Pssssst Hey. Hey. Free And Expansive Database Of Folk And Fairy Tales. You Can Thank Me Later

pssssst hey. hey. free and expansive database of folk and fairy tales. you can thank me later

this was lovely!!! you have such a way with words, Lo, I'm in awe every time!!! 🥰 thank you for joining my little event

Chevalier x OC (OC Chart: Esther), Leon x OC (OC Chart: Viva)Angst-adjacent (wholesome)Prompts: Tradition + Falling Leaves ~ 1.6k This work deals with the topic of commemorating the dead.

My entry for Falling for Fall CC hosted by myself and @violettduchess and From harvest to hearts hosted by @mitsuhideswifey ! Thank you for coming up with such a lovely prompt list, Luna! >:3 I can't wait to finish my next entry!

Content Warnings: none

A lonesome thread floats in the air. It billows, a flutter stolen from the butterfly wings, tugged in all directions by the currents of winds, and it descents, falls oh so slowly among the golden maple leaves. The gossamer is not destined for the ground, however. It’d rather cling onto an old, wooden cross.

A lonesome thread floats in the air. It billows, a flutter stolen from the butterfly wings, tugged in all directions by the currents of winds, and it descents, falls oh so slowly among the golden maple leaves. The gossamer is not destined for the ground, however. It’d rather cling onto an old, wooden cross.

Dry rustling sounds in the cemetery. Father Joseph brushes the dust off his cassock to then settle down on a bench.

“It’s been some time, Ignace,” he sighs. “Your girls will come visit you again soon, old friend.”

Father Joseph stares ahead, at and past the brass plaque with the birth and death dates of Ignace Dubois.

***

Esther is pallid after making the journey – a total of two hours in a carriage followed by another thirty minutes on foot have left her rather starved for rest. Nevertheless, it is still a victory. The same wouldn’t have been possible just a year, no, half a year ago. The cemetery gate welcomes her in a shrill voice, old hinges whimpering in disuse. Fallen leaves line the paths between the graves, metal, stone or wood crosses protruding through various wind-swept heaps, yellow, red and orange entwined. None have avoided being gnawed on by time.

The bench is familiar with the weight of Esther’s bag. It is always the same two lanterns that she brings, together with a few personal belongings of hers. Esther herself cannot sit down, however, not until her father’s grave is tended to. As such, she collect the leaves, back bent and hands pushing them into her skirt, so that they can be set at the foot of the old maple growing by the chapel; as every year, she briefly thinks of a proper rake, to then notice the weeds that have grown into the soil and that the mound has been misshapen. Neither of those is acceptable.

It is only once the work is done and she has uttered her silent prayer that Esther can settle. Sweat covers her brow, her hands are dirty, and her breaths are rather shallow. She takes a long moment to compose herself.

Esther forces the air down her windpipe.

“Dad… Vivi, she…” Her voice cracks. “We really could have used your help here. I got asked to be the Belle and she went to the palace, pretending to be me, and the war almost broke out and she almost got herself killed and —” Esther purses her lips, the dates on the plaque growing blurry. Wind cools off her tears. “I was so scared, dad. I still…”

The leaves crunch a short distance away. Perhaps that is why Father Joseph has never bothered to procure a new rake. The few that still come to his desolate chapel… they need peace. And privacy. Esther wipes her cheeks dry with her sleeve.

“It’s been some time, child. Aren’t you cold?”

“Only a little bit.”

“Muriel has made stew, it’ll warm you up.”

The glass lanterns plink. “A moment. Let me just light them.”

Cast-iron rakes herd the unruly leaves, the old maple curiously gazing at the people in the cemetery. Viva blows a strand of hair out of her face, a wheelbarrow poking at her leg, jaunty despite the quiet of the place. It wants to be loaded, surely, and she’d rather not wait either. It isn’t long until the paths are all cleared, a wreath of colourful heaps sitting around the chapel entryway. But that is not why they’ve come there.

The bench strains its spine. Two people? That it has not bore in a long time. They put their hands together in a prayer. Viva closes her eyes. Her lips move: Give them the eternal rest, oh Lord, and may the perpetual light shine upon them.

A moment passes before she is ready to talk.

“So… That’s my dad.” She clears her throat. “I wish you could meet under different circumstances. I think you’d like each other.”

Leon nods. Something shimmers in his amber eyes, briefly clouded by a shadow of an unwarranted remorse. His elbows resting on his knees, he leans forward, still staring at the wooden cross.

“I remember him. He was there when I arrived.” His gaze drops to the ground. “And later, when we needed to go anywhere. He’d apparently asked to be our – my and Leon’s – coachman.”

It is met with silence. After all, what could be said? It buzzes in his ears, the absence of sound a heard of flies feeding on the carrion of his own, involuntary, making. He was worth a single coin and far too many lives, and —

A wave. A tsunami. An explosive, scorching, erupting laughter raptures the air.

Leon straightens his back at once, and he can swear that all the crosses around follow suit, shivers spilling over the bench as elder oaks and birches shake their branches in disbelief. Who dares…? Who dares to — to — Where others have wept? Where others still silently weep?

“It does sound like dad,” Viva forces out of herself, a brighter than the sun smile spread over her face. “You know, he worked at the estate as a stable master, but he has always been a terrific jack of all trades. One time a maid was accused of stealing the lady’s jewellery. Guess what? He found it the next day. And she didn’t even ask.”

Viva is blinding as she talks, Leon realises. His arm now around her waist, he turns away from the grave and towards her, an echo of a chuckle riding on winds.

“Yeah?” he prompts, barely a mirror to her joy.

“Yeah! Oh, I have to tell you about the candy.”

“The candy? He snuck some in for us once.”

“Just once? Pfft. You should wish he was your dad. I and Estra…”

The fire inside the chapel burns bright, as it will for the hours to come. This time Father Joseph has readied more than just a stew… although, perhaps, offering it has become a mere excuse. He, once a vicar at the sanctuary attached to the Dompteurs’ private retreat, has stories to share too.

***

There is little work left for Esther to do. Perhaps the heavens do listen, for the rake is now waiting for her by the chapel wall. However, it is not meant to be. Father Joseph grabs it first, crow feet around his eyes deepening as a smile emerges on his face. The door closes behind him.

“Why don’t you go light the lanterns?” he suggests with a wink. “I’ll occupy your companion in the meantime.”

Bambi’s – her dog’s, or her guard’s – tail wags furiously, his large body swaying alongside it. Perhaps it is the faint aroma of cured meat and sausages that has this effect; regardless, Esther finds herself unable and unwilling to refuse the offer.

Ignace’s grave is clean now, not a weed intruding on the dirt he has been entrusted to. Even the cross stands taller, firmer, as if it has found new pride in its duty. Esther sets the lanterns down.

Rest in peace. You don’t have to worry about us anymore, she thinks and wipes away a gossamer thread. Vivochka is happy now with her love. He’s…. Well, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. But you also already know.

Crows caw in a nearby oak.

I have been given a job too. It’s nothing much, but I’m compensated well enough. I actually make enough to send some money back home. Mom can finally rest… Maybe, if we save a little, we can replace the roof next year too… And if not, then I can talk to my boss. He’s a good man at heart, even if he can be… a little… eccentric.

Black wings flutter above her head. Esther looks up, purple tainting the pink clouds that descend towards the sinking sun. It is gold and it is blue, that bright azure that so reminds her of… Sudden warmth has crept up on her. Esther covers her cheeks with her hands – it must be the wind. The wind and nothing else.

I’m well, dad, really.

This year the cemetery has been tidied up ahead of time; no leaves pad the paths, the old wooden benches seem to have been repainted, and even the moss is less daring in its conquest of the graves. Father Joseph must have worked hard. Now, however, he stands with his back straight and his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back. He too has people he visits.

“Hey.” Leon’s voice is equal parts smooth and hushed, a far cry from the commanding roar he often wields. Rather than a choir of voices, he is assisted by a quiet plinking of glass and a wooden crate confining them. Father Joseph greets him and Viva with a nod of his head.

“You’re visiting Albert?” she asks. The bouquet of flowers in her arms is enormous – large enough to obstruct her face nearly completely.

Father Joseph laughs, “You can see from there, child?” He turns to face them properly. “Ignace will be happy to receive those.”

“We’ve actually brought them for everybody,” Leon explains, the solemn expression on his face turning to a grin as he glances at Viva. “But we do have some news for Ignace that he may like. We got engaged.”

Father Joseph clasps his hands. “Congratulations! Congratulations! Let me help with those, poor Ignace mustn’t wait long to hear the good news.”

The first grave they’ve visited belongs to the niece of Joseph Vallée, Cecilia Vallée, one of the maids serving directly under the fourth prince of Rhodolite, Leon Dompteur. The original one.

***

Esther opens her eyes. Her prayer has come to the end, but the silence of the cemetery still prevails. It is only white lilies and heather that whisper between themselves.

“What is the day of your father’s death?” Chevalier’s inquiry startles her. Esther’s forgotten that he’s offered to come too.

“December twentieth.”

“The plaque has faded. I’ll have it remade.”

Various Works: Esther x Chevalier Various Works: Viva x Leon

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please can we do inbox trick-or-treating this year. can we make that a thing on tumblr. please please please please please

this hit me like a truck

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