[AN: Holy shit I missed this for so long AAAAAHHHH please don’t hate me, Nonny]

It was late, and Papa wasn’t home. Dad had kept Angus’ mind off it for this long, but the clock still ticked and the hours mounted up.

“Papa’s not back,” Angus worried. He had grown used to accepting the idea that new parents weren’t permanent and still feared that these ones would somehow vanish.

“Papa’s going to be fine,” said Dad. “I’d know if he was in danger. It’s way past your bedtime now. You’re in your pajamjams, you’ve heard your chapter…”

Angus couldn’t sit still, and couldn’t make himself be sleepy. He’d already had some of Papa’s guaranteed apple pancakes and better-than-a-sleep-potion hot chocolate, but he still couldn’t make himself rest. “Papa kisses me goodnight,” he managed, voice trembling. “He’s not here t’ kiss me g’night…”

“I know, pet. I know. Some missions take longer than a day, love. Papa loves you to bits, and he’ll be back as soon as he can. Uncle Barry and Aunty Lup are going to help him if he’s in danger… It’s okay…”

Sniffle. Sob. “…’m scared ‘nyway…”

Dad held him close and started humming. Rocking gently as he swayed back and forth. “Au clair de la lune,/ Mon ami Pierrot,/ Prête-moi ta plume/ Pour écrire un mot…”

Angus didn’t understand Fantasy French, but the melody and rhythm were gentle enough to remind him that his tummy was overful of warm carbs and at least some of his family was here. He blinked… longer and longer… every time he opened his eyes or woke up a little, Dad was still singing. Softly. Gently. Calmly. If Dad could be relaxed about Papa not being home yet, Angus could certainly try.

Blink… most of the lights were out, there was just enough light to give shape to the darkness.

Blink… one of the cats was making biscuits in Angus’ leg.

Blink… the same cat and three of its fellows were curled up on him and Dad.

Blink… Gold and green light in the dark. The familiar shape of Papa in the night lights. “Hey, pumpkin… I head you missed me.”

“…’s worried ‘bou’chu…”

A warm smile. “I literally can’t die, baby. Not for a whole lot more years. Papa’s safe. It’s all okay.” Warm hands in his hair. Warm lips on his brow. “Wanna get tucked in now?”

“Five more minutes?” he begged.

Papa settled down with him and Dad and about five cats. “Sure thing.” His purr was the secret ingredient, and the next time he opened his eyes, it was dawn… and both his parents were still wrapped around him.

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[AN: First, I’d like to apologise for taking so dang long with this. It’s been a busy week]

Angus shivered in his bed and dreaded opening his eyes. He was cold and soaked and terrified that, if he could breathe in through his nose, he would smell someone else’s pee. It certainly felt like he was huddled in a bunch of lumps that wanted to dig holes in his skin.

He could hear jingling jewellery and someone singing. “Good morning, starshine, the earth says ‘hello’… you twinkle above…” the singer trailed off, and a too-hot hand seared into Angus’ forehead. “You’re not okay, little man.”

The shadow above him glittered and gleamed. He managed to focus on golden hair and dusky skin that was mottled like a fawn and sprinkled with gold. He wasn’t in the orphanage any more, but it sure felt like he was in an orphanage bed. “…hurts,” he croaked.

“Hmm…” said Papa, who scooped him out of bed and into a thick, fluffy dressing gown. “Looks like Summerfaire Sniffles, there, buddy. Caught something from someone durin’ the holiday.” Papa was comfortingly warm, whilst Angus felt like his entire body was a loose sack full of snot.

“…’m sorry, papa…”

“Not your fault, hon. ‘S why the schools give people a whole month off after Summerfaire. Get all the viruses outta the system before they can recirculate.”

“…’r you mad at me?”

“Naw… It’s nothing some soup won’t cure. Cream of chicken soup with ginger, garlic, and all the fixings. All your favourite ingredients.”

“…’m n’t h'ngry…”

Papa cooed and juggled him around as his Mage Hands filled a hot water bottle and wrapped it up. “We’ll find something to tempt those tastebuds later on, punkin. Anything you need, you’re getting. Just say the word.”

“…cuddl’s…”

“M’kay,” Papa curled up with him, the hot water bottle, and a lot of blankets (the cats came to nest on them later) on the big cuddle couch and turned the fantasy television on to something that required no brainpower to appreciate.

Dad looked in on them in an hour or two. “Everything all right, babe?”

“Summerfaire Sniffles,” said Papa. “Some fantasy tylenol, a lot of cuddles, and some chicken soup and we’ll be fine.”

Dad’s touch was a little chilly, but welcome all the same. “Nothing to worry about,” he said.

When he said it, you could be sure.

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They took a few years to begin. Having the actual legends available in real life, in the newspapers, in the bookstores, tended to quell those of a cultish mind. Nevertheless, they began all the same.

There was the cult of Jeffandrew, which fizzled for the most part and lead a secluded life in the cracks when it did find a rare foothold. It was always covert. It was always discrete. It was always unreliable as a faith.

People could really get to Believe in the Seven Birds. They were real people. Real people with extraordinary abilities, granted, but real people all the same. The Twins wrote a series of books about their exploits: before, during, and after their hundred-year mission to strange new worlds and new civilisations.

For the most part, the Seven Birds had had enough of adventuring, and that was perfect for creating… cults.

Altars sprang up inside the first decade. Not just to the Seven Birds, but to those heavily associated with them. Those who came to The Twins prayed to be re-united with lost family members. Those who came specifically to Lup’s altars hoped to resolve a long-lasting crush. Those who came to Taako prayed for resolutions to great wrongs.

People came to The Lover to reaffirm long-held vows, to swear new ones, to ask for true and lasting love, and to beg for more time.

People asked The Protector for strength in battle, for the power to keep their loved ones safe, for help in dire straits.

Those who prayed to The Lonely Journal Keeper prayed for fortitude to endure, as Lucretia had endured. They prayed for a dissolution of writer’s block. They prayed for a third option when the initial two were abhorrent.

Nevermind that it was Taako who saw it, the people Believed, and they Believed that Lucretia was the one who gave it to the entire world.

Those who went to The Peacemaker never went there for healing, which was probably just as well. They came to ask for a means to end conflict, and some for bountiful crops… though it was better not to investigate what those crops were.

The ones who prayed to The Wordless One prayed for successful journeys, for clarity of mind, for clarity of speech… for success at cards. For restoration of memory. For restoration of that which was lost.

They weren’t always successful prayers. That wasn’t the point. The point was that people prayed. In prayers, in belief, there is power.

They prayed also to The Detective, to The Bard, The Wedded Warriors… they prayed to The Artificer and The Deals Warlock and The Reaper and The Inventor’s Son. Some even prayed to The Bugbear.

Time ran out for living legends, as time inevitably does. Some lived their full span of life, some more than that. Some had far less. What mattered was the prayers, the Belief.

It’s quite a shock to wake up dead. It’s even more of a shock to wake up dead and deified.

A new pantheon made of people who once were flesh and blood. Given power, given elevation. Given a place in the Celestial Plane. All through Belief. New gods and goddesses, with new powers and responsibilities… and new dumb-ass followers they had to look after.

Just like all the other gods.

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I prefer to get flash fanfiction prompts here on tumblr. If you want to see an original Instant Story™ then you should drop a prompt on my website and wait patiently for the queue to work around to yours.

Smashwords has changed its policies recently to exclude fanfic content from earning any kind of income, so I’d prefer to keep fanfic very far away from my Instants until further notice. I’m still debating charging a fixed price for my Year of Instants, this year. I mean - I did publish all those stories for free and charging for the anthology feels… a teensy bit scummy. IDK

Thanks for the query, friendo, and I hope to see some prompts from you soon!

Originally posted by rosiitea

Thank you, Nonny. I’m glad I made your day.

I presume the xkit people are already working on a better way to do this.

Can we just… run a kickstarter or gofundme to firkin buy Tumblr and hire some decent coders to make this hellsite just work?

Thank you, Nonny <3 I wish I could say I worked hard on it, but… nope. This is just all pulled from my innate dislike of Romcoms.

Lucretia Clark wouldn’t talk. Sno could understand why. She had spent so long avoiding questions by being silent that it became her way of being. The problem was, she was age three, going on four, and language skills were a concern. In brief, it was get her to talk, or have Child Services make her talk.

That was not a thing she wanted happening to a small and already traumatised child. Therefore, she was using everything she could find to try and help Lucretia talk.

This was one such desperate measure. Lucretia liked watching Fascinating Planet and the host of the show was exhibiting some of the more socialised exotic animals to adults and kids for an entrance fee. Every child would be allowed to touch and handle these animals, and the host would talk. It was an intense experience.

Lucretia recognised the host in an instant and pointed. “Davenport,” she said.

It was the most syllables she’d said at one time. “Yes,” said Sno. “That’s Mr Dru Davenport. He hosts Fascinating Planet. We watch him every other Saturn-day.”

Lucretia, amazingly, started humming the theme tune. She was coming out of her shell already. It was a treat to see her happy.

The worrying part was that all the other kids coming to this thing were twelve and up. Some were almost adults. Lucretia noticed too, and clung tighter to Sno’s hand.

“You want an up-hug?” Sno offered.

Nod. Lucretia had gone quiet again.

Sno lifted her up and wrapped her in her arms, purring softly and soothingly. “It’s going to be okay,” she said. “I arranged things with the organisers. They know about us. They know about you. There’s no need to worry… You’ll see.”

Lucretia had her communications cards, and found the one that said, Rejection.

“They won’t throw us out. You’ll see.”

The queue let them shuffle forward and there, standing on the ticket desk, was the man himself.

“Davenport,” Lucretia whispered.

The world-famous Gnome had a rainbow parrot on a leash, which seemed interested in either climbing on top of Davenport’s head, or sidling along an arm. The bird had apparently learned a few choice phrases, one of which was, “Potty poo!” That one amused all the kids. Even Lucretia had a smile.

Davenport noticed them, and gestured to some of the staff. There was a Tiefling who gave them VIP lanyards and instructions to wait after the show. This was news to Sno.

“Pretty bird,” said Lucretia.

Davenport introduced the bird as Vina, and told all about how she was bred in captivity to help save her entire species. As well as, “Potty poo!” Vina could say, “Awesome,” and, “Wanna seed.” She was still a baby. Others of her kind could carry on prompted conversations.

Vina’s best trick was staying still and letting so many kids - including Lucretia - touch her vibrant feathers.

The show itself was amazing. Groups of twenty learned about animals they hadn’t known existed before, either from Davenport or some of the creatures’ handlers. They even had a swamp dragon named Errol who could follow a few commands for a nugget of sulphur.

Lucretia did not want to touch the little python, no matter how safe everyone said it was. She shrank away from it when Sno had it in her hands, so she handed it back and let the other kids have a go. The followup, including more hugs and purring, was a small monkey in a diaper who liked to braid long hair.

That one was a crowd favourite, and Davenport continued his lecture with a monkey giving him a plait.

It seemed like mere minutes, but the show was over and Sno waited with Lucretia for the others to file out.

Davenport was left alone with them. No animals to talk about. No rehearsed tricks to prompt. He sat where Lucretia could see him and said, “Hi, Lu-lu-lucretia. I know it’s a li-little strange to to to to hear me talk like this but… well… I used to ha-have trouble ta-talking too, I still do, some-sometimes.”

Lucretia voluntarily left Sno’s arms, and put her hand in Davenport’s outstretched one. “I don’t like to talk,” she said, barely above a whisper. “People wanna know everything. When I don’t talk, they stop asking.”

Sno knew better than to jump around cheering, despite the breakthrough moment. This was absolute proof that Lucretia’s language centers were just fine, thank you. As it was, she held as still as a stone and barely breathed.

“When I g-got your letter, I did some homework,” said Davenport. “It was-wasn’t ni-ni-nice, what happened. I can un-understand why you were sca-sca-scared of- of- of answering questions. You- you- you know the- the dangerous part is over, bu-but you just can’t… you can’t let g-go of the ha-ha-habit.”

She nodded.

“I have a sta-stammer. It kept me quiet for- for a long time,” he breathed a laugh. “They-they-they used to call me the-the Wordless One in school. And one day… Some-something incredible ha-happened.”

Lucretia was entranced. “What happened?”

“A re-representative from- from the local zoo came by with a- with a Pangolin. They- they were there to- to- to teach the kids about pres-preservation efforts and why zoos were- were important. They didn’t get to- to talk that day. They just asked one- one question. ‘Does anyone know what this is’.“

“You knew,” said Lucretia, eyes twinkling.

“I infodumped. The-the amazing thing? When I’m ta-talking about animals, I don’t- I don’t stammer. It’s like… I’m home. Safer than home. When I- when I have an animal nearby I– It’s like someone hit a swi-switch.”

Lucretia nodded. She could see the difference in Davenport with animals and Davenport without. “I don’t have a switch.”

“Lots of people do-don’t,” he agreed. “Lots of people ha-have to- have to find the-their own way. There- there’s no map, there’s no guy-guide, no- no- no compass. You, Mi-miss Lucretia… are your- your- your own trailblazer. I be- believe you can find a way out of- out of your habit.”

Lucretia said, “I’ll try,” and, “Thank you, sir.”

Two weeks later, and her school was complaining that she wouldn’t stop talking.

[TAZ Prompts Remaining: 1]

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The greatest news of Lucas’ life was that they were making a movie based on Fires in Elfington. The worst news, when it arrived three months later, was that they were making it all live action.

There were several reasons not to do things like that. For a start, the casting was generally off from the animated originals, in more than merely possessing internal organs and working musculature. In this case, the producers chose an actress to play Syn’amon who was… decidedly more curvaceous than the ectomorphic animated model and her real-life counterpart - Officer Snocoun Ton of the Neverwinter Police Department.

Worse - they whitewashed as much as they could about literally everyone in the entire cast. Everyone was, where possible, as pale as possible. They cast a pale green, buxom Sea Elf as Syn’amon instead of getting a Beach Elf, and there were people who could tell the difference. They lightened up the Mischief Twins’ skin tones to paper-bag brown, and generally miscast the entire thing.

Lucas was in a foul mood by the time he got to the premier. Therefore, seeing a buxom Sea Elf parading around in a sexier version of Syn’amon’s default outfit was like a red flag to a bull. He was an important person in the STEM fields, damnit. He came here as a representative of the Fires fandom. He shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of misrepresentation.

“Hey, do you know who wrote the original episodes of Fires in Elfington, and what inspired them to do it?” he said.

The Sea Elf in costume was busy doing T&A poses for the flickering cameras.

“Do you know how many episodes that outfit featured in and why they were worn?” he demanded.

Still not a thing. The woman wrapped her arm around him and feigned a swoon.

“How about how many episodes were commissioned for the third extended season?” he snapped. “Do you know anything about Fires in Elfington like at all?”

Someone in Mue Sakka costume came out of the crowd. It was scary accurate and faithful to the anime. “Shiringami Tatonaka, a news story about Officer Snocoun Ton rescuing the young lady who’s now her daughter; thirty-seven in the original run and two hundred in the extended series; and twenty-five. Are you done geek checking my spouse now?”

The woman in costume said, “Dude, this is just my day job, okay? I didn’t need to pass a test to wear an outfit. Gods…” she let him go and posed with her wife. She shouted so the crowd could hear her. “This lovely woman made my outfit from scratch, using the fifty seconds of clear footage available in the first teaser. Isn’t she amazing? Take a bow, babe.”

Lucas raged. “That outfit isn’t at all true to the original anime! It’s an affront to the fandom! Productions like that and outfits like this should be banned from all gatherings! It isn’t fair to Tatonaka-san!”

The wife, a mousy brunette, wheeled on him. “It’s people like you who are an affront to fandom! Do you know how long it takes to draft a pattern from fifty seconds of footage? The number of times I had to go back and forth on the freeze-frames to take detailed notes? The best guesses I had to take? How about how long it takes to source material that looks and acts like the finished costume, before it’s sewn? How about how many stitches does it take to fake the veins and structure inside a skeleton leaf? Do you know what kind of wadding gives the right flexibility and resilience whilst also not developing a wrinkle memory? Do you know any of that, mister smarty-pants?”

A couple done up as the Mischief Twins were capering about in the background, barely visible in his peripheral vision. He didn’t care about them. He cared about his rights as the keeper of trivia. “I bet you don’t even know how many frames were involved in the famous science scene.”

“Foreground, background, or by plane?” challenged the wife. “Even if I told you, you’d claim I memorised it to impress you. News flash, assmunch, I’m actually KnowHaver98 on your precious forum. I curate your precious trivia archives. And finally, nobody actually wants your attention, you greasy unwashed nerd.”

The woman playing Syn’amon pointed up, showing him that the Mischief Twins had created a gigantic, illusory sign above his head. It said, World’s Most Obnoxious Jackass, in bright, pink letters.

Lucas stormed away from that scene, retreating to the relative safety of the local Whinging Fanboy Corner, where a pocket echo chamber soothed his frazzled ego.

“Who does she think she is, parading around in that thing like a slut,” he grumbled.

“Uh. Sno’s mom?” said one of the crew.

Wait. What?

“You didn’t know that?” said a lieutenant. “You didn’t know that?”

“Man. I thought you knew everything about Fires in Elfington…”

“What a traitor.”

Wow. That had to be rock bottom. Kicked out of his own group of loyal detail addicts. He staggered away from that scene, ordered a stiff drink, and took solace in the numbing effects of alcohol.

The glowing sign dissolved, eventually, and Lucas slunk into his appointed seat, prepared for the worst.

He got… something remarkably good. All the nasty rumours about the movie were just that. Big ol’ sacks of foul-smelling air. He found himself actually enjoying it, since the studio really did hire the best actors for the roles.

*

The fans still on his side by the time his take-down finished going viral were actually impressed with his rationality in his critique. There were less of them by the time he posted an introspective blog entry entitled, Are there any true fans? His answer was a lengthy diatribe on how it depended on how you counted it.

Lucas stayed very quiet in the fandom. He’d been deposed by the echo chamber crew, and watched with distant eyes as that particular aspect of the fandom imploded from its own toxicity. Meanwhile, people were loving the movies, live action regardless. They were finding out all the cool things that roped him into the fandom and -he had to admit- several hundred Syn’amon/Original Male Character fanfics.

When he came crawling back to Firefaire, he did so in a staid ancient Humanman outfit he’d made himself. From scratch. He’d taught himself after he realised that Makarune Ton was a very impressive seamstress. Her tutorials were right on the button, too.

That was where he met… her.

She was more or less an average nerd. Pasty, slightly doughy, and seeming unfit. She did, however, have a pretty darn accurate costume for Peppakorn, a background Elf who maybe had three total minutes of screen time in any version of Fires in Elfington. He politely asked for a photo and she surprised the pants off him by popping an accurate -and uncomfortable- pose.

They talked shop about costume creation and fanfic for seeming hours. Losing track of time, space, and any other relative dimensions. For the first time in his life, he made a friend of the female persuasion.

Her name was Aurie Kenisson, and she taught yoga for a living. She’d loved the show from the instant Tatonaka-san had blogged about the possibility and she had dived straight into Elven history to find out if it was plausible.

There were a few historical figures who could have been the real-life Syn’amon, but it was more likely that this was a result of synchronicity than any actual research. Many of the records were indistinct about who did what where and when. It was Elven. All descriptors were verbs, so it was hard to translate into Common.

Lucas was impressed as hell that she’d learned Elven just to verify her research. She was dedicated. He had to admire that.

It took him quite a while to realise he had fallen in love. Ten, twenty years ago? He’d have dismissed her, ignored her, and gone drooling over a body pillow artwork with impossible anatomy.

Things change. People change.

Lucas was glad that he was changing, too.

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