout like weeds / an explosion of miniature grotesquerie / a brief and calculated absence / a modest fund of moral energy / a macabre icon / profane lessons / a countenance of true terror / a ridiculously empty slate / an off-stage atrocity / a cycle of mute, incredible lore / anthropomorphic mist / an eerie lividity / unconscious hours of darkness / a chronicle of truly unspeakable things / the light of every constellation in the visible universe / the oppressive mysteries of the autumn season / thick orange crayons / black cats / black paper / a hopeless urge for innovation / a tiny white collar / dripping with fever / hat and cloak and walking stick / narrow, nocturnal streets / a fairy-tale vision / serpentine lanes / the distorted glow of street lamps / the thinnest blade of moon / a narrow niche / an unpaved lane / a small courtyard surrounded by high walls / the stars above / jaundiced lamplight / a stairway of cut stone / the earth and absolute blackness / tiny lights glimmering like stars / clouds of shadows / some golden metal / a caricature of serenity / a hand as white as the whitest glove / chaotic rays / underworld starlight / a certain expression of rarefied scorn or disgust / indignant shadows / black, ankle-high shoes / the natural nightlight of the moon / an infernal aura or an angelic halo / a planet revolving its unspeakable tonnage in the blackness of space / a small bottle of holy water / secret denial and privilege / a smile of deep contentment

Miss Plarr

Misty, drizzling days / sharp, urgent rappings at the front door / a world of darkening mist / mist-covered locks / listening with intense expectancy / the world’s chaos of faces / a seething luxuriance / dark battlements of clouds / a mute and sullen twilight / a stone-gray sky / those days all shackled in gloom / a fugue of noise / the livid radiance of moonlight / the wild shape of some night-blossom / some strange and cruel kingdom / an intimate dungeon cell reserved for the most exclusive captivity / constant, noisy marauding / sedentary or stealthy rituals / an abyss of unspoken reproaches and suspicions / some ancient seagoing vessel / an old oil lamp / a series of quite fascinating lectures / a kind of brutality and an air of exile / deliriums of earth and sky / fog-bound islands in polar seas / shadowed realms littered with dead cities / peaks lacerated by unceasing winds / a bluish slime / the proper way to behave / the great mists of spring / murky sheets of ice / a world of shadows bound in place / the sound of something that stings the air / the hissing of rainy afternoons / immense blades sweeping over vast spaces / expansive wings cutting through cold winds / long whips lashing in darkness / intangible sympathies / a dark mesh of nightmares / a foul nest in which one’s own suspicions are swarming / links to a strictly mundane order / a briskness that seems to be an effort / a heavy spring dampness / lost to the world of wholesome practicalities / a hypnotic and fateful determination / a child’s weakness for prospects of misadventure / a fog-smothered landscape / a pale, floating web / an immense and awful kingdom / a patternless conglomerate of crystals / a misty graveyard / angular and many-faced monuments / the mountainous and murky thunderheads of a rainy season / the very essence of a storm / a matter of suspicion and conjecture / atrocious potential / fogs and mists and gray heaping skies / a conspicuous stridency / a dour mystique / a gray mist / skies of hissing rain

The Shadow At the Bottom of the World

Some feverish intent / sheaves of cornstalks standing brownish and brittle in a newly harvested field / a sky of empty light / fiery leafage / something dark, something abysmal / small shadowy voices / sweet wine turning to vinegar / a hysteric brilliance / displays of thorn apple, sumac, and towering sunflowers / crooked roadside fences / a moonlit field / a bright round moon / nocturnal solitude / patched-up overalls / worn flannel / the withered leaves of cornstalks / moonlight spread across a dead field / a great idol in shabby disguise / a sacred avatar out of season / fidgeting bemusement / a leaden vault of clouds / pure sunlight / misty dreams of the past night / a vine-twisted stone wall / dormant vines / a strange network of dead veins / calculated grayness / radiant leaves / legions of local cicadas / a dark fungus / of the blackest earth / a rich loam / a bog of shadows / an abyss in the outline of a man / the feel of wind and water / a few shifting flames / flames of only the slightest warmth / black flames / the molten texture of spoiled fruit / a shriveled scarecrow / an armory of axes, shovels, and other implements / an eccentricity of the harvest / a viscous mire / innumerable insects laughing / sprouting blackness / a perverse reluctance / the great shadow of a moonless night / the dark rustling depths of the season / the glass globes of streetlamps / the dense leaves of elms and oaks and maples / blazing auras / the frigid aurora of dawn / frost-powdered earth / shadows and corn shocks / countless insects chattering unseen / the feverish life of the earth / the wrinkled grimace of decay / corrupted by vile impulses / a mound of soft dirt / the darkish grooves of ancient bark / the mottled complexion of old flesh / a multitude of crooked smiles / a freakish mask painted with russet, rashy colors / a virulent intensity / an autumn night when fields lay ragged in moonlight / moist and fertile shadows / a hollow-eyed howling malignity / the cold emptiness of space / the pale gaze of the moon / the depths of an extraordinary harvest / insecure hints and delvings / the luxuriant shadow of trees / the mocking plumage of a strange season / an array of whims and suspicions / scraps of lush color / gold and crimson hieroglyphs / deathless leaves / an ill-formed village / a hideous impersonation of a face / leprous masks / knotty shadows / a subterranean craze of roots and tendrils / an underworld riot of branching convolutions / gnarled ornamentations / autumnal decay / knives and axes and curving scythes / countless colored leaves / pronouncements of dire or delightful curiosity / a dull trance / a wild luminousness / a diamond-bright fever burning within / perennial strangeness / tenacious foliage / softly glowing against a black sky / an untimely nocturnal rainbow / a harvest of hues / peach gold / pumpkin orange / honey yellow / winy amber / apple red / plum violet / the pyrotechnics of a new autumn / a thousand glittering dreams / a rigid scarecrow / a patchwork of shadows / a quivering glow / a premature craving / an expertly whetted blade / a betrayal or deception on the part of creation itself / something buried deep within appearances / something that wears a mask to hide itself / holding a spatula like a weapon / moldering shadows / a dreamless sleep / a sudden rage of mortification / the remains of a dismantled scarecrow / an ashen autumn morning / the feeling of blood / a bottomless grave

#meme response #this took a bit but >:0 i enjoyed it #gore tw just to be safe?#blood tw also to be safe #horror cw #nihilism tw #unreality tw #clowns tw ////

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mariequitecontrarie · 6 years

Text

Marigolds

Summary: It’s Rumple and Belle’s wedding anniversary, and Rumple is celebrating another year alone. Stuck in Hyperion Heights with no way to join Belle in the afterlife, he finds an unlikely confidante in his partner, Rogers. Post 7x18 The Guardian. A/N: I have a lot of feelings about Rumbelle and the Wish Hook/Rumple friendship. There’s also some Woven Knight Rook and a Rogers/Sabine crush implied. Did I mention my feelings? Because yeah. WC: 5700 Rating: G

On AO3

“At least let me drive you home,” Rogers says.

Rumplestiltskin glances at his watch with a self-conscious sigh. His partner’s requests have turned into badgering. This marks the fifth time his partner has volunteered to escort him back to his apartment in the past 90 minutes—proof he must look as lousy as he feels.

Rogers’ pity-filled eyes stray from the chessboard to the blue vase filled with flowers on the corner of his desk. The office air is thick with unspoken questions, but his partner doesn’t ask and Rumple doesn’t offer.

The flowers are for Belle.

In every realm they called home—whether in Storybrooke, the Dark Castle, or living out Belle’s years together on the Edge of Realms—the two of them planted a huge garden filled with flowers. Roses, primarily, but also larkspur, snapdragon, bleeding hearts, and poppies. But Belle always insisted on planting marigolds adjacent to the vegetables.

Marigolds are an ugly flower in his estimation. Coarse and common, insistent on being everywhere at once, possessing a musky, pungent odor he finds repellent. Rather like himself.

“Marigolds never give up,” Belle used to say, her hands covered in dirt. “They always hold their heads up high, even in the hottest part of summer. They attract the bees and protect the vegetables.”

“They smell dreadful,” he would contend, holding his nose in a theatrical flourish.

“I think they smell like sunshine.” Belle would draw his hand away from his face and lay her head against his chest. “True beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

There was nothing he would refuse his wife, so as day followed night, marigolds they would plant. And after a time, he learned to tolerate the stubborn, garishly colored blooms, if only because their presence meant plump red tomatoes on their dinner table and radiant smiles on his wife’s face.

So to celebrate their anniversary, he assembled a bouquet of roses, marigolds, and peonies at a flower stand this morning. Crimson roses to symbolize the fragile unfurling of their love; cream peonies in honor of their wedding day; and yellow marigolds because they flourish in any and all circumstances, much the way he thrived with Belle at his side.

Rogers gives him another meaningful glance, and Tilly feigns a yawn, stretching her arms above her head. The languid motion is debunked when she leans over the chessboard to snatch Rogers’ rook with a gleeful laugh.

Rumple snorts. Two hours ago, they pulled a worn card table out of Rogers’ office and started one of their spirited chess games two feet away from his desk. Should he have the notion to move around in this crackerjack box or gods forbid—leave the room—he’d have to trip over his unwelcome guests.

Instead he’s staying planted in his desk chair. After Tilly tried to drag him to the bowling alley around the corner for some “quality time,” he decided letting her and Rogers keep him company here was the less exhausting course of action. If there’s one role he excels at, it’s pretending, but there’s no way in seven hells Rumplestiltskin will be seen wearing bowling shoes in Hyperion Heights or in any realm, even if he does have to wear jeans and fake a cockney accent. He still has some pride.

Usually, Rogers and Tilly’s easy banter and gentle ribbing puts a smile on his face. Tonight, however, all he wants is to send them home with a flick of his wrist.

But he won’t. Magic got him into this mess in the first place.

It’s been a scant twenty-four hours since the dagger went missing and he discovered it in Tilly’s backpack. One short day since he learned that here in this world, even under a curse, she is still the Guardian. Yet—with more information and resources in the palm of his hand since he began his quest to be rid of the knife for good—he’s never been farther away from Belle. Today he mourns her loss all over again, and being alone on their anniversary makes the everyday ache in his chest sharper, more acute. He presses a clenched fist against his heart, wondering if the hollow place Belle once filled with kisses and smiles and laughter will ever be whole again.

“C’mon, mate.” Rogers jiggles his car keys. “You look like hell.”

“How fortunate for us all that my ugliness doesn’t stop me from operating a car,” Rumple growls. He waves a hand over the Candy Killer paperwork littering his desk with a huff of disgust. “In case you missed it, mate, there’s work to be done.”

“You. Doing actual police work?” Rogers asks.

Both he and Tilly raise an identically-shaped eyebrow, and Rumple barks a humorless laugh. Like father like daughter.

“What’s funny?” Tilly asks, the lines of tension in her face relaxing into a sunny smile.

“Other than Rogers’ pathetic chess skills?” Rumple’s lips twitch in a small smile, swamped with a fresh wave of regret for making Tilly worry. “At my advanced age, a great many things amuse me. But you two attempting to babysit me has to be near the top of the list.”

“So you’ll let me help you wrap the case, then?” the pirate-turned-cop asks.

‘Who knew when you were assigned as my partner, I would be getting my very own Boy Scout.” Rumple twists the pinky ring Belle gave him as a gift on their fifth anniversary round on his finger. The words on the pages of paperwork blur in front of his weary eyes, but he won’t admit defeat. Not until he finds a loophole to trap Facilier. “You saved Henry and apprehended the Candy Killer. I’ll take it from here.”

After kidnapping Henry, Nick Branson, known as the Candy Killer, was brought into custody. Before they could begin questioning him, they found him dead in the interrogation room. No blood, no scratches, and the medical examiner reported that Nick was stabbed through the heart from inside his body. Only dark magic could accomplish such a task. Gothel, maybe? Or perhaps another member of her coven preempted Nick, afraid he would be released to strike again. The more likely culprit was Facilier, and the triangular pin Rumple found at the scene confirmed his suspicions.

But how can he explain what happened to Rogers, who is unaware of the double life they all lead? Should he say a powerful witch doctor used dark magic to murder Branson? He would drive him down the road to the insane asylum.

The truth is no use to him, anyway. He’s out of options and short on allies. After he stole Regina’s cure for Henry in his search for the dagger, she won’t take his calls, and he’s too ashamed to look at his grandson. Thank the gods Gideon is safe in another realm, even if he doesn’t know where his papa is.

The least he can do is take care of Rogers and Tilly, the only two living souls in all the realms who are still speaking to him, even if neither one knows what he truly is. Once a monster, always a monster.

He drums his fingers on the table and rakes a hand through his hair. He needs to spin, if only he had his wheel, and be alone. To think, to figure out this whole mess. Would Tilly and Rogers ever go home?

“We’re just worried about you, Weaver.” Tilly interprets his agitation as she licks powdered sugar off her fingertips.

Rumple rolls his eyes. With Tilly, worrying seems to involve games, books, and food.

An hour into their game, they ordered Chinese takeout and urged him to eat, but he couldn’t force a single bite past his lips. He even refused to touch the beignets Sabine dropped off at the station in a not-so-subtle bid to impress Rogers.

He tried not to smirk when he accepted Sabine’s little brown bag of sugary fried dough on Roger’s behalf, but the blush on her cheeks and the way her bright, questioning eyes darted around the office made it clear she was looking for his tall, dark partner.

Rumple is no expert in love and attraction, but he remembers Belle’s soft looks and tender smiles, and the way they never failed to turn his stomach inside out, leaving him breathless and out of his depth.

Besides, listening to Rogers stammer when he told him his sweetheart was looking for him was the best entertainment he’d had since Tilly got a job to support her marmalade habit.

If nothing else, Rogers and Tilly’s lives are a pleasant distraction from his bleak, endless existence.

“I suppose this is your idea of heroism, sweetheart, saddling me with these two.” He reaches for the vase to run his thumb over the head of a marigold, murmuring to Belle as though she is sitting next to him, just as she did every day of their seventy-year marriage. “Belle, I miss you. I wish you were here to tell me what to do next.”

“Who are you talking to?” Rogers eyes him askance, and sends Tilly concerned glance number 572. Not that he’s counting.

“Myself,” he barks, hunching over the desk filled with paperwork to hide his flushed face. He didn’t know he’d actually spoken to Belle out loud, but he’s taken to doing it more and more in the weeks since the gunshot wound Tilly inflicted woke him from the curse.

He needs Belle here to protect him from himself. Old habits are creeping back in, desperation in the driver’s seat. He fantasizes about using one of Facilier’s pin cushions against him, or hurling a stake through Gothel’s heart. It won’t put an end to this damn curse, but it will make him feel a hell of a lot better.

Tilly clears her throat. “Weaver, you want some of this lo mein before I finish it off?” She holds out a set of clean chopsticks, fingers trembling.

“I’ll pass, thanks.” He offers her another fond smile to soften the gruffness of his refusal. “You eat it. You need your nourishment.”

“‘Kay.” She shrugs and shovels a massive bite of noodles into her mouth, but since they found his dagger in her knapsack, she’s been skittish, as though she’s afraid he’s going to lose his temper again.

Black ink drips down his fingers and he realizes he’s crushed the pen in his hand. Somehow, he expected the road to redemption to be easier. When he thought the dagger had been stolen, the truth became clear: Every good deed has been done with the expectation of getting something in return.

Maybe Regina is right, and he hasn’t changed a bit.

Disgusted with himself, he wipes his hands on a pile of Mr. Wong’s carryout napkins and hurls them at the wastebasket.

“Every selfless act brings me closer to you, my love.” He repeats his mantra in a ragged whisper, but after what he did yesterday, the words no longer hold any hope.

To punish himself, he stayed up all night, torturing himself with memories of sweeter wedding anniversaries. Long walks in the sunshine and picnics in the park; Gideon toddling into his mama’s waiting arms; Belle perched at the end of a long table like a queen, surrounded by mountains of dusty, fat books; spending the entire day in bed making love just because they could.

Gods, how good life had been with his wife in the world. And what he wouldn’t give for one more hour with his head in Belle’s lap while she reads him a story and strokes his hair.

Tilly rocks back on the hind legs of her chair and squints at him, then snaps her attention back to the board. She rolls the white queen between her thumb and forefinger, considering her next move. Rogers is two moves away from checkmate, but Rumple knows he will misstep on purpose and draw the game out.

“We’ll finish up later, then?” Tilly asks Rogers. “I’ve got to get to bed ‘cause work starts bright and early. Sabine said she nearly doubled her sales the day after I passed out samples, and she wants me to do it again.”

A flush creeps up Rogers’ neck at another mention of Sabine, and Rumple grins in spite of his foul mood.

“The ones you brought into the station yesterday were gone in minutes,” he praises. “Sabine is lucky to have you. She thinks you’re a born saleswoman.”

“No surprise they were eaten so fast,” Tilly says, ducking her head in modesty. “Coppers and doughnuts, right? I tried to convince Sabine her beignets would be lovely dipped in marmalade. She liked the idea, but insisted on making some sort of rum sauce instead.”

“Rum, eh?” He wonders if Rogers still has a fondness for the stuff under the curse. Pirates and rum; as synonymous in their old world as police officers and doughnuts are in this one. Rumple smothers his laughter, the sound coming out like a wheeze.

“Now why are you laughing?” Tilly asks, giving him a light punch on the shoulder.

“You, trying to convince your boss to add marmalade to her menu.” The girl’s weakness for citrus preserves was one of her more delightful quirks. The day they met in the Enchanted Forest, he’d come through the portal, weary and heartsick from losing Belle. She’d scolded him for upsetting her search for the white rabbit, then offered him a jam sandwich from her knapsack, insisting he share her lunch because he “looked like hell.”

Some things haven’t changed.

“Weaver?” Tilly clasps her hands behind her back and tilts her head. “I know you’re missing her , especially today, but are we...okay?”

He sighs. “It’s like I told you last night by the troll, Tilly. I’m not angry with you; I’m angry with me.”

“Please let Detective Rogers take you home,” she whispers, laying a hand on his arm. “I’m afraid something else terrible will happen. You’re a good man. I don’t want you to be hurt.” Her gaze wild, she looks around the shadowed station and shivers.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, dear.” He struggles to swallow, touched by her concern. “How about I make you a deal. You promise to go straight home and lock the door, and I’ll let Detective Rogers stay with me until I’m done working. Will that satisfy?”

“Thank you.” She nods, her eyes shiny with tears, then puts on her coat and slips out into the night. He stands at the window with Rogers and watches her until she’s out of sight.

Rogers yanks a chair over to his desk and straddles it, all business the moment Tilly disappears. “What the hell is going on with you? I’ve never seen you like this.”

Rumple doesn’t look up from the desk, still littered with ink-splashed files. “Whatever do you mean, detective?”

“Scared—same as yesterday when you bit my bloody head off. Now you’re hiding behind paperwork and skipping out to buy flowers. And since when have you worked by the book?”

“Since nothing else I’ve tried has been successful,” he admits, looking up from the piles of paper.

“Whatever’s going on, tell me. I can take it,” Rogers says. “I’m your partner. We’re supposed to help each other.”

Rogers’ concern fills him with an odd mixture of fury and affection. It’s strange, yearning to be alone in his misery, but sharing his burdens holds appeal, too. Confiding in Tilly would be his preference, but the girl is fragile, especially after last night. He won’t burden her with his pain.

“Would you care for tea?” he asks, resigned to playing host. He seems to remember Hook appreciating the beverage, or maybe that was the other version of him; the one who was back in Storybrooke and married to Emma Swan. “It’s only bags, but it’s tolerable. I don’t have any rum, but there’s whiskey if you need something stronger.”

“Rum?” Rogers wrinkles his nose. “Never touch the stuff. Funny thing, ever since I moved to the Heights, people are constantly offering it to me. You’d think I was a pirate, instead of a cop.”

“Indeed.” He holds back a smile. Oddities in a curse were inevitable. Poor Rogers was in for quite a surprise when rum-loving Captain Hook woke up.

“Tea would be grand,” Rogers says, nodding at the colorful bouquet on the corner of his desk. “Why the flowers?”

Rumple turns to the water filter to fill their teacups with hot water, grateful to occupy his hands with a menial task. “It’s our wedding anniversary.” He shrugs. “Those are her favorites.”

“Will you tell me about her?” Rogers asks. “Your wife?”

“Belle. Her name is Belle.” Settling behind the desk again, he slides a steaming mug toward Rogers, and wraps his hands around the chipped cup. He inhales the steam, taking solace in the smooth warmth of the porcelain.

Rogers smiles when he notices. “The cup you fixed. Her favorite, isn’t it?”

He nods. Repairing their teacup had been worth every squirt of glue and weeks of sticky fingers. It’s the only tangible reminder he has of Belle in this world, and he carries it between the police station and his apartment every single day.

“You mentioned you’ve been separated.” Rogers gestures at the flowers.”How? Does she live here in the Heights?”

Rumple winces. “The truth is complicated.”

“It always is with you.” Rogers sighs. “But you can trust me. I recognize when a man’s trying to atone for something. Why aren’t you together now? Was it divorce? Betrayal?”

“Nothing like that.” He thinks back on shaking Hook’s hand outside Alice’s home, the day they’d agreed to start a new story. He wonders if the offer of friendship will still stand once the veil of the curse has been pulled back. “I’m a difficult man to love, but she always saw the best in me.”

Rumplestiltskin adds a healthy dose of whiskey to both cups of tea. He misses drinking proper tea, the way Belle used to make it, but the other cops already give him strange looks for sipping out of a dainty porcelain cup with a large chip out of the rim. About once a week, someone deposits a new, oversized ceramic mug in the center of his desk, usually filled to the brim with coffee.

He dunks his teabag up and down in the hot water, then plucks the soggy bag out of the cup and sets it on a napkin on his desk, watching the brown liquid seep into the paper.

“I’m a father, too,” he confesses. “Two wonderful sons.”

Rogers gives him a blank look. “Congratulations. Where are your boys?”

“Gideon lives in another rea-...” Rumple clamps his mouth shut, saying too much for the second time in as many hours. He never figured the pirate for such a good confidante, but now that he’s started talking, the words come quick and easy. “He’s a scholar and a teacher. Moved to another country. I don’t see him nearly as often as I would like, but it’s enough to know he’s safe. Gideon is our youngest. Our first son, Baelfire, he died a hero.”

“War?” Rogers tsks in sympathy.

He inclines his head. Baelfire had spent years battling the darkness on his papa’s behalf. “Of sorts.”

Rogers takes a sip of the whiskey-laced tea. “I’m sorry. Losing a child...well, I can’t imagine carrying such a burden.”

Rumplestiltskin bites the inside of his cheek, oddly thankful once more for the ignorance of the curse. Not knowing Tilly is his daughter spares Rogers a bit of suffering. “I only wish I could have traded my life for Bae’s,” he says.

“I hope all fathers feel that way about their children,” Rogers says with a smile. “But you must have a way to reunite with your Belle. A stubborn, resourceful bastard like you.”

“I do. I did. But I’ve squandered my chances, done terrible things. Actions which can’t be undone.” With his head bowed, the truth he’s avoided saying aloud comes out in a painful rush. “I took something valuable, and it cannot be replaced. Belle would be gravely disappointed in me.”

“I've the feeling she would understand.” Rogers drains his mug and Rumple pours another three fingers of whiskey into each cup. “Wasn’t it you who told me there’s always a chance to make things right?”

“Maybe for others, but not for me,” he says, chagrined. “I’ve had more chances than anyone, and it’s my turn to pay the price.”

Rogers shakes his head. “I don’t believe that at all. You may be rough around the edges, but you’re one of the good guys. I feel it.”

“Now you sound like my wife.”

“Wise woman.” Rogers leans forward, his face etched with curiosity. “What is she like?”

Emotion overwhelms him and he fights back tears. “Like no one I’ve ever known or could hope to know again. Fearless, intelligent, beautiful inside and out. Someone whose view of the world is so much larger than her place in it.”

“Nothing like you, then.” Rogers grins and tosses back his drink.

The laugh is sorely needed. “You’re not wrong. Belle is a great deal too good for me. Much the way people ignore Tilly, nobody really saw her. They accepted what she offered: brains, extraordinary research capabilities, command of extinct languages, but they often took her for granted.” He throws back another gulp of whiskey and gives them both another refill. “I’ve lost count of the ways she helped and supported and befriended people.”

“Sounds like an extraordinary woman.”

“Yes. You would like her, I think.” Rumplestiltskin smiles sadly. Neither one of them has uttered the word dead and he’s grateful. It helps to talk about Belle in the present tense, as though she’s still among the living. “Our relationship was at times tumultuous and controversial. I hurt her in terrible ways. But she always saw the best in me and she never gave up on showing me what kind of man she saw on the inside. Loving her, living by her side, having her goodness and kindness as my example. She changed my life.”

“Anyone who loves someone the way you do Belle—you’re her legacy, mate,” Rogers says. “Even when you’re not together, wherever you go, she goes, too.”

He never figured on the pirate as a source of wisdom. “That’s a pleasant thought.”

“Do you have a photograph I can see?”

Rumple hesitates, reluctant to let go of the hard-won image even for a moment. This morning in the shower, after he over-steeped his tea and misplaced his handcuffs, he panicked because he couldn’t recall the exact shade of blue of Belle’s eyes. While the water poured over him he sobbed, hot tears flowing down the drain with the soap-tinged water. When he was supposed to be questioning a witness, he ransacked the evidence locker to find a picture of her. An object to hold onto.

With tender care he pulls out the creased, faded photograph he unearthed after three hours of searching boxes and files. It was autumn, a few days after Gideon’s birthday. In the picture, they’re sitting on the front porch of their house with suitcases packed, pots brimming with Belle’s marigolds on either side. Their arms are linked, Belle’s smile bright enough to rival the sun. “This was taken when we began our travels,” he tells Rogers.

“She’s beautiful,” Rogers says, leaning across the desk to smile down at the image. “What do you suppose it’s like, the other side?”

“Tilly once told me it’s a place where you forget about life’s troubles and get to be with the people you love forever. Knowing my Belle, she’s found herself a library.” He can picture his wife, radiant and waiting for him in a garden bursting with roses, peonies, and marigolds, her pretty nose buried in a book.

Rumple stares at Belle’s face long and hard, memorizing every nuance of her features, then pours another round of shots into the teacups. Some of the whiskey dribbles on the desk, and he frowns at the amber liquid, everything feeling hazy and dark. His eyes burn with tears. “I’ve gone on too long. I’m starting to forget her.”

Rogers switches off the desk lamp, then leans back in the chair to study his partner.

Weaver is snoring, his head cushioned by his arms, which are folded on top of the desk. Those sardonic, oddly ancient eyes are closed, the lines of his face relaxed in slumber. He didn’t come out and say his wife was dead, but Rogers is a fair hand at reading between the lines. The loss explains so much about his partner, who wears grief like a suit of armor and swings between excessive caution and recklessness.

Weaver has talked of yearning to get back to Belle, and for the first time Rogers considers whether he might be on some sort of suicide mission.

He tries to puzzle out his partner’s cryptic words and actions, but his head falls forward, his body craving sleep. He drank a good portion of whiskey and is too drunk to drive home. He reaches into his pocket for his phone tell Tilly he’s running late, but a motion from the corner of his eye stops him. He drops the phone, his fingers crawling slowly toward his holster.

Shimmering light materializes from the shadows, at first formless, then gradually taking shape. It is a petite woman, and she has eyes only for Weaver. Powerful love shines in those soft, blue depths, and Rogers catches his breath, enthralled. No woman has ever looked at him the way this vision stares at his partner, and jealousy simmers in his chest.

Dark curls cascade down her back in a radiant curtain, and she wears a long skirt, a shirtwaist and a vest, clothing from a bygone era. At once he recognizes her from the worn, faded photograph. Weaver’s wife.

She seems to float rather than walk out of the corner, coming up behind Weaver, her expression gentle and filled with the sort of adoration he has only imagined. Her arms wrap around him in a tender embrace, bathing him in the same shimmering golden light that surrounds her body.

Rogers’ eyes prick with tears. It’s an intimate moment between a husband and wife, one he shouldn’t be watching, but he can’t tear his eyes from such a precious sight. When the woman’s bright, sharp gaze settles on him, he digs his nails into his palm. The pain tells him he’s not dreaming.

“I was hoping you’d be awake,” she murmurs near Weaver’s ear.

She says the words more to herself than to her sleeping husband, but Rogers can’t resist asking the obvious. “Why didn’t you come when he was?”

Hands on her hips, she huffs in annoyance, glaring at him like an errant child. “You don’t just appear whenever you want, you know. There are schedules. Waiting lists, Captain.”

“It’s Detective. And you’re Belle,” he says, then clamps his mouth shut. What’s the protocol for talking to a ghost, anyway?

“That’s right.” Her brow wrinkles in a confused frown. “But you’re not the Guardian.” Her mouth doesn’t open, but her words lodge in his brain, the voice a cultured female accent he can’t quite place.

The look she gives him tells him he’s a terrible disappointment, and he can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt. Insulted by a ghost? Ridiculous.

“Guardian? He crosses his arms with a snort, strangely at ease considering who, or rather what, he’s talking to. “As if he’d let anyone guard him from anything? He’s a cranky, cantankerous old bastard.”

She caresses Weaver with her eyes again. “I always have loved a good puzzle.”

“You certainly married one,” he retorts.

She levels him with a look, then her shoulders shake with gentle laughter. “What, you think I haven’t heard that before? I’ll be the first to admit my husband can be difficult. It did take me a little time to get to know him. You will, too.”

“Suppose I am somewhat fond of the old man,” he admits, pleased he’d managed to make her laugh. “Forgive me for staring, but it feels as though we’ve met before.”

“Hmmm.” She slips between his chair and the desk and hoists herself on it, crossing her legs at the ankles. According to those paranormal television shows, the temperature in a room drops when a ghost enters, but the air surrounding Weaver’s Belle is warm, and smells faintly of sunshine and roses. “I knew someone like you once,” she says.

“So this other bloke, he was handsome, charming, quick on the draw?” He attempts a wicked grin.

Again she laughs, a musical, delighted sound, then picks up the chipped teacup and takes a tentative sip. She coughs and sticks out her tongue. “Rumple has forgotten how to make tea, it seems.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “It’s whiskey, love. Rumple? Is that what you call him?”

“Yes.” She tilts her head, studying him, and he has the distinct feeling she can peer into his soul. Her smile widens when she notices the flowers on the desk, and she plucks a marigold from the vase, then runs it up and down her cheek with a contented sigh. “Are these for me? Today is our anniversary.”

“Congratulations.” An ache forms in the region of his heart, a longing for the love and connection these two extraordinary people share, even from beyond the grave. “You must have been happy together.”

Her nod is eager. “We had many wonderful years, raised a son, traveled the world. But even with a lifetime of happiness, it’s never quite enough. Long ago we promised each other forever. Soon he’ll come home to me.”

Fear clogs his throat at the certainty in her tone. “How-how do you know?”

“When you’re awake, everything will become clear.” She flashes another dazzling, dimpled smile.

“Awake? But I’m not…” He blinks, and Belle is behind the desk once more, leaning over Weaver to press a kiss to his cheek, then another to the top of his graying head. When she pulls back, a golden tear is leaking from beneath his closed eyelid.

Belle turns to him again. ““He’s good man with a pure heart, but it’s always been so hard for him to believe in himself. His journey hasn’t been easy and his courage is faltering. But you can’t solve this mystery without my husband. You need him. All of you do.” Her eyes are narrowed toward him, as though she doubts his ability to do anything good at all. “Would you give him something for me when he wakes up?”

Without waiting for a reply, she presses something small, cool, and heavy into his hand. It’s a gold ring, topped with a large moonstone.

“I’ll see that he gets it.” He slips the ring into his jacket pocket. “Can I ask you something in return?” His question should be about the Candy Killer case, or how Hyperion Heights came to be such a strange town, or why it seems however much he longs to travel, he can’t bring himself to venture outside the city gates. Instead his thoughts are filled with Tilly and Sabine. “Will I ever have a great love? Like you?”

“You already do, Captain,” she says, then she melts into the wall and fades out of view.

“Rogers. Rogers, wake up.” Weaver is standing over him, shaking his arm.

He blinks, and the dull grey walls of Weaver’s office come into focus. The bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue on the desk is almost empty. Though his vision is still bleary, he can make out the outline of a flowing blue skirt and hear the echo of a woman’s gentle laughter. Hard as he tries to capture the memory, it evaporates, like droplets of water on the sun-drenched deck of a ship.

“Where is it you said you’re from?” he asks, wincing at the throbbing pain in his temples. His mouth tastes like plywood.

Weaver shoots him a quizzical look. “I didn’t, but before I was with Seattle PD I lived in Maine.”

He slips a cup of water under his nose, and Rogers drinks it in greedy gulps, the liquid cooling his burning throat. “And that’s where you met Belle? In Maine?”

“One of the times,” he mutters under his breath.

“Could you speak up, mate?" He pokes his ear with a finger.

“I said you should get home.” Weaver says loudly, shrugging into a worn leather jacket. “Tilly will be worried.”

"Not that loud," he grumbles. Rogers stands, the motion making him dizzy, and Weaver grabs his arm to steady him. “Seems I drank a bit too much of your whiskey,” he says in apology.

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” Weaver smiles. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

Rogers squeezes the back of his neck and sways on his feet. He could have sworn his partner imbibed twice what he did. “You must have one hell of a tolerance, mate.”

Placing one hand on the desk for balance, he fishes in his jacket pocket for his keys, but his fingers close around something hard and round. He pulls it from his pocket, holding it in his open palm. A moonstone ring.

Weaver’s face drains of color when he sees the ring. “That’s mine. Wherever did you…”

“I’ve no idea.” Unthinking, he hands over the unusual gold piece. “It was in my pocket.”

“Belle.” The smile on Weaver’s face transforms his features, and he touches his cheek. He slips the ring onto his left hand as though it was made for his finger.

Rogers doesn’t know how or why, but something inexplicable has shifted between he and Weaver tonight, as though their lives are linked in ways they have yet to discover. For the first time he feels like he understands this man he calls a partner. Somehow they’ve become more than colleagues. They are friends.

“There’s a diner round the corner from our flat,” Rogers says, as they approach the office door. “Tilly and I go there sometimes for breakfast. Excellent marmalade, naturally. Meet us there tomorrow before our shift?”

Weaver nods, his footsteps lighter and happier than they’ve been in weeks. “I’d like that.”

Rogers pats his pockets and turns around, realizing he left his keys behind. “Look,” he says, motioning toward the desk.

All the marigolds from the vase have disappeared, and only the roses and peonies remain. “Belle’s flowers. It’s...bloody magic.”

“No,” Weaver says, his voice soft and filled with awe. “It’s true love."

###

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #post ep fic #rumplestiltskin x belle #rumplestiltskin #detective weaver #detective rogers #tilly #wish hook #ouat 7x18 the guardian #ouat season 7 #mqc writes #marigolds

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