Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dear L.,
One of the few compliments you had bestowed on me was that in my speeches I always get to the point and I do not dangle.
So, I wanted to say that I think I, well, I fancy you.

It started slowly, at first it was just admiration for the way you carry yourself and your astonishing capacity of commanding a room with your presence (and a raised eyebrow).
I have never been good in doing that … but I like to think that working side by side with you has allowed me to learn it or at least to find my way of doing it.
(I know you would scoff and quirk your lips at me being a “commanding presence”, but nevertheless …)

In the last five years, however, it morphed into something more.
For this reason I thank you for not hugging me last week, because I don’t know how I would have coped with that.
Well, that’s not exactly true: I do know how I would have reacted, I think.
And that scares me.

When I am in your presence I feel compelled to touch. In the last few years I tried to use restraint, but I have not always succeeded, as you may have noticed.
When I am near you my fingers start to tingle: I want to feel the wool of your coat, to know if it is soft like it seems; I wonder if the fabric carries your scent and if I would have been enveloped by the smell of herbs and wood if you had hold me.
Sometimes I wish I could brush my fingers, softly, through your hair: I would like to know if they are as soft as they look; I imagined to twirl a curl between my fingers while your head rests in my lap.
(I can practically see your eyes roll at this sappy image, but it is my imaginations after all, so I believe I can do what I want).

And now I can hear your voice, teasing suggestively, if that is the only thing I have ever imagined.
You have a beautiful voice by the way, do you know that?
Sometimes it is alluring and suggestive, others it is like steel or ice.
You don’t know the things it does to me…
Or maybe you do and you use it on purpose: I don’t know which possibility makes me flustered more.

Hence, I must admit that I have imagined things … but I am terrified.
When I am alone and I fantasize just to be held by you, or to kiss you, or, sometimes, doing little more with you, everything is beautiful. I feel warm, safe and content.
And happy, of course.
But if I think to actually doing one of these actions for real I am terrified: because when I am near you I want to both came closer and run away.
When you pierce your gaze on me with your violet eyes - they resemble the twilight, have I ever told you that? – I feel pinned.

When you started to hug me my body wanted to snuggle closer to your chest and melt against you.
That is the reason why I am terrified, because it’s like my body is not my own anymore and I am freezed, I cannot move.
And when it happens I want to run, far away, where I can breath normally, where I don’t have to hold my body’s instincts; where my body is not at war with my mind.
But I also want to inch closer, even if in my mind I fear that if I got to experience what an embrace with you feels, I would never want to let go.
I will just want more and more.
I don’t understand this greed and I’m trying to reign it, because it feels too much.
I know I am too much.

But it’s not only the greed.
Sometimes I imagined to go to a ball with you and dance until we are dead on our feet, or until your leg start hurting and we have to come home; or go and see a play in one of the Never kingdoms (I agree with you that Never authors are the best for developing interesting plots and storylines).
And when I imagine it, it’s always marvelous: we laugh and talk, maybe we hold hands (just a little).

But if I think of actually doing it blinding anxiety creeps in.
Not only because I have never truly dated anyone, but because it transports me back in time, when I was a student here.
I remember the need of being absolutely perfect because I was the first of my kind: both for the colour of my skin and because I am a member of the magical folk.
I remember the eyes of everyone on me because I was not an actual princess, because I couldn’t boast prestigious ancestors, because my clothes were worn and my gowns didn’t follow the latest fashion.
I was not one of them.
I learned to raise walls in order to not be hurt.
I sharpened my tongue so it could cut like a knife and they dare not say things on my face again, they turned to whispers instead. I remember the sound of conversation stopping suddenly when I approached, resuming fast when I departed.
In the end the whispers didn’t bother me, I learned that I needed to hold on until I could be free from the school.
(After these terrible four years I met other people thankfully, who helped me to remember that kindness can be offered even to the ones that think they are too broken or underserving of it.
They made me understand that being strong has nothing to do with the walls you built around yourself.
But that is a story for another time …)

One thing I have never learnt to brush off were the boys’ gaze though: they made my skin crawl.
It felt like – and sometimes it’s still like that – that they were trying to undress me with their eyes, as if my only qualities were the width of my hips and my bosom.
I could feel their eyes on my skin, and I longed to cover myself.
Thankfully, choosing the path of a fairy godmother meant that I could not have suitors, so they left me alone.
(For a long time I wore only high collar dresses and it has taken time to feel again comfortable in the gowns I wear now, but again, that is a story for another time …).

All of this to say that if we will ever go to these events I will behave probably like this: I will constantly look around us for fear of being caught staring at you and make them see that I have feelings for you, because I would be worried that they could use my feelings against me; I will not eat anything because of my anxiety and I will be stiff as a board.
In shot words: I would be a mess.

I cannot change the fact that I am an overthinker, so not knowing how a situation will play out causes me anxiety, and that I feel too much.
(I spare you the tale of how long it had taken me to understand and accept the fact that, just because Good’s society does not consider the existence of same sex, or bisex, or other kind of relationships, it does not mean that I couldn’t want one of these.
One of your girls – the witch with a penchant for chocolate – has told me that this behaviour is called heteronormativity.
Better to know later that never, I suppose …)

I don’t really know if one day I’ll give you this letter, but I feel better having written it.
Know that I will send it without re-writing anything.
So please, darling, tread softly, because you tread on my heart.

Clarissa, after putting the letter in an envelope and writing the name of the receiver on it, placed it in her drawer; she didn’t notice that she hadn’t closed it completely because she hadn’t felt so happy and light in years.
There was still a knot in her stomach because now that the words were written she could feel that they were eager to be read, but at the same time she was still elated for finally having been able to put words on paper.
Because finding words means that we accept that secret part of ourselves.

Meanwhile, in the other castle, Lady Lesso was in a bit of a predicament: she had left her offices’s windows opened and the spring breeze, feeling cheeky, had twirled all her letters and papers around the room.
Therefore she was with her back turned, casting spells in order to restock all of them in the previous neat piles on her desk and didn’t see an envelope, carried by the breeze and still shining of golden magic, landing in the center of her desk.

Chapter Text

The witch was curious about the letter, but she had many important papers to read so she put it in one of her drawers in order to focus on the work she had to do.
The only problem was that, every time she started reading a new document, the letter transferred near her inkpot. She tried to lock the drawer with a key, then with a spell, but no matter what she did, the letter kept appearing in front of her, waiting to be opened.
She would have found it amusing if this behaviour wasn’t disrupting her working schedule.
She settled for glaring at the envelope, hoping it would not move and would let her be.
When it was clear that the letter would not accept to be ignored, transferring not only near her, but on top of the document she was reading, she huffed, and still glaring, said: “Fine. Let’s get over with it”.

When she reached the end of the first paragraph her body had freezed: she was glued to her seat and at the same time she could feel tension all over her body.
Her mind seemed void of thoughts: just a blank space.
Then one thought made itself known in the mist of her brain: “It must be a prank. It has to be!”
Needless to say, she started to cast spells on it, in order to reveal the magical signature of the students who had crafted it.
“One could not have done this on his own, they must be working together”, she kept mumbling.
But all the spells came back empty.
The only thing they revealed was a fairy’s magical signature: Dean Dovey’s one.

Having – albeit not completely -assured herself that the words had been written by Dovey, she sat again.
But she still couldn’t read ahead of the first paragraph.
She read it again and again, not realizing that at some point she had shortened her nails so that she could touch the words without damaging the paper.

When she finally found the courage to read ahead, not after pacing the room for several minutes, she took off her coat. “I cannot think with this thing on: it’s too hot in here”.
She scoffed at the first sentence of the second paragraph, and when she realised that her reaction had been the one the fairy expected, she rose again.
And resumed pacing.
She probably hadn’t noticed that a shy smile had blossomed on her lips.
And certainly, she had not expected a blush spreading on her cheeks while imaging them in the woods, lying down under a willow, not talking – “Evil knows we do that too much” – just basking in the silence and in each other presence.

She chuckled while reading of the effect of her voice.
“Dovey, you have no idea of the things your voice does to me …
Your voice is bright, sweet and soothing, even when you are angry. Sometimes I wish I could just bask in the warm tones of it, like a cat stretching to catch every ray of sunshine.”
She realized she had spoken aloud when she heard the last words echoing in the silence of the office.

Then she realized that the chair had become very uncomfortable so she went to sit on her grey couch: her back on the armrest and her legs stretched in front of her on the sofa seat.
She felt warm inside, but the chill of the evening had started to creep from the draft of the windows, so she retrieved a blanket that smelled like the one who had been gifted it to her long ago: lily of the valley and the earth after it has rained. The scent of the fairy that was now revealing to her all of her insecurities, hoping that the witch would not crush them.
“For the cold nights in winter”, she had said. Leonora had used it even in summer.

Despite the sofa being comfortable Leonora was hunched over the words, as if just by being closer to them she could lose herself in it, and be near the one who had written it. As if she could melt and snuggle against them.
But then she read something that made her get up abruptly and go to the desk reaching for the inkpot, the quill and a bit of paper.
She did not notice that on the other side of it there was an expanse report.

You are not too much!
That would mean that every person who has insecurities is too much.
You fight passionately for the things in which you believe; you try to be coherent by doing the things you say must be done, and you admit when you are wrong.
You are still torturing yourself with the fact that you hadn’t realized that the Schoolmaster was Rafal, and because you had needed a girl to remember that Good should not be shallow, but empathetic.
Every hour of every day you try to be the woman you teach your girls to be.
How could that be considered too much?

You had found the courage to write about all the things you are scared of.
Do you know how rare is that?
To Nevers we don’t teach to reflect on emotions. We teach them that the only way to deal with is to shut them down and never talk about it.
The reason is that we are scared.
We ignore them because it’s easier not to dwell on it, in order to project an image of strength. If no one thinks that we have feelings that can be hurt, then no one can harm us.

Rafal beat the notion of feelings out of me.
The only way to survive was to not think: put the hurt, shame and fear in a place so deep in my thoughts that no one could reach it.
For years I had seen children learning this way of living and I didn’t stop it.
What does teaching that make of me?

At least you deal with them.
We don’t know how.
I don’t know how.
I am terrified that, one day, all the things I have locked in that dark place, will come out, and I would not be able to block them. I will be crushed by that like an overflowing river.

So, don’t ever say that you are too much because, at least, you know yourself. Knowing the dark part of yourself is what makes you strong, not hiding it and never addressing it
Believe me, Clarissa, because I have learned it the hard way.

Don’t ever say that you are greedy.
I know greed.
I know what it is like to want better food, power, and the respect of people that would kill you if you show sign of weakness.
I know what it is like to watch them burn so that the others will not mess with you again.
You want just someone with whom you can share your ups and downs.
It’s not greed, but companionship. And I want that too, with you.

Her hand trembled while she wrote the last sentence.
And trembled more when she started writing again.

I know that companionship is not the right word, but I cannot write the other one, yet.
(The L… one, I hope you understand.)

I know what it is like to need to be perfect so that others cannot say things.
You know I was a Reader; it will not come as a surprise to learn that I was considered less than scum.
Rafal made me believe that I could be anything I wanted, and I jumped to the opportunity.
I was young, and I didn’t realize that all magic comes with a price.
I paid that price over and over again.
I still pay it, engraved in my skin.

I admit I am curious to hear sharpened words from you. They probably would hurt more than everything I can come up with.
Would you care to share some of it, dear?

I wonder what you would feel if it were my eyes piercing on your skin: just a tingle, barely there, or something more?

And what makes you think that I would not behave like you at any event?
Did you recall when we both were summoned to attend an event with Ever and Never people?
I told you I kept looking around because I didn’t want to deal with someone that disrupted the evening, but I was afraid that the other Nevers could see how much I wanted to laugh and dance with you.
(Maybe a little part of me was worried that someone would have tried to harm you.
I couldn’t care less for the other Evers, just … you).

Anything else you wanted to share with me before I go asking Dot what your conversation with her was about, princess?
(I would prefer talking about it with you, but I don’t think you’ll read these scattered thoughts considering that I am not planning on sending it.)

Please, darling, tread softly, because my heart is a dark and fragmented place, and I could not forgive myself if you hurt yourself treading on it.

Not long after she had written the last word, she saw the letter vanish in swirls of magic.
She thought she should have been scared, but she wasn’t.
She had an idea of where her letter had disappeared to, she only hoped she was right.

Chapter Text

Clarissa hated expanse reports.
Firstly, because previously, when there was still a Schoolmaster, she had been forced to witness the fact that the two schools did not receive the same amount of money, therefore while on the Good side the students had received tailored clothes and weapons, the Never students had to wear scrapes of cloth and fight the cold in their dorms with fire in jars or lanterns.
She could still remember the Schoolmaster’s icy tone in answering her concerns: “It’s the way it has always been done Clarissa, no need to fret”.
She still felt guilty, and couldn’t look at Lesso’s eyes whenever they were discussing something related to budget.

Secondly, because she had not a good relationship with numbers: after some time they started to float on the page, resembling a flock of swallows, and the more she tried to decipher them, the more they would flutter and become blurry.
And for this reason she had to spend thrice the time she would normally use for any other paperwork to analyse it.
But she had also a little tradition of her own: after her work was done, she would send to Lesso the copy which had the expenses of both schools, and enchant the paper she had previously received to become a real swallow.

However, this time the spell didn’t seem effective.
The only thing that the paper did was to gleam a little golden and then shuffle around her office, as if trying to fly like a bird, despite the fact that it didn’t have wings or a tail.
Clarissa started chasing it around her office, all the while laughing with herself, thinking of how a certain witch would laugh at her expense, if she was to burst in her office while she was still running.
The fairy was so engrossed in following the flying paper, that she didn’t see the edge of the carpet, therefore she tumbled down on it, now really chuckling out loud.

The paper was still flying, but now it seemed to be floating gently towards her, and it was then that the fairy noticed something she hadn’t before.
There were words, now enlightened because the paper was in catching the sunset, written on the back of the sheet.

She snatched from the air, and flipped it, curious as to which scathing words her colleague had written to accompany the tedious numbers.
She skimmed the contents and froze.
Then she stared.
And stared.

Her first thought was that she didn’t didn’t know that Lesso owned a violet ink, but it suited her.
Then she took a deep breath and started to read.
She started slowly, but then she was racing through the words, as if flying, blindly, through the entwined branches of a forest, in order to reach the silent night sky.
And her heart was beating so hard in her ears that she didn’t record any of the words.
And her hands were shaking.

A part of her brain wondered if it could be the start of a panic attack, but it didn’t feel like it, and so she dismissed the concern.
She got up, leaving the letter – a letter from her – and swirled her fingers in the air, heating her teapot.
Another voice in her head was amazed by the fact that her magic was still functioning and that she had not set fire to her desk or her books, or even her teapot.
A soft voice reminded the other one that there could not be any circumstance that would cause her to destroy the precious brew – a mix of mallow flowers, raspberry, white tea and oolong - a certain witch had created and gifted to her.
“To ease that ever-working mind of yours”, she had said. Clarissa had never drunk anything else.

While the tea was brewing she went to her chambers and unfastened the bodice, gown and the corset, and put on a woolen skirt and a blouse – all the while hearing Lesso’s teasing words at the fact that she would dare wear something so informal on a school night.
Then she curled comfortably on her favourite armchair.

And then she read.
There was a little smile on her face while she pored over the first paragraphs: “You know me so well, don’t you?” she said absentmindedly into the quiet room.
A warm feeling had spread at reading these words, and it was that sense of calm and of being understood that made her summon a quill, paper and an inkblot.
She didn’t even bother with the formalities.

You wrote that you are afraid that someday all the shadows of your deeds and experiences will come out and hunt you.
Have you ever wondered at the reason why I gave you that blanket?
Well, the first one, was that I know you suffer the cold, hence you needed something to keep you warm at night, but that was not the only reason.
I wanted to give you something in which you could snuggle, so that, even if you would never accept any kind of comfort that could be given by touch, at least you would not be alone.
I might have charmed it so that the blanket will always carry a scent that is comforting to you.
I have always wanted to ask you which scent you smell, hoping that it was me.

I do not think that Rafal has ‘beaten the notion of feelings out of you’.
He made you raise walls, sharper and higher than the ones of many that I know. But they are still there: hidden, buried deep, afraid to come to light; otherwise your lips would not quirk a little when you read a well written essay, and you would not laugh at Emma’s jokes.
I am sure you would argue that it could be only an act, and I agree: it could be, but it isn’t.
You are strong, cunning, sly, at times threatening, and a good liar, but alas, dear witch, these qualities do not make you a deceiver.
(And you could argue with this all you want, darling, but fairy wings never lie …)

I wish I could lessen the pain engraved in your skin.
I know that each person’s burden is their own, but still …
May I, at least; kiss it to make it better?
(It’s easy to be bold with written words, and you probably know that if we ever go that far, I will be a mess of anxiety, but I still want to tell you this, because I mean to do it. Really, I do.)
And we both Know that I will not feel just ‘a tingle’ if your eyes were piercing my skin, I blush even when you’re not looking at me!

I won’t write sharpened words to you, I can’t.
They just remind me of a part of my life that I have left behind.
But I’ll tell you about it, if you want.
Do you want it?
(If I start writing now I don’t know when I would stop, and I am afraid to become a nuisance to you.
I don’t want to tire you.
I know that I should not feel as if I’m burdening you because, if I were in your place I would gladly read every word you’ll write to me, even if it was a novel. But it’s not the same when you are the one writing, isn’t it?)

And now I’ll tell you about the conversation with Dot.
Although I am not sure this is the right word, I think eavesdropping would be more accurate.
I might have been hidden behind a bush while she was having a discussion with a bunch of my students.
(And cease your cackling dear, I can hear it from here …)

Clarissa chuckled lightly at this, she could picture perfectly in her mind the sound of the witch’s laughter: a tinkling sound, but with a lower note in it.

There were also two other witches with her: one with three rats as familiars and another with a dragon, or maybe a perpent, tattooed.
Are all three a coven?
The three witches were saying that Good’s society is based on heterosexual families because it is a custom tight to the need of heirs, and also that, if at first other kind of relationships were accepted, with time, they become forbidden because people who felt different were perceived as a liability to these same families.
The one with a tattoo made an interesting remark: “It’s easy to make someone think that they have to hide because they are alone. And it’s easier to do this if they have no words to describe themselves.
When we cast a spell, we use words: we make our intent real and for others to see.
But how can a person feel real if there isn’t a name to describe the fact that they like a man, a woman or none at all? Or if their body isn’t their true self?”

After hearing these particular words I felt light, as if finally I had words to describe why it had always felt as if I was not fitting in
Since then these words are engraved on my heart …

She debated about writing the next sentence, because she had already written so much, but Lesso had trusted her with her fears, and she could do so, too.

And now, a question of my own.
Do you ever feel like mist?
As if, even though you are there, in a ballroom, and there are people, mingling, talking, dancing, and yet, none of them can see you?
They do not care if you are there or not, and they would never notice if you go away.
I usually feel like that at events: I know that I must speak with people, because society, my role, and courtesy demand it; but, deep down, I know that most wouldn’t care if it was me they were speaking to, or someone else.
It’s different when you or Emma, or most of the other professors are there, of course.
I know that they know me, or at least they have an opinion that is not only based on how I look – especially the Nevers – but on what I say and do. And I appreciate this very much.

I know you didn’t plan on sending the answer to my first letter, but you have.
Maybe we can continue writing letters to each other, do you agree?

And darling, I promise I will tread softly on your heart.
I will pick up all your fragments and I will combine them with gold, so that you can visit the dark places of your soul always carrying light.

Her anxiety about sending the letter was creeping in when, in a swirl of golden magic, the paper folded itself, and finally, resembling a small bird, took flight.