Page 89 of Fate Fiction

part ii

M/F

No Archive Warnings Apply

Dani Grant/Evan McLeod, original characters, fluff, smut, “just friends”, second chance romance, The One Where Dani Grant Gets Her Shit Together, so much eye contact, nineties sex den, mirrors, happily ever after?

two years earlier

The glow of the laptop cast a blue haze across the bridge of my nose and throughout the room. I’d lost track of time, the conflict I created on the pages had finally been logically resolved. After tossing ideas about all night I was satisfied with the final edits, and hit select all to copy the text onto my fanfiction site of choice. This work was never paid, of course, but it gave me a sweet small community of others who loved Thorndown as much as I had.

I pressed publish and sat back. It was nearly one a.m., I’d spent my Friday night wrapping up the third chapter of “Ice on the Turret” while Nick was out with his coworkers. He may have invited me, or maybe mentioned the plans, but I had no interest. A dive bar with too loud music and too drunk patrons sounded like a nightmare. He wasn’t that torn up about it, I think he was relieved.

After a few moments staring at the text on the screen that was now sent out into the universe, I shut my laptop and rolled over in bed onto my side. Twitter was already buzzing with Thorndown fan accounts excitedly discussing the fact that a new chapter had been published. I had notoriety in a tiny corner of the universe, but it was mine, and I was proud of what I’d created here.

The door unlatched, I had a second to decide if I wanted to pretend to be asleep or engage in conversation with my inebriated boyfriend. Such crossroads were probably not normal ones to face when in a happy relationship, but we were different. We had a unique understanding of the other’s needs. Sometimes he needed to stay out until the wee hours of the morning and get shitfaced. Sometimes I needed to ignore him when he was like this.

“Baby,” he slurred as he pinballed down the hallway towards our bedroom. I could smell weed and alcohol leaking from his mouth.

I locked my phone and flipped it over, “hey,” I said sweetly. Tonight I wouldn’t get the unique pleasure of laying in silence waiting for sleep to overtake him.

“Why are you up?” he seemed mildly annoyed I was awake, but it could have been the alcohol contorting his tone.

“Oh,” I chuckled nervously, admitting aloud what I was doing was more embarrassing than doing it. “I lost track of time, you know.”

“God, that fanfiction shit again?” He slid his pants off and tossed them into a corner of the room. They’d reside there until I convinced him to pick them up himself or conceded and tossed them in the hamper.

“You don’t need to be so patronizing about it,” I slid further under the sheets and pulled them up around my shoulders.

“Patronizing, is that another word your therapist friend gave you to describe me or is that a writer word you think I’m too stupid to know?” I’d talked freely about our relationship with Andrea and Caroline, they’d suggested couples therapy, which he declined.

“By ‘therapist friend’ you mean Caroline? Who you know? It’s like you don’t give a singular shit about my life. And I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re incredibly drunk right now. But not stupid.” He tussled with his shirt trying to take it off, and it joined the pants resting in the corner.

“I care about your life,” he crooned and slid under the blankets himself and curled up beside me. I stiffened at his presence. He was easing into the affable likable version of himself. When the haze of alcohol made him sickly sweet, a contrast to the sourness he’d been not a moment before. I laid silently.

“Bay-beeeee,” he whined, “I’m sorry. I know you like your writing stuff.”

I laid silently, my back to him, hoping he’d let up or fall asleep. Either would be fine. I was too tired for this conversation. We’d had some version of it countless times.

He’d indirectly or directly call me a loser for writing fanfiction, offer a half assed apology, then weeks later the cycle would continue.

I’d conjured up these versions of fictionalized characters because they were more accessible than anything real. My mother didn’t comfort me when I’d lost my father, but I could write Sir Erwyn’s father holding him upright as his grief rendered his legs useless. Nick didn’t really love me, but I could make Sir Erwyn speak romantic monologues of all the things I’d wished I could hear myself.

I’d have future chapters of “Ice on the Turret” to help me parse out the emotions of tonight.

ice on the turret: chapter 1

By: Cl0ud3dR0se

Author’s Note: This story is meant to take place between the battle of Edgemore and the turning of Groslic (roughly around Season 8 Episodes 3-6 and Season 9 Episode 2). I anticipate this will be a lengthy saga, so please check back for updates!

Fear was an emotion Sir Erwyn hardly understood, and yet as he faced the castle in front of him, black as obsidian, he caught a glimpse of what true fear may feel like. He reached for his sword, clutching onto its gold handle carved with the head of his family dragon. Guards would be plenty. He was outnumbered, but had lurked in the woods surrounding the castle outpost for two nights to study his best point of entry. These mindless henchmen were large, but Erwyn was bright, and had found a small gap in the stone that he could make his approach through. His footsteps cracked on the frozen brush as he walked down the slope leading up to the kingdom.

That was the last Sir Erwyn could remember, until he’d woken up, battered and cold.

It had been 34 nights that Erwyn had been held within the stone chamber of the dungeon beneath Andoriaan castle. 34 nights where he’d spent little more than a few hours actually sleeping, the rest of these evenings he was haunted by multiple ghosts. The first ghost was his mother. A ghost that seldom left his side, particularly so when he was curled up on the ground, willing himself to sleep. How easy it was to recall the memory of her soft face, her golden hair that waved down to her waist, her emerald eyes. Each night she came to visit he cried softly, “mama, mama help me,” as he had when he was a young boy and had stumbled in the dirt.

The scrapes and bruises of youth would be welcomed in comparison to the deep gashes that were hardly scabbed over and the hairline fracture on the bone of his calf. An injury that would not be seen, but would be felt for months and years to come.