#╳ SOME MEMORIES NEED TO BE HIDDEN. SOME MIGHT BLESS YOU. ( musing ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

abizarreyodelingincident · 4 years ago

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Our Nightly Confidant 9

Lightest before Dusk

Her dresses flutter as she strides into her throne room. The hushed whispers die down at her entrance, her courtiers startled and her guards standing at attention.

When they had mentioned a tear in space, Zelda's heartbeat had picked up. There were only so many explanations, and some of her agents had already confirmed that they felt no hostile power in the spell. Was her Hero back? He'd been gone for weeks now. It seemed only right that he returned to her sooner than later.

(She forbid herself the thought that it might have been-)

But on her way, another servant had come to greet them. Link. Link had returned. And so she had entered with her queenly mask in place and her thoughts light.

A few of the heroes still groan as they try to get back their bearings. By the looks of surprise, it might not have been a very graceful landing. Her people shuffle about, nervous by the presence of armed strangers, and those that recognize Link amongst them... stiffen. She makes a mental note of their faces and allegiances, for later review.

The hero with the blue scarf notices her first, and he goes on one knee with a smooth, practiced motion. A knight, that one, she immediately knows.

The rest imitates the motion or pay her respect in whatever custom their era holds. The youngest is amusingly the stiffest, his eyes not on her but the knight. A touching bond, she imagines.

With pose, she greets them all, until Link's nearest companion – scarred, a little younger, naturally sticking close to Link in the middle of a crowd – seems to realize that she is Queen over Link. His expression turns from respectful to impish, mischievous and far too triumphant.

Link cringes as if he realizes exactly what goes through that one's mind.

… And he put that one's neck in a sidehold, trying to stifle the barks of laughter without much success.

“Oh, hey, your majesty, did you know what Twi sa-?”

Link's hand slaps on top of the exuberant one's mouth. A tad desperate for his silence, and though she knows no words her Hero had spoken would be truly damaging, she cannot resist the urge to tease him. With her best, coldest mask, she arches a single eyebrow. Link's face takes on a cherry red color, one she had yet to see from him.

Muffled and swallowed snickers abound from the group of heroes. Poor Link shushes them, and it is when the knightly one reminds them of her presence that they settle, somewhat. Link looks grateful, and a little torn. What relationship does he share with this hero? One of surface level friction, she muses, that cannot reach the core of their trust in one another.

Link schools his expression into a solemn look.

“My Queen,” he says, a hand over his chest and his head bowed.

“My Hero,” she replies, so perfectly even. “Have you travelled well?”

He has a dark glare for the scarred hero.

“It's been... an adventure.”

Yes, she pictures it nicely now. And part of her warms to the image of her Hero so well looked after.

“Is there need of my assistance for any of your companions, My Hero?”

Link pauses, then quickly glances back. “Right this second? No, we could use a moment to rest,” he says, and rolls his shoulder for show.

She allows herself a small smile.

“I bid you all welcome into the kingdom of Hyrule, brave heroes of time past and to come. Accommodations will be arranged for all of you tonight. Refreshments and food will be brought to you. You need only ask. The Royal Family does not forget the debt owed to its saviors.”

“We would be thankful for such generosity, My Queen,” he says, and the relief in the others is badly hidden.

She gestures for her guards to show them to chambers being prepared by some poor, rushing maids. Circumstances oblige. They'd be compensated in some way later. As the heroes move to obey, however, she raises her voice once more.

“My Hero, I would have you share some tea with me. We have much to discuss.”

A few of them misstep, and shoot Link curious glances.

The one-eyed soldier lifts an eyebrow.

But Link shakes his head at his commander. He lands a strong clap on the man's back and juts his chin at the exit. Silent words are exchanged without even a twitch, and, on cue, eight heroes leave the throne room through the front doors, led by an honor escort. Link, however, breaks the distance between them and offers a second bow.

“I am at your service.”

That you are, she thinks to herself. Her courtiers do not notice. Not the irony of her thoughts, nor the displeasure she must hide from them every other week.

They disappear together through the passage only the royal family may take, and together they climb the staircase to the highest point of the castle. Few members of her forces patrol the area, all of which pay her their respect, and try to hide some contempt for Link. It cements her plan in her mind.

She waits two heartbeats after the doors to her chambers close, then rushes into his arms.

“Zelda,” he whispers, at first, his arms strong around her, “it's not proper.”

She knows. Of course she knows. Many like to remind her. But queen she might be, she is also Hylian, and she missed him. Him and his lack of decorum, care for propriety. She never asked it of him. Not as themselves.

“Farore has blessed many of my court,” she replies, pulling away from him.

Tea and biscuits have been laid out at her orders, and she invites him to sit.

“To think they would still suggest you to be too lowly for any association with me.”

Link hums in his teacup. “They do say Farore loves her fools.”

Zelda shoots him a sharp look. “Do not insult yourself so.”

For all of a second, her knight looks sheepish. Then: “But...?” he asked, his fangs shining in the corner of his mouth.

She lets out a sigh. “But those people specifically are, indeed, fools.”

His chest rumbles with an unspoken hum, a melody from home. Ordon. Zelda has rarely visited, and not once in recent memory. For all Hyrule rules over Ordon, that province is marginal at best. Out of sight and out of mind to most her subjects, she knows. How ironic that the Golden Three would pick their Hero out of this forgotten corner of Hyrule. A reminder, it would seem, that none of her subjects deserve to be neglected. She took it seriously; she wonders more often than not if her nobles have.

Link does not speak right away. He samples the biscuits, always a little wary of food he cannot identify at a glance. A remnant of the life of the traveler, she had long guessed. But after the first bite, he nearly swallows the next two whole. They must have gone without rest for some time before the portal brought them to her. She is glad the kitchen had been forewarned to cater to their whims.

Her first sip of tea coats a floral flavor on her tongue. It is one of Link's favorites, and she can appreciate its subtle qualities beneath the light, almost perfume-like fragrances. She had not cared for it before, but now she is away from public eyes, she is quite famished herself.

Link looks at her like he knows, and it prompts her to, in more delicate words, play with him.

“The scarred, insolent one,” she starts, her tone neutral to hide her teasing, “he is the one the goddesses sent you to help, isn't he?”

Link pales a bit. “My Queen, he meant no-”

“Peace,” she says with a smile. “I care not, My Hero, for protocol beyond its use in social gatherings. Least of all for one I see dear to your heart.”

Reassured, Link relaxes, settling back into his seat with an equally tender smile. His eyes flit to her window, to the rolling clouds and the splatters of rain on the glass. So many tears from the heavens.

(They do not shatter two hearts.)

She banishes the thought. Her Hero is here, and followed by eight others across time and space. The very idea fascinates her. Makes her wish for time to speak with them and show them what records the kingdom has kept. The Chosen Hero, the Hero of Light, the Hero of Time. Hyrule only remembers so few, and there is temptation all on its own, to know that some may come from times yet to come.

But her desires do not weigh enough for the indulgence. Other matters are of greater import.

“Those heroes of legend. You trust them, then?”

“With my life.”

No pause. No consideration. Yes, she had thought as much. If no one else, Heroes of Courage could only be trustworthy. The Goddesses would never tolerate otherwise.

But in truth, that judgment, she had already decided upon witnessing the easy manners Link displayed around them. Link suffers no false-faced turncloaks. There had been nothing begrudging in their interactions. Rather, the brotherly banters they had shushed upon her arrival had amused her as much as it had enlightened her.

“Can you tell me about them?” she asks, gently. Not an order, but a request from a curious mind.

He lights up, and his earnest joy shines above the drab atmosphere of the late afternoon. He speaks exuberantly, familiarly, as if they are old friends. He even manages to snatch a laugh out of her, something she is well aware her court desperately tries ever still. Ice queen, they murmur out of her sight. A few hinges their courtship on their charm, and for the life of her, Zelda knows they cannot equal this simple man speaking of the love he has for these newfound brothers-in-arms.

He speaks of them like Ordon, like home, and perhaps it is what emboldens her to ask, after a delicate bite of her biscuit: “Do they... like their Zelda?”

He raises an eyebrow, his smile smaller and somehow more mysterious. Puzzling. It is not a mannerism he used to have. She wonders which heroes he picked it up from. Perhaps the scarred, one-eyed hero. Link had stood by him with a deference he is loath to show any he doesn't believe deserve it. And that man had been the stoic sort, at least on a surface level. If her suspicions about their respective identities proved correct...

Well. It matters not, she supposes.

Link takes the time to swallow another swing of his tea, the impudent farmboy that he is, and looks at her knowingly.

“The Chosen's smitten.” Link wipes some breadcrumbs from his mouth, which then turns upward into a smirk. “You should hear him when he tries to write her songs. It's adorable.”

“Yes, adorable,” she repeats to herself, willing her cheeks not to burn.

Quick as it came, the amusement drains out of him, and he sounds more apologetic next. “The truth is, I don't know, my Queen. Some of them are fond, some are a bit like strangers, and some are like us.” He points at her and himself a few times. “In-between. What do you think of that?”

“In some ways... reassuring, I would say. Part of me worries that I have not done enough for my kingdom in its time of need.”

He opens his mouth, indignation naked on his face, and she preempts him with a raised hand. He silences his reply, and she does not back down from his glare.

“She was always more important to your quest than I.”

With a grimace, he sits back down.

“True.”

He does not lie to her. She appreciates that, on the heels of a meeting with courtiers who are never honest with her. When they had barged in this very room, during the Twilight Invasion, one cursed, one mortally wounded, she had known that it would be her choice. Her choice, and her chance to save her kingdom. When Link speaks of her, he softens at this part, at the sanded out edge of her wits and quips.

There's a faint hurt in Zelda's chest. A longing, phantom, mere daydreams that do not belong to her. To give part of one's soul is to accept part of someone else's in return. In that way, it is quite like love. She had known it would hurt, and had done it anyway, for her hero needed another princess. But Nayru, at the very least, blessed her too much to let those visions of a brave wolf and braver man cloud her reason. No union could be successful from a pair of fools chasing shadows.

“You were important though, My Queen. Don't underestimate yourself.” He holds out her gaze with the strength that let him challenge the King of Evil. “You were our goal, our salvation – more than once, the last one to give me strength against Ganondorf. You brought the Light Spirits' blessing to that battle, and the Three know I wouldn't have managed without it.”

She finishes her cup. “One's advices are so much more convincing when equally applied to oneself.”

“Fair. We were meant to do it together, My Queen. Believe me, it's like history told me eight times over.”

Her lips curl up faintly. “Only eight times? And to think you could be told a hundred times without moving before. Nayru has finally seen you fit to receive some of her blessing,”

His indignation flashes in his eyes, and settles in his innocent, wolf-like grin. “Aww, shucks. Your Majesty, don't you be using big words to insult lil' ol' me.”

“It was no insult. Your determination often forces admiration, My Hero.”

He chuckles under his breath. He says something that might be 'wolf boy'.

This is what they are to each other: a way to remember one they do not wish to forget and whose hearts long to, so they may at last heal. They are. Healing. She knows this. Just as she knows the process is slow and grueling, but every meeting they hold in her chambers, every teacup shared by the window, their gaze overlooking Castle Town... she feels closer to it.

And by the gentleness in Link's eyes, she thinks he feels the same way. That even away from her, gallivanting through time and space, he has progressed as well.

Naturally, with none of the terrible awkwardness that plagued their early conversations, their words drift away to more casual topics, the health of the servants, the network of the resistance, the state of the kingdom. Easy words for her to speak. They drift from anecdotes about the castle's kitchen to the latest nobility gathering to her bemoaning of the state's newest budget.

At his request, she produces the copy for him to skim, which he does with a ferocity that is rather inappropriate for questions of maintaining bridges and holding the annual solstice celebrations. And therein lies the problem. He begins his commentary.

Link, it must be said, is also a miser of the worst sort. He would never let her exceed budget and does indeed question anything but the strictest necessity. It is as useful an attribute in an advisor as it is prodigiously irritating.

“My Hero, whilst the people can survive perfectly well on a tight purse, they do not want to. I must consider... certain sensibilities.”

“Why?” he finally asks, standing and disturbing his cup on the desk. “Why must you when it seems none of them ever do? How can they bow to you and then demand? You're their queen! Everything you've done has been to help Hyrule recover and thrive. Why can't they put their darned wants aside for one season?!”

If only her nobles could be half as loyal, she might actually enjoy the administration of her council. “It is my queenly duty, Link.”

His stubborn, darkened look recedes. “Aye, aye, I know. Big part of why I believe in you, Zelda, but...”

Her hand catches his, and through her glove and his gauntlet, warmth reaches from and to the divine mark they share.

“You wish it was not so. That others might be willing to sacrifice for the good of their brethrens.”

His ears droop.

To be a hero is to walk a lonely road. To have the world at your feet and its weight on your shoulders. And Link is strong, so strong to have done it.

In her hearth, the fire crackles and spits out dying ember. The dregs of tea in her cup have gone cold. They have been at this long, long enough for the gossip to come back to life, and momentarily, she dares imagine the ribbing Link will be subjected to when he meets back with his companion.

But, Zelda regrets, that would come to a quick stop, once they notice.

She has delayed as much as she could. But, again, duty demands it of her, of him.

“Forgive me, my Hero, for what I must ask of you.”

She sees it in his gaze. The surety, the sturdiness that is a man of the land. Stubborn and decisive. Less delusions than most. He knows, then, that she means it. That it is no idle speculation, and that he will suffer in the course of his duty.

Yet he nods, once, a short thing. “You already are.”

There is no doubt in him.

Not yet.

She names the place she must send him to, and so rises the shadows of his regrets in his sky blue eyes.

He does not hear much of her explanation. She proceeds as if he does, as gentle an offering of time for him to gather his Courage she can afford to give.

“My Hero,” she whispers to him at last, her touch light on his chin, “Link, return to me whole.”

It's as much an order as she dares give, and the ghost of his smile lets her know he understands her feelings.

“As long as you need me, My Queen.”

Need me forever, don't let me go, not you too, is the prayer he will never voice. Nayru help us both.

***

Flecks of sand grates against his skin as harsh winds pick up. He wants to say he doesn't notice, but it would be a lie. He'd rather focus on the irritating grit, on the whistle of scorching dry air. On the glare of the sun even as the shadows of pillars inch closer to them.

Yet, he can't quite manage.

He stares ahead at the place he most hates in his Hyrule.

He loves his country. Loves the beauty he found in every corner, in the smile of strangers and the purr of beasts. From start to finish, Twilight had simply loved the world he was born in. But this place, he can't bring himself to feel anything for it.

(he would be swallowed)

(torn from the inside, darkness spreading, a mask with tendrils forced on his face like those poor people he couldn't save)

“Sky... You probably don't want to get inside that place,” he hears himself say.

The patient wait twists into a knot of tension. The ring of silent question bears on his back, and he turns, comes face to face with a Sky that is stone-faced, all but daring to be left behind. His eyes are more steel than the sword in Twilight's hand.

A nod.

It was a futile hope. Sky was the first to incarnate the Hero's Spirit. He never lacked in Courage. But this will hurt. Hurt so bad to show Sky a glimpse of the darkness that the dream shared with his love will unleash.

(it's not on him, never was on Sky, their sweet knight from above, but Twilight knows too much about heroes not to predict what one feels about responsibilities)

Time stalks forward, diffusion some of the tension.

“Is this one of your world's temples, Pup?”

A temple? He wants to scoff. This place is no temple. Nothing sacred, not anymore. It's a place of misery and pain and grudges never allowed to rest. It's a testament of sin and it's the place he wakes up to in his nightmares, one prisoner amongst many, chained with a spiked collar, Hylian or wolf.

The others wait after his words, and he hates the honest curiosity he sees in their gazes.

He should find a gentler way to say it.

But simply standing in the shadow of this place drains him of his energy. He already feels the weight of memories pulling at his limbs. It takes a mild effort to look back to the old man.

“... No, but I believe it is where one used to be. This is the prison they built when they exterminated the Gerudo.”

Blood rushes out of Time's face. He looks pale, horrified. There's no real need to elaborate, is there? The Hero of Time knows why and how Hyrule and its Gerudo neighbors would go to war.

Something like guilt and disgust twist inside Twilight's stomach. Why did he say that?

“Twi!” Wild shouts, his objection all too obvious.

“Those that stayed died. The warriors. The zealots. Those that didn't believe the kokiri seer had been truthful about Ganondorf's reign of terror.”

Time looks on the verge of being sick. “They weren't meant... ” he trails off, his one good eye staring at the torture complex.

Twilight puts a hand on his shoulder. “I don't know the details. You'd have to ask my Queen for the records of the kingdom's history.” – He sighs, squeezes gently. – “But peace didn't last, and that's why this place was built out of the ruins of a sacred place. A desecration of the worst kind. To let the torments of the regretful last.”

He wants to ease the pain on Time's face so bad, but... he can't. Whatever else happened, Time had been a child at the time. He'd saved the kingdom. The cost...

Twilight fumbles with a match to light his lantern. He can't think of costs right now. It's not the place. The flame from his lantern illuminates the first few steps into the broken doors of the prison complex.

“Be careful inside. This place is haunted by more than just the horrors of Hyrule's dark past. Lost souls and living corpses are trapped inside.”

“Gloom and doom, much?” Legend snarks.

It takes effort not to snarl.

“Just don't get paralyzed by a scream when you're standing on quicksand, Bunnyboy.”

The others straighten at his uncharacteristical snap. That, or the image he suddenly conjured of them, slowly engulfed by torrents of sand, unable to move but all too aware of what was happening. Back then, if it hadn't been for...

Not the time to be losing himself in old memories.

His chest pangs with guilt. The way the others look at him. The surprise. The shock for his poor manners. He mumbles an apology. Turns away quickly to face the dried out shadows of the unlit tunnel.

Farore, he hates how the Arbiter's Grounds empties him from the inside out.

***

There were, to Twilight's knowledge, two likely locations for what his queen asked him to investigate. He had been silently praying when he'd opened the gates to the inner sanctum. Had come close to begging as Hyrule and Legend examined the dusty remains of the paper talismans, and though repulsed confirmed their power long lost, alongside what they had been made to restrain. The Lense of Truth hadn't revealed anything else, and

– he couldn't turn into a wolf, not here, not where she –

it had been a waste of time. Unsurprising.

“Why go for the least likely first then?” Warriors had demanded, his stance a bit more defensive.

Because the Death Sword had been sealed in the middle of the prison complex, and if he was wrong, then Twilight would rather avoid having to backtrack through this accursed place. Upon that reasoning, the rest conceded that he had a point, even if they had some complaints.

“If the source of that dark magic flare wasn't in that creepy cell, why are there some many monsters here?” Hyrule asks, off-hands, as he locks swords with a stall captain.

There's no reason to worry, not quite.

“This place is never empty of monsters!” he shouts over his shoulder, crushing some of the smaller skeletons under a broad swing of his sword. “It's been soaked in blood and torment. No one rests in the Arbiter's Grounds.”

Legend, balancing on a near sunken platform above sinking send, kicks away a moldorm with trained ease. He seems pleased for all of a few seconds, before Wind points behind him at a shambling shadow emerging from an alcove in the walls.

Legend's sword seizes midswing, a piercing shriek tearing through the air with the force of a waking nightmare. The scream bounces in their heads, bites into bones and wraps around flesh. It strikes and tempers, and leaves all nine of them fighting their own bodies for the right to move as it inches ever closer to its target. He hears strangled grunts from his left, clatters of metal on the ground from his right. Struggles to break free.

And all Twilight knows is he'll be damned if this place steals another loved one from him.

He stumbles forward, amongst the first to do so. He doesn't waste precious time thinking, assessing. The shadows swallow him, and he dashes on four legs.

Paws stomp over sand, bugs and spikes as he bounds and leaps.

His fangs tear through the rotten flesh with ease. The revolting taste used to make him retch. The decay, the dry leather, the sandpaper texture of bandages. He's not sure if he's imagining it right now, so numb his whole body feels.

He gnarls on the monster's throat till he hits bone, then leaps off. The thing can't scream anymore. It's barely a threat without that power. It's slow, cumbersome. It drags its claymore through sands, but it doesn't get a chance to swing. He steps out of shadows with his sword in hand.

The mummified head rolls on the quicksand, soon sunken and no more than a troubling memory. The rest collapses, and they can breath again.

He's not sure what his are called. They have elements of both Gibdos and Redeads. The massive sword is only in his Hyrule though. Lucky him.

He spits to the side, the glob black and green, and the taste, worse. “Vet, you good?”

Legend's pale, his fingers twitching, and his feet pull him back closer to the center of the platform. Startled is the word that comes to mind. It comes, and goes. Legend's too – wearied – seasoned to let a mere close call shake him.

“Yeah. Thanks, wolfboy. That beast's out of the bag now,” he says, leaning toward the rest.

Despite the spill of sand, the room feels oppressively silent. Tension knots into his back. He's had nightmares of this exact moment, he suddenly realizes. The moment when the secret is out and it is time to face their judgment, be it words, disgust or drawn swords. But the silence doesn't press onto him, doesn't stifle. Warriors gauges the others, Sky looks about ready to speak up, the same way Wild does. Time looks the most wary, and Four sighs with something like relief. An incredulous chuckle building in the back of his throat, it occurs to Twilight that he never told anyone which of them knew his secrets. He's never been one to parse them out, after all. And now...

Now, Wind's shock simmers into something else as he looks to the other Links and sees little surprise or even wonder.

“Oh,” Hyrule says, the only one dazed, “I had a feeling.”

It's too muted a reaction. It sparks the flurry of feeling boiling just under Wind's skin. “Really?! We're the last two to learn?”

The way he glares at him, at the others. The accusation is clear. He thinks they don't trust him. That Twilight doesn't trust him. That... that he tricked him. Got the feelings out of him, then mocked him behind his back.

Twilight quiets the 'beast!' his mind screams. “It's not like that, Sailor. I never sought to reveal it to anyone. I” – fear – “dislike talking about it. It just happened.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Wind bites out.

“I mean it, Sailor,” he tells the kid, hoarse. “I'm sorry.”

His tone gives Wind pause. The teen frowns, looks up at him with suspicion. “This isn't over. I'm gonna ask for more later.”

“Of course.”

“Twi,” Wild suddenly calls, his eyes flashing with worry, “are you okay?”

They can't do this inside the Arbiter's Grounds. The traps alone would be too much of a risk.

He shakes his head, then wipes the congealed blood off his blade. “I'm fine. I just hate this place.”

Warriors, with deliberate timing, clasps his hands. “Great. Finally a point in common between the two of us, Rancher. How about you lead us out of here?”

“I'd be more at ease somewhere with less chances of an ambush,” Time adds, still scanning their surroundings.

He nods. Wrestles with himself. They need him. Him, he can't fail now.

“It shouldn't be too far. Let's go.”

Sky's face twists, something like guilt, something like determination. Twilight doesn't regret following his queen's order, but he does bury the sorrow he feels at seeing his brother's dreams further crushed. Hyrule was... is... a country with a long history, and some of it unworthy of the glory it received.

There's frankly nothing Sky can do to prevent this outcome.

The thought flares with guilt. Look at him, giving lessons about making peace with the inevitable.

He ducks his head and turns back to the traps they will need to navigate.

“We'll need some creative solutions, heroes. This place is best travelled with a very specific item, and I only have the one...”

But though Warriors is the only one to share the spinner item with him, the others all have access to impressive resources to play around the traps that litter the Arbiter's Grounds. And even for the few that look perplexed, Sky's whip, Wind's hookropes or their hookshots allow them to swing back and forth over dangerous obstacles to link the groups together.

All that being said, he will keep a closer eye on his spinner for the next couple of days, because Wild's starry eyes at the sight of Twilight bouncing around on complex rails had left him chuckling for the first time today. And he wasn't blind to the intrigued glances Legend and Four had had for the item either.

Were he in a generous mood, Twilight would advise Warriors to keep a close eye on his stuff too. Kleptomania was apparently a shared trait of the Hero's Spirit.

The skull's fragments are unmoved, and their path takes them past even the boss chamber.

Light washes over them, wonderful thing that chases half the ghosts that linger in his mind after a trek through the cursed prison. Cooling winds makes him want to shout after the dusty, heavy air that mummifies every corpse down there. He wants to celebrate with the others, but in the corner of his eyes, he sees the monolith.

Tears spring to his eyes unbidden. Why? Why is he like this? He tried so hard to heal, to get over it! He's an adult, not a lovesick teenager. He's done his best to deal with the pain. So why is it that he can go months right as rain and then, one day, he just hears the wrong thing, sees the wrong shades, and his whole chest crumbles on him?

On a shaky breath, he attempts to steel himself, to dry the tears. In vain.

He is, Twilight decides there and then, pathetic.

***

How long does he sit in front of the black stone?

The sun started to set whilst he was here. Red light over sand cast lengthening shadows, and it's too easy for him to get lost in his scrutiny of them. None ever came to life. But he still looked, wondered, ached.

With no real hint to direct their searches, the group had commonly decided that they ought to rest for now, with double watch tonight to make sure they weren't taken by surprise in an ambush. Twilight had agreed, and pretended not to feel Time's insistent stare when he slipped away to...

To do what, exactly?

He's not even sure. He's been sitting there, legs hanging by the edge, scrutinizing the stone as if it would come to life.

Eh. A callback to a bitter period of his life. Damn it! He's over this. He is!

So why aren't you facing the others? Didn't you tell Wind you'd explain everything?

He knows his conscience is right. He still doesn't stand. It seems, on top of everything else, Twilight might also be a hypocrite. Goddesses, why did Farore ever look his way?

They're eating, he tells himself. He can smell the hints of Wild's spice mixes from here. Can hear, vaguely, the conversations, and could even guess the contents if he strained to catch the words. He'll have to apologize. To come clean. And that's enough to root him in place. Just a few hours longer, before they can no longer bear his presence.

The idea sends pricks of ice under his skin. Any of them would be a stab wound, but it's when his mind lingers on Wild, that silly brother of his, that the rage hits.

He doesn't know many tricks, not yet. He's still learning, but on anger alone, he feels as if he could suddenly disintegrate the black stone from his glare alone. He wants it gone. He wants to be freed of it, and it's that thought that flashes last when on the canvas of ink flashes shifting oranges and yellow.

Twilight's already upright. That glimpse of fire... It hadn't been the setting sun!

He wishes he could have said he moved with purpose, his mission still in mind, not a short walk that had his heart beating out of his chest. The closer he gets, the easier it becomes to define the impression. There is someone looking back at him from beyond the stone's reflective surface.

His stomach drops when he reaches the steps.

Only himself.

He knows his queen would have something to say if she knew he felt disappointment at his own reflection. With a surly, self-deprecating smirk, he lets his fingers run over the sharded texture. Presses his palm against the ice cold material.

Imagines that the skin is a paler, greyish shade, splattered black instead of his tanned pink. The fingers would curl into his, intermingles. He holds onto the feeling.

Then yanks.

A hand cut from starless night emerges from the stone, and Twilight throws down a dark copy of himself onto the ground. The doppelganger blinks in shock, momentarily dazed.

The expression hardly improves when the Ordon Sword skewers it to the ground.

“The Prison Gate?” he drawls. “Did you think I wouldn't see a temptation coming?”

That you'd be the first one I faced here? he doesn't say. Twilight has always been good at connecting with accursed things. With forbidden practices and tricks played out in the dark. Even before his quest, before all the things that turned him from goatherd to hero, there had been the book he'd taken a fancy to. The mirror in his basement. Old dreams of a dead wolf and a dead hero.

There's a lot Twilight doesn't say, not in front of some dark apparition.

“Queen's dog,” it spits, ink blood sprayed from the corner of its mouth.

Twilight watches, unmoved, as the shadowed being melts back into the sand by the black stone.

They both know which queen it referred to. Twilight, with a faint smirk, shakes his head. Despite his heart's desires, despite the pangs of the chains in his chest, he is the hero of the Light Realm. And his queen will be pleased to know that her Wolf took care of the problem with the Arbiter's Ground.

He casts his gaze over the desert, the setting sun. It's a shame then, that they will have to spend the night anyway.

***

Time gives up pretense. He has polished his biggoron sword and unclasped some layers of armor and fiddled with his ocarina, and none of this let him clear his mind enough to pretend he wasn't worried out of his skin.

Their evening routine is off. Even in dangerous circumstances, they had always managed to build an atmosphere of safety, of care. The ideal that none of them were at risk so long as they looked after one another.

Tonight's akin to the long nights he spent with Hyrule watching over wounds and illnesses that he knows he could have prevented somehow. Everyone is of a second mind, and it boils over right after Wild finishes scrubbing his pots.

There's one bowl still full, untouched, a little to the side of their campfire.

The last of the pots vanish in a flash of blue lights. Wild knocks over his bedroll standing. “Okay, I'm done. I'm going to check up on him.”

“I'm coming too,” Four jumps to his feet, a split second faster than Sky, Warriors and Hyrule.

“Like hell I'm getting left out again,” Wind says fiercely.

Time wants to sigh and smirks. Goddesses, he never signed up to feel so much pride for these insane boys of his. Even if one of them takes the route of the electrified chu-chu instead, whom Time has to nudge with the tip of his boot.

“Probably doesn't want to see anyone,” Legend explains, arms stubbornly crossed over his chest, but he ends up on his feet too.

“We'll tell him you were worried too, don't worry,” Warriors drawls, and gets flipped off for good measure.

They find Twilight almost immediately. By common consensus, they'd agreed to begin their search with the chained black stone. Twilight had gazed upon it with the melancholy of an old man reminiscing about his lost wife and children. It had to be a direction, if nothing else, they reasoned. More so from the dark vibes Hyrule picked up from the strange object.

But for all their speculations, they find Twilight as soon as they set out to do so, sitting on some small steps in front of the monolith, facing away from them.

“You don't need to be here,” he says, not looking back.

“I think we do,” Wild snipes back, his stubborn expression eerily familiar. (Twilight's.)

“Thank you, but I'm fine.”

“You sure seem fine to us,” Legend can't help snark.

“I. Am. Fine.”

Clipped words against the bars of a cage.

“Don't bullshit us, Rancher.” Warriors calls out, worry too sharp for calm.

The sand near the pedestal swirls against the wind, then dies down.

Behind Time, Hyrule's breath hitches up. Time understands. He knows enough magic to recognize it and its flares when emotions run high.

“Enough. All of you. We're not here to corner him. Pup, we just want to talk with you. You haven't been yourself since we arrived here and we want to know how we can help you.”

Twilight whirls around with a feral snarl. “I SAID I'M FINE!”

For the first time since meeting Twilight, Time feels the urge to take a step back. He doesn't give in, never has, but part of him is shocked that a hero gave him the feeling.

It's wrong. So very wrong, to see softness sanded away by pain. The glare sent back is raw, unfiltered, untempered. A sliver of flame through a cover of shades.

And... quick as it flashed, the fury drains out of him, the edges gone and the scowl lifted into a guilty grimace. Shades cup around the flames like hands on candlelight, to protect others from its rays. Twilight's ears droop slightly. The look alone is an apology, and it's so obviously the word on his tongue.

But Twilight says nothing, huffs a little breaths and turns away from them.

It can't be a coincidence that he dangles his cursed amulet just far enough from himself that they get a glimpse of it. He's still not looking back.

“It's dark magic, Wind. I take the form of a wolf by using dark magic. And that stone...” They can see his fists clench. “That stone was the pathway to their world. Not the gate, not the key, just... the path.”

Time wants to urge Wind to err on the side of caution, but he can't without tipping off Twilight, and even the casual confession seem too important to mess up.

Wind only looks thoughtful for a split second. “So where's the key?”

“It's gone now. Goddesses know I've looked.” The admittance sounds like old shame. “But the sages of old used it often enough that the mirror left its mark on it.”

“You're...” Hyrule starts, getting looks from the rest. “You're connected to it.”

Twilight hunches, just enough that it's visible. “Yeah. Collected the shards in the sand, bled on the stone, prayed to the Goddesses. Anything that wouldn't hurt someone else, I guess.”

The glaring omission in that statement makes Time's heartbeat accelerate. What did his pup do?

“Anyway, it was foolish. The path can only open for the true ruler of the Twilight Realm, and boy, is it not me. But the experiments did have a few side-effects.” – a hand gestures vaguely to his forehead – “Uli did say the tattoo fit, in a rugged, strong man kind of way.”

That forced cheer gets a cringe out of Four. Time has to file the observation for later. He cannot turn his focus away from the pup now. Not when he's bleeding pain right in front of him.

“A mother's love is blind,” Wild croons.

“Brat. She'd love you all.” They can hear the grin on his voice. “Not that she wouldn't pull your ear to teach you good manners, but she would love you anyway. Her, Rusl, Colin, even little Lumi, they'd love you guys. I'm so lucky...”

His sigh floats away, forlorn, like a love letter on desert winds. Time instantly thinks of the ranch, of the horses and the singing they all clammer to. It makes him remember the sunlit smile Sky had worn when they found themselves surrounded by clouds and enormous birds, the whooping cry Wind let out when he recognized black sails on the horizon, the relief Legend had hidden at the sight of his rabbit-hooded friend.

Time wants to meet Twilight's family. Wants to know those people that raised this remarkable young man. Wants to help them make him understand he is cherished back.

Because he sees the slight shaking that wavered wolf fur on his shoulders. Almost misses the sob. The admiration, the awed tenderness had grown twisted, uneven from a darkened fondation. It builds in Twilight's frame, builds in the thicker shadows on him and the shifting sands at their feet.

And Twilight's fist strikes the pedestal beside him, and something Time cannot see passes into the sand by the pedestal. Hackles raised, Four's skin is paler. He is staring so intently, his eyes almost a different color entirely in the dusk. More worryingly, Time notes with a grimace, is the faint chime he thinks he hears rising from the Master Sword.

“Pup, just tell us.”

And Twilight does.

He looks them in the eyes, a scowl on his face. “Why am I so selfish?” he rasps in disgust. “Why am I so fucking greedy? Why do I demand more than what I've been fucking blessed with?!”

Aren't they allowed a little selfishness? Time bites back. The goddesses gave them each a war. Why was it so wrong to want their peace once they'd won?

“I was lucky. Incredibly lucky. I found the children of my village, not one hair on their heads harmed. I rescued my childhood friend and restored her memories. I proved myself worthy of my teacher and let him rest. I... I saved Hyrule, Queen Zelda, the Twilight Realm. I didn't lose anything.”

It's like being stripped off a mask he had forgotten he was wearing. Twilight's cry reaches deep, and it's too easy to see why it's spoken like it was a flaw rather than a magnificent triumph. How can he make his boy understand?

Wild shakes his head. “You lost things too.”

“Nothing that mattered,” Twilight adds, under his breath, a cruel bite at the truth. “Most of a village gone, half the army dead, Zora's succession in shambles. All before the Light Spirits told me my destiny. But I'm fine. I'm great.”

“I can say with complete sincerity, Farmhand, that it doesn't help.” Legend juts his chin, then shrinks back, somber and restrained. “What you're doing. Don't salt your own wound. It mattered to you. It was real enough.”

Something about that strikes Twilight silent.

“She's not dead, Vet. She's not even hurt. She just had to leave to fulfill her duties as her people's rightful ruler. I knew that. I always knew that.”

And, strangely enough, Warriors speaks up, his voice soft. “Midna misses you, Rancher. She...” An hesitation. A chuckle. “Let's say she didn't say so in as many words, but sometimes, she'd get this look, as dusk falls.”

Wind's head snapped up at him. “Aw hell... you mean...”

“You weren't kidding,” Four muses, looking a bit embarrassed by the late realization.

And Wild hovers, looking so ready to rush forward toward his mentor. “Your scars are worse than mine.”

“There it is...” Twilight scoffs, or maybe sniffs. He's not looking at them, he seems determined to avoid all their eyes. He's staring right ahead, at the black stone that seems to weep in the settling cold of night. “There, there's my tragedy. A fucking broken heart. One... one person I wasn't allowed to keep.”

Time's heart ache. One person. So little, most would say, but his pup makes his sound like he had indeed lost his world.

“It's NOTHING compared to you all!”

The shout echoes over the winds of the desert. They don't say anything.

They can't say anything. Not when the core of Twilight's pain bristles at hints of their sympathy. Shame convinced him he isn't allowed to receive it. A witness to their woes no longer feeling adequate by his good fortune. It's all Time wanted for his successors.

Nayru, forgive me for my lack of perspective.

“Why are you all here?” Twilight hisses, rubbing at his eyes. “You don't need to hear my whining. Goddesses, I hate feeling like this. I'm fine.”

Fine, is what he repeats. It's enough to make someone hate the word.

“You're not fine,” Wild says, firm.

The answering chuckle bites. “I should be.”

And Time suddenly loses all his words, because his heart just skipped a beat. Farore be good, of all things to bequeath his eldest, it had to be this reluctance. Malon would have a field day with him.

“No one asks that you be invincible,” she speaks through him.

Twilight gives a full body flinch. Finally, he stands, stumbles as if drunk – on anger, on sadness, on self-pity – and he faces them all, red-rimmed eyes and a smile that makes them wince.

“I'm the furthest thing from that. Her last words to me were 'See you later'. See you later, as she destroyed the only way to connect our worlds together! Wolf boy, dog boy,” – they pretend not to see Legend wince – “she used to call me that, patting my head or my back. Good boy. Wolf boy.” Twilight's scoff is brittle, shattered glass. “That's what I am. That stupid dog tied to a tree that waits with a big grin for a master that's never coming back.”

His head jerks to the side with a clap.

Legend pulls back his hand, stern despite the worry. “Don't insult yourself like that, Twilight. You're a Hero, a real one, you hear me?”

The pendant around Twilight's neck suddenly pulses with pitch black light. The markings on his face darken. He straightens with some erratic, wild motion, fangs gritting as he lifts Legend with one hand.

“Then why does it still hurt so much?!”

Legend slips through shaken fingers. He does not flinch or back away.

“Why, Vet?”

“That's the life of a hero,” Legend says, not unkindly. “Lots of scars that don't really fade.”

“A hero? How can I be a hero when she thought the only way to keep our worlds safe was to break them apart? We'd just won, but she still... How can I be when even the person that led me to my quest knew better?” Emptiness reflects in Twilight's watering eyes. “I thought she trusted me.”

Time's hand goes to his sword. Every instinct in his body demands that he fights off what torments his eldest this much, that he proves that princess wrong, that he makes her explain and sooth the injury she inflicted.

“She was wrong, Twi!” Wild screams, clearly aching the same way.

Time reaches forward, and, without hesitation, brings Twilight's face into his shoulder. Runs gentle fingers through the gentle brown locks. His boy shudders, then melts. Grips him with desperate strength. It's not long for the wetness to soak into Time's clothes, and he has rarely cared so little about it before.

“I'm sorry, Pup,” he whispers. “I'm so sorry.”

It's a long time before Twilight pulls back, sniffling.

“Pops, the heck ya talkin' about? Didya punch me when I wasn't lookin'?”

Wild and Wind immediately pointed accusing fingers at him, booing.

“Shush you,” he orders, stern, before softening for his eldest. “And no, I didn't sneak a hit on you, Pup, but I wronged you all the same. Sometimes, you're so good at helping others that I forget you can need help too. I should have asked earlier.”

A hand goes to the back of Twilight's head, and his lips pull into a boyish smile. “Ah, not sure I'd have sang, Old Man. Not for something this... childish.”

“It's not childish, Twilight,” Wind says with a sad, half-grin. “If it hurts, it hurts, right?”

Hyrule jumps on the line and wrestles Twilight's hands away from him. “Sometimes, you have to care for yourself too. Even if it's silly, even if it's a little thing...” And there's the shine of green magic dancing between them. “Brighten up your day.”

“Guys, please,” Twilight begins, red flushing his cheeks.

Four slips right beside him and pokes, which was unexpected enough to get a yelp. “No, no, you said your part, Twi. It's our turn.” The smirk is impish, but subdued. “We're on your side. And we do need to apologize.”

Twilight throws his arms up in frustration. “What for? This is just my problem! Nothing that you need to be concerned with. Nothing that you did.”

“Wrong.” Time doesn't notice who says it. Mostly, because he's heard more than just one voice. (It could have been eight.)

“Because... because we let you take it all on. More than your share.” Warriors crosses his arms, huffs. “It's a leader's role to care for his men, and the soldiers to take on something for their brothers. It's how units work.”

Time ignores the pinch of guilt. The Captain hadn't meant it for him, but he'll take the advice to heart anyway. It should be fine. He can see the plans being born behind Warriors' eyes. For once, he's rather convinced that none of the younger ones will protest whatever rigid protocol Warriors' cooking.

“It's not like that,” Twilight mumbles. Weaker, less stubborn. “I love helping y'all.”

“Makes you feel useful, doesn't it?” Legend scoffs, but it is soft enough that Time can't even bring himself to chastise him.

“No. You deserve it!” he says with sudden heat, eyes clearing. “All of you. You all deserve someone willing to listen and help you. I... I just wanted to help you walk through your troubles. To help you find reasons to smile again...”

He sees it, and he wants to laugh. How fitting, that it's words like these that bring soft smiles on all their faces.

“Well, mission accomplished?” Four smirks.

“Darn it, Rancher,” Warriors grunts, giving Twilight a warning look that goes ignored.

“Can't wrestle that one away from me.”

“Oh, we shall see about that. But first,” – Warriors plops down on the sand, not a care for the time and place – “we're not leaving this unsaid. Spill already so we can smile you.”

It's absurd, but Twilight's gaze flares for a short moment with competitive spirit. Those two would never cease to amaze him in the strangest ways. Twilight kicks a little sand at the captain before letting himself lean in Time's grip.

“I hate her...” he whispers, and the shame shrouds him smaller. “Why did she do this to me? Why did she tie my heart to a promise that she never intended to fulfill? I hate her...” he whispers again, near inaudible. “And I hate that I love her still...”

“So?” Wild slides in.“You know me. You know how I feel about those people from my past.”

'They were friends with me. The whole world told me I was friends with them. Sometimes, it's like I can't escape it. Even if I don't remember what food they liked, when we met, what secrets they had besides what a few glimpses told me...'

“Remember what you told me?”

Twilight huffs, looking sullen and trapped. It takes a little sigh, and then knocking their foreheads together for him to admit. “S'fine if you don't know.”

Time nods, chasing the feeling he usually avoids. The bittersweet triumph at the cost of so many friendships. The lack of recognition meant for strangers on familiar faces.

“It can be difficult, to share people's joy when the same reason brings us pain. You can be of two minds on the same topic, Pup. People aren't that simple.”

“I feel weak.”

“You're not weak, Twilight,” Sky said with a sad smile. “If I lost my Zelda... I'd shatter.”

“Need I explain what losing Malon would do to me, Pup?” Time adds, rueful.

“But they're... you're couples. Real couples. We were never...”

Legend smacks his shoulder. “'What if's can be more painful than a clean break,” he says, and the two of them look like mirror images, lost to their dreams for the span of a heartbeat. Then, sharper, “Don't apologize.”

Twilight's mouth clicks shut.

“We're in your corner,” Four says with a private smile. “As long as it takes to make you feel better.”

The blush returns. Time will be asking for context later, though he has an inkling. Wind shuffles to one feet, then swears and pats Twilight on the back without looking at him.

“And, you know, there's nothing shameful about crying. Or missing people. Or, you know, strange sadness.”

The pup breaths out a watery giggle, and a whimpered 'brat!' Wind smugly croons to the others, saying that was how it was done. Right until the laughter turns into a shudder, and they gather round again.

“It's okay, Twi,” Sky cooes, bringing him into the folds of his sailcloth. “Let it all out.”

The pup's fight left him. Too drained by the confession. Too raw from unbinding the wraps around his wounds. It's up to them to take care of it, and there's not one of them that hesitates. They're not in the habit of leaving suffering ignored, besides their own. Not anymore.

They promise to be better.

They have to be, for each other's sake. And they will be, Time will do everything in his power to ensure it comes to pass. Their group will come out of it reforged by their own inner fires. Their bonds unbreakable, their trust rewarded.

Thank the Goddesses for the pup.

#Linkeduniverse #Linked Universe #LU Twilight #LU Dusk #LU Time

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nanoland · 4 years ago

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new chapter (hellblazer fic)

(earlier parts are here; whole thing is here)

The Cave, part 10

John Constantine + The First of the Fallen, gen fic (for now), no warnings

‘In the desert,’ John thought, unsure quite why, ‘I saw a creature.’

Nicotine withdrawal was becoming a problem.

So was exhaustion.

His feet told him he’d been walking over uneven rock for around six hours – which couldn’t be right, surely? – while his brain had that sludgy feeling that usually resulted from forty-eight hours without sleep – and that was definitely wrong because he’d been dead recently enough that the blood was still drying on his trenchcoat, and dead was basically the same as being asleep.

To make matters worse, he was overdue to take his antidepressants, hidden in one of his trench’s seven secret pockets. Hated swallowing them dry, was the thing, and he didn’t have a cup of tea or glass of water to hand.

And then there was this arsehole to contend with.

“I’m following the example set by blessed Saint Anthony,” he told John insistently, clutching his shoulders. “You know, of course, that he went into the desert.”

“Did he, now?”

“Indeed! To purify himself. To get closer to God the Almighty, praise His name.”

Leaning against the cave wall, the First of the Fallen rolled his eyes.

‘Naked, bestial, squatting upon the ground’, John thought, the rest of the poem coming to him in drips and drabs.

He rubbed grit from his left eye. “Saint Anthony. Desert. Demons. Right, I remember. Legenda Aurea. Jacobus de Varagine. Wise old Ant took up the life of a holy hermit – settled down a million miles from civilisation and survived off grass and rainwater.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Foregoing nutrition and bodily hygiene is an entirely necessary step in reconnecting with the Creator,” the First of the Fallen mused. “John, I’ll be honest; this person bores me. Would you mind terribly if I killed him?”

“Shut up. Where was I? Yeah, Anthony was attacked by demons and he ran to hide in a cave. They followed him in and beat the shit out of him. His friends dragged him out and patched him up, whereupon the infuriating shit announced that he’d be going back in to let the demons beat the shit out of him some more.”

The First of the Fallen chortled and clapped. “Splendid! Another essential element of piety; masochism.”

“Will you shut it? Anyway, then God finally pulled his finger out and made the demons flee. Anthony asked where the fuck he’d been earlier and God said, basically, that he’d wanted to wait and see if Anthony would chicken out or not. Which… yeah, that’s about what I’ve come to expect.”

How did the rest go? Right: ‘I saw a creature, naked and bestial, who, squatting upon the ground, held his heart in his hands. And ate of it.’

The artist prodded the would-be saint’s shoulder, making him yelp. “In God’s name! Who are you? What are you?”

She said something that the First of the Fallen translated as, “Why do you smell so awful?”

At that, the saint scowled. “I am punishing my sinful flesh by shunning earthly pleasures and indulgences. If God wishes me dirty, then I shall be dirty.”

The First of the Fallen translated that, then translated her reply as, “‘You are utterly mad. Please remain at a distance.’ I must say, John, I agree. Of all my Father’s sycophants, none ever annoyed me half so much as the ascetics.”

John shrugged. “Eh. More palatable than a lot of holy rollers, if you ask me. I’ll take a brainsick, grubby lad like this over a fashy grifter running a megachurch any day. What’s your name, kid?”

“Edmund.”

“And these demons who were bothering you… are they still here? Can you point ‘em out to me?”

“No. They disappeared when I laid eyes on you. That’s why I assumed you were angels.”

“Yes, well, much as I’d like to take credit for that, Eddie, and contrary to popular opinion, demons don’t actually turn tail at the sight of me. More often these days, they point and laugh. And I’m not really getting a whiff of anything infernal, save for His Nibs over there. I think you might have hallucinated ‘em, mate. Understandable. Stuck down here with no food, water, or company, hell, my brain would start to make its own entertainment too.”

The First of the Fallen stretched. “For my part, I certainly wouldn’t ask a single one of my minions to waste their time tormenting an inconsequential little wretch like you.”

“Jesus, you – would you back off?” John shouted, overprotective and aware of it, feeling his face contort into a snarl.

Stupid. The bastard was only doing it to rile him up. He knew that. He’d known it for decades.

Only perhaps not, because the temperature dropped and the air grew thin. Many-limbed shadows danced along the cave walls as John’s nemesis seemed to grow a metre. The stink of butchered meat swelled in his nostrils.

Then it was over. Scowling, the First of the Fallen tossed his hair back like a sulky diva and stalked away, grumbling, “Fine. Enjoy your fascinating new friends.”

The artist watched him leave, eyebrows high, then shook her head, said something derisive-sounding, and opened up the goatskin pouch she wore at her waist. From it, she withdrew a handful of nuts and berries. These were presented to the saint and to John with a two-word sentence; evidently an instruction.

Eyes narrowed, the saint whispered to John, “Has this female been sent to… to test me?”

“Eat your nuts and don’t be a twat, there’s a good lad,” John muttered.

He left them to get better acquainted and wandered after the First.

Upon finding him pacing with his arms tight across his chest a little way down the tunnel, he said, “‘Is it good, friend?’”

The First of the Fallen snorted. “‘It is bitter – bitter.’”

“‘But I like it,’” John continued, smirking. “‘Because it is bitter.’”

“‘And because it is my heart,’” they finished together.

John leaned against the cave wall. “Gimme a ciggie.”

“Bloody addict,” he muttered, snapping his fingers. They appeared in his left hand and he chucked them John’s way.

John lit up, conscious of hungry yellow eyes watching him, and sucked in a gorgeous lungful before exhaling with a borderline-indecent sigh. (Pretended not to notice how the First’s throat bobbed.)

“So how many memories do we think this cave has?”

“Hundreds. Thousands. I can smell them everywhere. Those two just happen to be among the most visible, probably because they were stupid enough to become deeply emotionally attached to this ghastly place.”

“It’s one of them locations what acts like ghost flypaper, then? Hmm. And my dicking about with magic got it all discombobulated and upset.”

“Most likely.”

“It’s probably not that inclined to let me out, then. Which would explain why we’ve been walking for ages and haven’t reached daylight.”

“Indeed.”

“But you could leave. If you wanted to. Highly doubt some grumpy old hole in the ground has the power to imprison you.”

“I could, yes.”

“Haven’t, though. Why’s that?”

“Constantine, the day I feel compelled to explain my actions to you is the day I willingly surrender my crown to Nergal and settle comfortably into the grave.”

John laughed, walked up to him, took the cigarette from his lips, and offered it. “The day you need to is the day I settle in right alongside you.”

Nose wrinkling, he took it and gave it an experimental suck. Then he made a face, smoke spilling from his lips, before handing it back. “Revolting.”

“Eh. Acquired taste.”

#hellblazer #john constantine #first of the fallen #constantine #fanfic #my fic

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silence-burns · 5 years ago

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Please Hate Me //part 30

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine

There are moments in life that stay with you, engraved in your memories for reasons beyond your understanding. Time stretched when you reminisced over them later, as if your mind had chosen to catch all of the tiniest details of what unrolled before your eyes. This was one of those moments.

The air felt solid as you gasped, trying to heave it into your lungs. Something shifted deep in the fabric of reality, bending shapes and playing tricks with perspective. The floor under your knees shook, as if something had struck it with unparalleled force. There was a creak somewhere to your right, as if the walls wailed. The music blasting only seconds ago, ended abruptly with a series of sharp notes.

Loki’s power surged back into him, his skin felt alive with it, and he was finally free of the reins forced on him. Blood sang in his veins and magic swirled in dark curls, weaving between his fingers. It wasn't bad, living like a mortal for the past weeks.

But there was nothing better than being a god.

Power blasted into the last two men standing by the bar, too shaken and surprised to raise their guns again. They might have presented a pitiful sight, were it not for the bullet that was meant for you, shot without hesitation mere seconds ago.

Loki's hand clasped your shoulder when a sudden wave hit him and muted all of his other senses. You were fine. He could feel you under his touch, still breathing, still fine…

But you had been so close to—...

Loki didn't hold back his power as it rushed toward the men, sending them through the air. They landed hard into the scattered tables. The wind tore at whatever was loose, hurtling it in any and all directions. The few people that were still in the club scattered off into the entrance, almost blocked by the writhing mass of bodies pressing into one another in primal fear of the unknown and the chaos and… him.

And Loki knew that they were right. He could feel their feverish, half-mad eyes burning through him and the mess surrounding the area. Chairs had been thrown and broken, lights ripped from the ceiling, tatteres of colorful clothing abandoned where the wind left them along the broken glass. And as the unnatural wind died out, so did that wild, untamed part of him, as if only now it noticed what was raised in its wake.

It was his doing.

The fingers curled over your arm twitched as he realized the two men were in no shape to stand up and do any more harm. The body he felt was too warm for him, too real, and too quiet.

A breath was shaken out of his throat as Loki forced himself to pry his fingers off you. You were fine, he made sure of that, even though he only finished what you started. You didn't need him so close. In fact, he wasn't sure if you needed him at all, and certainly not after what he'd just wreaked upon the place.

The magic calmed and withered, backing off to rest over his struggling, suddenly heavy heart. The silence was unbearable. He didn't dare look at you yet, and he didn't want to admit the reasons for that. Didn't want to see the fear or disgust or maybe even betrayal on the face he came to—

Spilled drinks soaked into his trousers as Loki kneeled on the shattered glass, the music a distant, wounded screeching of dying electronics. Some of the lights had already given out by the time the club was emptied of all the people reasonable enough to run away.

"Loki…?"

He didn't raise his head, the dark curls painting his face in shadows. There was nothing now preventing him from leaving the planet, as he had intended to all those weeks ago, but—

Fingertips brushed over his clenched fist, brushing off a piece of glass stuck to his skin. There was a heartbreaking gentleness to the gesture and the swollen void in his chest tightened watching it.

"Are you okay?"

His lips twitched. That was the very last thing you should be worrying about at the moment.

He let the all too familiar hands close over his cheeks, raising his eyes to meet yours at last, already resigned to watch as whatever had grown between you withered and faded away.

He did not expect to see awe glowing in your eyes. Or the pure warmth and tenderness curving the corners of your mouth as you looked over him. You tucked his hair behind his ear, not letting go of him.

"That was absolutely amazing!" you said, exhaling as tension seemed to lift off your shoulders and genuine, unfiltered joy took its place.

That was not what he expected. He searched for a lie, for an uncertainty hidden in the shadows or a facade. But he couldn't find any.

Relief washed over him, and all of the exhaustion that had been building up in him hit at once, sagging him further into the floor. He felt limp and boneless in ways unexplainable by words. Worry clouded your features at the sudden change and you shuffled closer, looking for any wound.

"If you got stabbed and didn't even tell me…"

"I'm fine. Really," Loki added when you didn't stop. "Just tired." He took your hand in his, stopping it in the tracks roaming over his chest as you searched for any blood or injury. His heart beat heavily under your touch, but not in an unpleasant way. There was a certain glint in your eyes that indicated you felt it too and you finally noticed how close you were, huddled in the middle of what used to be the dance floor. Space yawned around you, but you pressed closer as if constricted by tight walls.

There were a lot of things noticed in those silent moments between you. Unfortunately, one of them was a certain individual sneaking his way behind your backs.

Loki tore his eyes off you with visible effort. He knew that individual.

"What would you say, love," he said. "To the prospect of finishing what we started?"

"I'd say I like your ideas more with each passing day." You watched Marco fumble through the clothes of an unconscious guard, knocked down in the whirlwind next to the door he used to guard.

Marco noticed the attention he received. His skin was ghostly pale already, bare from the colors that used to flash through the air. He had a pass in his hands and he ran to the only door left on that side of the club. The other one was behind your backs.

Your legs were shaky as you finally got up, watching as the door opened and then closed behind Marco's back.

"We need to find another pass," you said, looking to other guards.

"We don't."

Loki's stride was far from light, but he didn't hesitate as he neared the control panel that operated the door. You trailed behind him, the sprinkling of glass crunching under the soles of your shoes.

Something shifted in Loki. He grasped the metal.

It bent with the awful shriek of things bending the way they absolutely should not under normal circumstances. But the circumstances had very recently changed, and now, with the power of a god, magic, and pure spite aiding you, some of your problems faded away.

Loki bent in a deep, regał bow, presenting you the now open entrance. "After you, love."

This? This you could get used to.

You took his outstretched hand and dove into the unlit space crowded with dusty shelves and a foul smell hanging in the air. Loki snapped his fingers, and a light appeared over your heads, illuminating the full spectre of unquestionably illegal articles of a very questionable origin.

"I really want to burn this place to the ground," you said.

"That can be arranged," Loki purred into your ear as more light flashed in the corners of the stock. "But I'm afraid some of the rats might decide to scatter off," he added as he watched Marco leap from between the shelves and into the narrow, steep stairs leading to the roof. Loki flickered his hand, casting sparks onto the nearest fabric.

"Good."

He pursued, fingers entwined with yours. The flames engulfed the months of hoarded hideousness, burned with a hunger that could never be sated.

The air was cold as the night's chill bit into your exposed, flushed skin. You almost sighed with relief. It felt like a blessing after the stifling club's interior. Snow started to fall again, silent as it brushed over the velvety night.

"Let me go!" Marco screamed, perched on the distant corner of the roof, covered in a thick blanket of white. "Just get away!"

"And why would we do that?" Loki mused, standing tall by your side. "You wanted to get to know us better, didn't you?"

The sirens echoed through the streets as police neared the now obvious chaos beneath you. Shouts and calling could be heard already.

Marco noticed that too, standing on the very edge of the roof. He glanced at the red and blue lights flashing over the nearby buildings. And then he looked at the old, rusty ladder leading all the way down to it.

"Wow. We're officially worse than the cops," you laughed as the man disappeared over the edge. The urge to follow him vanished along with the sweaty mop of his hair.

"That's an achievement worthy of such a night," Loki said, relishing the feeling of having you so close under a sky full of stars. His thumb circled your knuckles gently.

"We should get business cards. I can already see it: 'Professional mischief, for an affordable price'. We could ruin people's days AND get paid for it."

Loki laughed. He felt light and full of life and the night was still young as he led you into the middle of the roof. The sirens were close now, and it would take only minutes before officers crowded the building again, but for now, for those precious moments, you had it all to yourselves.

"I like the sound of it," Loki said, gazing from the sky to you. There was a soft smile playing on his face, under the dust, sweat, and unexplainable flecks of glitter. "When will we get them?"

"We could place the order tomorrow. If, of course, you plan to stay for as long…?"

The unfinished question reminded Loki of a certain detail. He looked at his now bare wrist, where the bracelet had shattered. The skin wasn't broken, but he still felt the memory of the impact in his flesh.

"Everything would be easier if you hated me," he said.

"Easier doesn't always mean better."

"I know you want to be nice, but—"

"Loki, I can give you a 7-page long essay on why you deserve good things in life."

He chuckled. "Only 7?"

"I promise to use a small font. And if you insist, I can use some fancy words too, like ‘self-worth issues' or 'leniency'."

"I'd be delighted to read that," he said and it was the truth.

The night grew darker and his heart grew warmer every time he looked at you.

And if it were possible, he'd let the night devour him whole if only he could marvel at you for the rest of eternity.

Loki's thumb rested over your knuckles as he leaned closer, perfectly aware of how tight his throat was…

And then, something very vital broke inside the building.

You both froze with wide eyes as the whole construction quaked. Something cracked deep under your feet. And again.

"Time to go," Loki said, his face inches from yours. You couldn't agree more - or maybe you would, if only you weren't suddenly lifted off the ground and thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

But, in all of its unexpectancy, that was not the bad part.

That part came when Loki sprinted straight to the edge of the roof, with absolutely no intention of slowing down.

Your nails dug deep into his back, and a curse, a prayer, and a promise simultaneously left your mouth, joined by an ear-shattering screech as Loki jumped off the roof.

There was a strange moment when your mind refused to acknowledge the fact of what happened. After all, who wanted to watch themself splat into the ground from the top of a building? You wouldn't, that much was certain. And you didn't, which was surprising.

The ground was a distant view that had no intention of getting closer. You twisted your head enough to see Loki effortlessly jump step by step through the thin air, casting some flickering lights beneath his feet with his free hand. He climbed higher, which was another great idea - there was no way people would miss such a sight.

"You good?" he asked, a little breathless.

"Perfect.” You focused on his wonderful backside.

In the distance, the club building cracked open on one side. Flames cast a red aura over the place. There were more sirens now, and people rushing in all directions, tiny as ants.

"I think we destroyed private property tonight."

"I might've went a little too far, I think…?" Loki mused, his pace slowing down at last. In the gloom of the night, no one from the ground should be able to spot you so high up.

"I hate you, and I love you, and your shoulder is doing things to my bladder that neither of us are going to appreciate in a moment, so how about we focus on that right now…?"

Before you stopped rambling, he stopped in the middle of the sky, and shifted your weight so he could hold you to his chest.

"Better?" he flashed a wicked smile, fully aware of every inch of your bodies touching.

"My bladder sends thanks."

"The pleasure is mine."

For a few quiet seconds you watched as the flames rose high over the building. Loki wasn't happy with how far they reached already. With a silent command, he extinguished them, cutting off the magic sustaining the inferno.

The night grew darker without their aura.

The snow drifted away on lazy gusts of wind. He felt you shiver and curl closer into him. And as much as he enjoyed the sensation, he needed to take you somewhere warm.

"Let's go home, shall we?"

"As long as you go with me."

"Always, love."

A/N: Please tell me what do you think of the series so far!

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki/reader #loki/you #loki #loki laufeyson #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson/reader #loki laufeyson/you #loki mcu #loki marvel #marvel #loki imagine

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storytelers-arc · 4 years ago

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new muses alert!! okay, so I spent all day reading East (a retelling of Beauty and the Beast) and I’m adding Belle and Charles. While I will be taking my characterization and some general story aspects from the book, I’m going to change some things to make them more disney based!

Here is Belle’s info!! (i’m putting charles in another post because this got a little long!)

Nyamh Elle Rose was born facing the north, and that was just the start of her troubles. Or, maybe, perhaps, that was the cause for all of them, it depends on how superstitious you are. After all, everyone knows that northern children are terrible, wandering and wild and very ill-behaved. The fact that her first gift was a pair of winter boots did not help matters, it only reinforced what the compass had already determined — she would be a wandering child.

Her mother and brother were constantly aggrieved by her wandering, she could never stay still, unless she was on a loom. Oh, she had a gift for sewing, for creating, she would spend hours working, not a peep or sign of trouble. She would beg the old widow down the road to let her use her loom, it was large and beautiful and she could only dream of what she could create. When she wasn’t working on the farm, Belle would gather herbs and mushrooms for the old widow, who would allow her use of the loom for a few hours a week, more if she was feeling sick.

But as I lay back in Neddy's lap, my eyes idly fell on some breeches of mine that Mother was just beginning to work on. There was a great ugly tear in the backside that I had gotten sliding down a small waterfall earlier in the day. My near drowning at the bottom of the waterfall had left me more subdued and tired than usual. I closed my eyes sleepily, drawn into Neddy's description of Thor swinging his mighty hammer as he crossed the rainbow bridge. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the rip in my breeches had disappeared. I sat up, wide awake. It was magic.

They were not a prosperous family. And after she was born, their family was struck with disaster after disaster. Their crops failed, their cows died, and their lands were passed to a new owner who kept raising the rent. Soon, they had no choice but to give back the farm to repay all their loans and rely on the kindness of their neighbour until a solution could be found.

Considering she had three names (though the first one lived only in the heart of her father), she never came to be known by any of them. Her brother had trouble saying Elle when he was little, it came out as Belle. And though she wasn’t as pretty as her sisters, it soon became her name.

Belle, the wild child.

Belle, the compass rose.

Belle, who on her eighteenth birthday left home to go live with a bear in the mountains. In exchange, her family would be blessed. Her sister Sara would no longer be sick and their money troubles would be solved. All she needed to do was go with the white bear. It seemed like a small price to pay. After all, she was a replacement child, born to fill the gap in her mother’s heart (and compass) after her sister died.

Then the white bear was at the door. And before any of us could move, Rose had crossed to him. She reached behind a large wooden trunk that stood by the door and drew out a small knapsack. She must have hidden it there earlier. "I will go with you," Rose said to the bear, and I watched, unbelieving, as the animal's great paws flashed and Rose was suddenly astride the bear's back as if he were some enormous horse. The white bear turned and disappeared through the doorway.

"You won't change my mind," she said. "Perhaps it was always my destiny." It was her fate to explore, to go beyond the borders of her father’s maps. And her destiny led her to the white bear.

And she was the only one who could save him. For almost a year she lived in the castle in the mountain, barely seeing the sun, alone save for two servants and the white bear that seemed to stare at her with too human eyes. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, his words seemed to hurt him, but little by little, she discovered she enjoyed his presence. While she worked on her loom, she would tell him stories her brother Neddy had once told her, and when she grew bored with the activity, she learned how to play the flute when she saw how much joy it brought him.

The palace was a mysterious place. There were no windows, no visitors, the rooms were in different styles and she didn’t understand out how some of the furniture was brought in. And then there was her nighttime visitor. Every night, just as she drifted to sleep, someone joined her in her bed. No matter how hard she tried, she could never light a candle or anything else to light up the room after the figure entered. She believed it was the white bear, but the dip of the bed was too small, it had to be a human figure. And he shivered, he was always shivering until she made him a warm shirt to wear.

Still, it was hard. She missed her father, she missed Neddy, her mother and Sara. She grew sick, less interested in her past times and she and the white bear reached an agreement. She would leave. She would have one month with her family and she would return, but she shouldn’t give too many details or bring things back with her.

It was a wonderful month... and she did not heed the white bear’s advice. Belle told her brother everything, and her mother overheard the part about her nighttime visitor. She got her a candle, a candle strong enough to ward off all charms.

IT WAS NOT A MONSTER that lay sleeping on the white sheets. Nor a faceless horror. Nor even the white bear.

It was a man.

His hair was golden, glowing bright as a bonfire in the light of the candle. And his features were fair, I suppose, but he was a stranger and that somehow was the greatest shock of all—that I had been lying all these months beside a complete stranger. I had to hold the candle steady against the violent shudder that shook my body. Then I noticed the stranger was wearing the white nightshirt, the one I had woven.

By seeing his face Belle had accidentally sealed his fate. He was supposed to spend one year living with a maiden without telling her he was a man, and she was never supposed to see his human features.

The Troll Queen came to claim her prize — the white bear was now fully human and he would be her husband, as she had always wanted. Belle didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, what had happened. All she knew was that she had to find him and save him. She set off on an adventure, crossing oceans, glaciers and a bridge to the skies to find him again. Only to discover he didn’t even remember her!

It didn’t matter, even if he didn’t love her, if he couldn’t remember her, she would guide him back to the land of the humans, where he wouldn’t be under the enchantment of the Troll Queen.

I sat up and looked around. I realized at once that the land was very different from the one I had left behind on the other side of the bridge. First, there was the wind. It was constant, sharp, and insistent. Everything about the place was sharp and biting and bright and hostile. The snow on the ground had the texture of broken glass, brittle and sharp edged. It had been blown by the wind into shallow, undulating ridges that reminded me of Tuki's skin. There were occasional formations of ice that resembled smaller versions of the pinnacles in the ice forest Malmo and I had traveled through, but these looked like actual daggers piercing up from the ground, as though they would cut you if you brushed against them.

As the palace shattered around them, Belle saw the same intelligence in those golden human eyes that she once saw in his bear form. His memory might have been erased, but it was the same man, she knew it.

The trolls fell with their queen, and the humans, who had been forbidden from participating in the wedding feast, had all been saved. Belle and the man who had once been a bear liberated the humans — there were thousands of them, all bleary eyed and tired from labouring. They guided them back to the land of humans and there, at sea, was her father and brother, waiting for her.

It took dozens of ships and trips to take all the rescued humans back to... well, at first they didn’t know where to take them. Charles — the white bear, was the first one to remember who they were before before Troll Queen had imprisoned them. He was Charles Philippe, a prince. His kingdom had been erased from the maps, forgotten, frozen by the Troll Queen’s magic and though he had wanted nothing more than to live a normal life, the humans they rescued were his people. He had to protect them. After all, if the Troll Queen hadn’t fallen in love with him, they would never have been kidnapped.

The Captain of the ship, a softhearted drunken man named Thor, had the honor of officiating the wedding of the farm girl Belle and the Prince Charles.

And though she grew quite fond of the Kingdom (his original palace thankfully had windows!) Belle was never cured of her wandering ways, always going away for a trip with her father to chart a new land, or to simply feel the wind in her hair.

#i read this book in a day and im obsessed #anyways i'm gonna make the info post on charles now #xii. ⸻ • 𝐧𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐡 '𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞' 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 • general.#xii. ⸻ • 𝐧𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐡 '𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞' 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 • about.

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cicada-bones · 5 years ago

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 13: Letters

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Rowan lived up to his word and forced the princess to pull double duty in the kitchens. So she worked both the breakfast and the dinner shifts that week, leaving her exhausted and aching and irritable. But she took to the work well, not seeming to feel the punishment as it had been intended. Which irritated him.

Though he had a much better understanding of the girl, he still hadn’t figured out a way to turn that knowledge into anything useful. Therefore, every afternoon they sat for hours in the pouring rain while the princess tried and failed to find a way around those iron bars in her mind.

The girl was still infuriating, still arrogant and impudent and wild, but he didn’t hate her as much as he had before. If he had cared to think about it, he would have probably characterized his feelings as an antagonistic dislike.

She still aggravated him, and he still goaded her right back. But he understood her better now, and found that he couldn’t hate her.

No more dead demi-Fae turned up, but Rowan still spent every morning searching the woodlands and digging through papers for leads. He didn’t make any progress. The maps and missives just stared back at him, blank and unhelpful, while the forests remained infuriatingly empty.

But one morning, Rowan received news through the fortress courier.

Fenrys was back in Doranelle, having finished his assignment in Varese. And apparently, he missed irritating Rowan to death.

Rowan –

I arrived in Doranelle just this week. I didn’t realize you would still be at Mistward, or I might have stopped there on my way back. Not that I miss your pretty face – I just need to collect on the favor I did for you in Varese. You owe me.

Connall and I are the only ones currently in the capital, so there won’t be much help coming your way (we drew straws, and I received the absolutely wonderful pleasure of responding to your very thoughtful and not-at-all-grouchy message).

Lorcan is now with fleet along the southern coast, pushing east towards the rebel camps. As you know, it’ll be unlikely that he responds in time to actually be helpful – if at all. Vaughan is still on the other side of the world, doing whatever the hell Maeve asked him to do there, so there’s almost no chance of you reaching him. But I’m sure you knew that.

Gavriel on the other hand, we just got word from – he will be returning within the month, back from the outpost on the northern edge of the Cambrian Mountains. The soldiers he was stationed with were all killed – slaughtered by a band of rogues sometime after midwinter. He tracked the killers to their base, and executed their leader. But still, those were soldiers Gavriel had known for decades, some even longer. You actually probably knew some of their names, but I don’t, so I can’t relay them to you.

In his message, Gavriel said that he was looking for you, and had visited Lord Siarill’s court in the east where he thought you were still stationed. But of course, you weren’t there, and after checking with Lorcan in the south, he said he would be returning. I tried to send a letter his way, but we’ll see if he gets it.

Neither me, nor my brother, know anything – there have been no reports here of any strange bodies, missing people, or of whatever that dark creature was.

Are you sure that the bodies aren’t just from normal crime? Fae gone bad? And about that creature – you never actually saw anything, right? Just a weird darkness?

Maybe another Fae has been blessed by Hellas and is raging across the countryside. Though it’s hard to imagine anyone more unstable than Lorcan. Perhaps he’s just in a mood and decided to take it out on his demi-Fae cousins. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him. Lorcan could probably dry someone up into a husk if he wanted to.

I refrained from asking our dear mistress, assuming that if you got that desperate, you could very well ask her yourself. Good luck with that.

I will, however, search through the library for you, but I doubt I’ll find anything helpful. What you had to say was too vague, and far too reliant on your own experience with the creature, rather than its identity, characteristics, or history – and you know what it’s like in there. Impossible to find anything you’re looking for even under the best of circumstances.

Let me know if anything interesting happens, its dead boring here – as per usual. Could use an evil demon creature to spice things up. Perhaps I could even set it on Connall – he certainly could use a good sharp shock. Brooding bastard.

Hope you’re enjoying training that pretty princess, because if you aren’t, I’d be glad to take your place. I’ve heard she’s fiery. Sounds like fun if I’ve ever heard of it.

Let me know of any developments, I will do the same –

Fenrys

Rowan’s jaw was clenched the whole time he read the letter.

Even so, he knew that the boastful male did actually care about the lives of the demi-Fae, and would help him if he could.

Not that it meant that he was excited to repay the favor the male thought he was owed – the last time Fenrys had called in a favor, the pair of them had woken up in an abandoned cottage nearly ten miles away from where they’d been staying, soaking wet, short two purses full of gold coin, and absolutely no memory of the night before.

Fenrys still told the story at every possible opportunity.

Rowan growled at the paper in his hands, forcing his thoughts away from the infuriating male. Instead they fell on Gavriel. Which honestly wasn’t that much better.

Rowan had known many of the soldiers in Gavriel’s company. Many of them had families, had mates that would now be mourning them. The emptiness in his chest twisted.

Rowan drafted a quick reply, relaying the information he had gathered on the appearance of the new bodies, as well as the inferences he had been able to make about the dark creature. It wasn’t much.

A few days later, another surprise. Lorcan had also received his letter, and bothered to respond.

Whitethorn –

So you ended up training the girl. My condolences.

I’ve never heard of anything remotely similar to whatever this creature is. It doesn’t sound like anything blessed by Hellas, or by any other of the gods. Are you sure that it isn’t just the skinwalkers?

I am still in the southeast, the rebels are proving harder to put down that originally thought. Don’t bother me again for anything unimportant.

– Lorcan Salvaterre

Rowan’s face twisted into a frown. Well, at least he’d responded at all.

Each evening he listened to Emrys’ stories, usually hidden beneath the stairs just out of sight. The girl's black eye and split lip had begun to fade, while her limbs had strengthened, her skin regained some color, and in general, she began to look healthier. More human.

Perhaps because of that fact, he didn’t overhear any more worried conversations between Emrys or Malakai, nor did he catch any strange looks from them. Though the girl still kept away from others in the fortress, it seemed that she was settling in to life at Mistward.

Nightmares still plagued Rowan, and every morning he was jerked from sleep well before dawn, sweat coating his limbs and images flashing behind his eyes. But occasionally, something different flickered through his mind. A set of lips, the taste of jasmine, a flicker of flame –

Whenever that happened, Rowan threw himself into the misty wind, coating himself in its icy touch and locking those thoughts away where he didn’t have to deal with them.

A week after the incident with the skinwalkers, Rowan collected the girl from the kitchens at noon as usual, and they made their daily trek up the mountain to the temple ruins, the girl’s mortal pace somehow having become even more irritating with time.

It was unusually sunny that day, and the echo of the power within the temple stones felt stronger, richer than usual. As did the girl’s. Not that it seemed to make any difference with her shifting.

They sat for just over two hours, mostly silent among the glowing stones, before the girl stood, groaning. She paced for moment, her hands on her hips, studying the stones.

She looked around as if she could feel the effect of Mala’s touch as well, could hear the whispered prayers of long-dead worshippers, begging the goddess for her blessing.

She broke through the heavy silence. “What was this place, anyway?”

Rowan dogged her steps, leashing his irritation at the impertinent question. “The Sun Goddess’s temple.”

She cocked her head. “You’ve been bringing me here because you think it might help with mastering my powers – my shifting?”

He nodded faintly.

The girl turned and placed her hand on the stones, soaking up their warmth, lost in thought. Only the vague outline of the temple remained, the barest imprint of a brick path, crumbling pillars strewn about like abandoned toys.

For some reason, its loss saddened him. An ancient place of fire and worship, destroyed and forsaken by time.

The princess broke through his reverie unexpectedly, “Mab was immortalized into godhood thanks to Maeve,” she ran a hand down the jagged block, musing aloud. “But that was over five hundred years ago. Mala had a sister in the moon long before Mab took her place.”

Deanna and Mala, sisters and eternal rivals, keepers of the sun and the moon. “Deanna was the original sister’s name. But you humans gave her some of Mab’s traits. The hunting, the hounds.”

“Perhaps Deanna and Mala weren’t always rivals.”

Rowan cocked his head. “What are you getting at?”

She just shrugged, running her pale fingers over the white granite. “Did you ever know Mab?”

He was quiet for a long moment, considering.

“No,” he said at last. “I am old, but not that old.”

“Do you feel old?”

The question was pointed, but not aggressive. She wasn’t asking as a challenge, or a taunt. For some reason, she wanted to know. It was a question to seek understanding, not dominance.

So he answered. “I am still considered young by the standards of my kind.”

She did not relent. “You said that you once campaigned in a kingdom that no longer exists. You’ve been off to war several times, it seems, and seen the world. That would leave its mark. Age you on the inside.”

Curiosity broke though him, threading its way through his ice like roots pushing into the earth. He turned his gaze towards her, “Do you feel old?”

She met his gaze calmly, measured and quiet as she considered the question. “These days, I am very glad to be a mortal, and to only have to endure this life once. These days, I don’t envy you at all.”

Her words were heavy things laid at his feet. But still, that curiosity did not let up. “And before?”

She turned away, looking at the distant horizon. “I used to wish I had a chance to see it all – and hated that I never would.”

The burden of royalty – of an heir. A burden he had never felt, though he was a prince. Before Lyria, he had passed his life attempting to escape just such a trap as the princess had been born into. But after her death, he had sold himself into his own gilded cage. It was strange - in a way, they were almost similar, both trapped.

Rowan formed another question, but before he could ask it, the girl spoke again, sidetracking him. “Is this where the stags were kept – before this place was destroyed?”

Just last night, Emrys had told the story of the sun stags, ancient beings who held an immortal flame between their massive antlers, so similar to their cousins in the west. The stags of Terrasen. They had once been stolen from a temple in this land, never to be seen again.

“I don’t know. This temple wasn’t destroyed; it was abandoned when the Fae moved to Doranelle, and then ruined by time and weather.”

“Emrys’ stories said destroyed, not abandoned.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Again, what are you getting at?”

She paused. Then shook her head at the ground and said, “The Fae on my continent—in Terrasen … they weren’t like you. At least, I don’t remember them being that way. There weren’t many, but …” She swallowed hard. “The King of Adarlan hunted and killed them, so easily. Yet when I look at you, I don’t understand how he did it.”

His mouth twisted into a frown. All those lives, snuffed out, because of one man’s cruelty. For the first time, he was angry at his queen for her pettiness, for her refusal to send aid. It wasn’t only this girl’s fault that Terrasen had fallen – he should have been there. Should have helped.

“I’ve never been to your continent, but I heard that the Fae there were gentler – less aggressive, very few trained in combat – and they relied heavily on magic. Once magic was gone from your lands, many of them might not have known what to do against trained soldiers.”

“And yet Maeve wouldn’t send aid.” Her jaw was clenched, her brow furrowed.

“The Fae of your continent long ago severed ties with Maeve.” He paused again, unsure why he was justifying, but still unwilling to admit to this foreign princess that his queen had been wrong, and needlessly cruel. “But there were some in Doranelle who argued in favor of helping. My queen wound up offering sanctuary to any who could make it here.”

She seemed to sigh, closing her eyes for only a moment as she stepped away from the ancient carvings and back to her usual spot, the scent of her boundless grief and guilt and ache wafting from her like a perfume.

They sat in silence until twilight descended and they returned to the keep, night blanketing them in its heavy folds.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#WatE repost

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haec-est-fides · 5 years ago

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Filodox’s Trials of Apollo Reactions [Part I]

Welcome to part one of a reflective journey through Trials of Apollo ft. my original ebook annotations! I’ll be your host, 2020!filodox.

For this first episode, we’ll be going back to May 2016, the beginning of it all: The Hidden Oracle.

Annotations for this round are brought to you by 2016!filodox.

Is there anything we should know before we begin, 2016!me?

2016!filodox: I swore on the Styx never to read another Riordan book after he killed Octavian. And yet here we are.

... Alright then! Let’s get started.

But first, a more detailed overview on how this series will work: I will excerpt bits and pieces of the books based on what I highlighted / annotated on my first read. Beneath each quote, I will share what I wrote in the annotation. Below that, I will (occasionally) laugh at my past self, clarify the note, or say how my view has changed.

I encourage questions, comments, and concerns (of which there may be many), so go ahead and use that replies feature if you feel so inclined! However, these are just my opinions and (occasionally) emotional reactions, so no hate pls. <3 (Or, if you do send hate, pls make it funny.)

Now, diving right in with Riordan’s dedication!

To The Muse Calliope. This is long overdue. Please don’t hurt me.

2016!filodox: Hurt him. He didn’t even name the chapters.

As you can see, I had yet to experience Lester’s haiku and was already mad based on the table of contents alone. I went into this series very salty...

I inflicted a plague on the Greeks who besieged Troy.

2016!filodox: At least he did something right. Once.

I was just,,,extremely ready to die on Octavian’s hill. (Though I was a huge Troy / Aeneas stan before all this, just to be clear.)

Is anything sadder than the sound of a god hitting a pile of garbage bags?

2016!filodox: I actually find this particular god crashing into a dumpster quite amusing.

I also blamed Apollo for what happened to Octavian. I think that had a lot to do with how Apollo acted on Delos in Heroes of Olympus, basically disowning Octavian and whining about how some “creature” scammed him? That was bullshit. Apollo needed to own the fact that he blessed Octavian, but he just abandoned him and denied all the blame. TL;DR I had a grudge, okay?

My mind stewed in confusion, but one memory floated to the surface -- the voice of my father, Zeus: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.

2016!filodox: Wait, is this bc everyone blames Octavian and therefore Apollo? Bc lol but also no?

*cough* Octavian did nothing wrong 2k16 *cough*

Zeus will reconsider, I told myself. He’s just trying to scare me. Any moment, he will yank me back to Olympus and let me off with a warning.

“Yes...” My voice sounded hollow and desperate. “Yes, that’s it.”

2016!filodox: Apollo is a self centered frat boy, I forgot...but it is slightly...endearing? *narrows eyes*

Ah, how close I was to stanning Lester in the first chapter, when he was at his most “goddy”. You know, I actually made a rule for myself when I started reading Trials of Apollo that I would not under any circumstances stan Apollo. That was a naive goal, because it was never really a danger.

Regardless, Zeus had held me responsible for Octavian’s delusions of grandeur. Zeus seemed to consider egotism a trait the boy had inherited from me. Which is ridiculous. I am much too self-aware to be egotistical.

2016!filodox: I am going to Murder him.

*chef kiss* the hypocrisy ! the lack of self-awareness !

“I just...I assumed -- I hoped this would be taken care of by now.”

“You mean by demigods,” Percy said, “going on a big quest to reclaim the Oracle of Delphi?”

2016!filodox: That sounds like a decent quest, or you know, QUESTING FOR THE SIBYLLINE BOOKS

I’ve always said I can see the future but an inch to the left. Also, I don’t like Ella.

It warmed my heart that my children had the right priorities: their skills, their images, their views on YouTube. Say what you will about gods being absentee parents; our children inherit many of our finest personality traits.

2016!filodox: AND HE’S MAD ABOUT OCTAVIAN?!

I mean ?

Apollo, when Austin and Kayla show ambition: THEY GOT THAT FROM ME <3

Apollo, when Octavian (or Nero, or Caligula) shows ambition: srry i don’t know him ??

He had a weak jawline, an overlarge nose, and a beard that wrapped around his double chin like a helmet strap. His hair was curly and dark like mine, except not as fashionably tousled or luxuriant. His lips curled as if he smelled something unpleasant. Perhaps it was the burning seats of the bus.

2016!filodox: Nero ???

Not quite sure how to feel looking back at this moment. Call out post @ myself for instantly recognizing Nero, when afaik this scene was before we had any hints that Roman emperors were even a plot point? But here’s the thing: I don’t remember why I could recognize him so easily. I don’t remember where 2016!me obtained this ancient Rome knowledge. A mystery.

On another note entirely, did Nero really like,,,astral project into Apollo’s fever dream to address him directly? Because Rhea does. And sometimes Python does. But Nero? Can he do that?

The man laughed as flames licked at his purple sleeves. “You’re not sorry yet, but you will be. Find me the gates. Lead me to the Oracle. I’ll enjoy burning it down!”

2016!filodox: I too enjoy burning things down. # Nero confirmed

My only comment here is “oh you sweet summer child,,,”

Oh. Perhaps some of you are wondering how I felt seeing [Will] with a boyfriend rather than a girlfriend.

2016!filodox: No, actually. I wasn’t wondering. I was plotting how to kill you, them, and quite a few other people. Do you think I could trade you for Octavian?

Oh man, back at it again with the salt. XD

I could only remember my conversations with Octavian, the way he’d turned my head with his flattery and promises. That stupid boy...it was his fault I was here.

A voice whispered in the back of my mind. This time I thought it might be my conscience: Who was the stupid boy? It wasn’t Octavian.

2016!filodox: I can’t really...explain my emotions upon reading this. I’m still not quite okay, but this...it’s bittersweet in a way. I don’t know if this is a poor attempt at a proper closure, the author’s way of beating a dead horse, or just a way to make Apollo seem pitiable. Whatever it is... Octavian was important enough to remain in Apollo’s mortal memory. He somehow made promises to a god and had Apollo wrapped around his finger. And despite being so much like Apollo, the god blames him. Like everyone blames him. But Apollo also realizes, accepts on an infinitesimal scale, that “it wasn’t Octavian”. He wasn’t perfect, but neither is Apollo. Apollo is (at least) subconsciously admitting his own guilt in the whole affair.

...yeah. I will note that this bit isn’t meant to develop Octavian, but rather uses Octavian as a prop to support Apollo’s development? Which is why it still stings. Like thanks, I guess.

“Your judgement in the past has been...questionable. I wonder if you have chosen the right tools for this job. Have you learned from your past mistakes?”

2016!filodox: Nero has made plenty of mistakes to learn from

Love how I just assumed it was Nero back in chapter 10 and went with it, zero hesitation. Also love how I heard Python say Nero has made mistakes and went “oh absolutely”. In fact, here’s something funny in retrospect that will become more and more apparent: I did not like Nero in 2016. Or, at least, I thought I didn’t. There’s something really odd going on here that baffles me, looking back...

“A triumvirate is a ruling council of three,” I said. “At least, that’s what it meant in ancient Rome.”

“Which is interesting,” Rachel said, “because of this next shot.” She tapped her screen. The new photo zoomed in on the building’s penthouse terrace, where three shadowy figures stood talking together....

2016!filodox: Is it bad that I’m smirking? Because it’s getting interesting ~ *clear malicious intent*

Wow, edgy. Triumvirates are just a neat, Roman thing and I stanned.

“The last triumvirate I dealt with included Lepidus, Marc Antony, and my son, the original Octavian. A triumvirate is a very Roman concept...like patriotism, skullduggery, and assassination.”

2016!filodox: THIS IS WHAT I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL EVERYONE. MODERN OCTAVIAN IS A VERY GOOD ANCIENT ROMAN. POLITICS, ESPECIALLY SHADY AF POLITICS AND POWERPLAYS, ARE QUINTESSENTIALLY ROMAN. Also, I’d like to note that it’s confirmed, in this universe’s canon, that Augustus was a son of Apollo.

Ohhhh, wait. I think I’d watched the HBO series Rome by 2016, which would at least partially explain my ancient Rome knowledge. (Amazing tv show btw!)

“He heard them talking in Latin.”

“Latin? Were they campers?”

Pete spread his hands. “I--I don’t think so. Paulie described them like they were adults. He said one of them was the leader. The other two addressed him as imperator.”

2016!filodox: !!!! (obligatory 💕)

I was such a simp for Latin in high school. And the Roman Empire. Still am, but hey.

“The Beast is planning some kind of attack on your camp. I don’t know what it is, but it’s going to be big.”

2016!filodox: Runs in the family I guess

The Octavian / Triumvirate parallels are everywhere... 👀

“The emperors made themselves gods. They had their own temples and altars. They encouraged the people to worship them.”

2016!filodox: # deify me

*smacking my past self with a stick* You stop that! Edgy child!

Anyway, a much better point here is like,,,the Imperial cult was huge in the ancient Roman world. Looking at Apollo’s explanation here, why did only the “worst” three emperors get to be immortal? Did famously “good” emperors like Augustus and Marcus Aurelius have the option of becoming minor gods, but they chose Elysium or something? Are there slightly less infamous emperors just hanging around anywhere as minor gods? A lot of Roman emperors live on in human memory is all I’m saying.

“Wait!” Will said as I reached the door. “Who is the Beast? Which emperor are we dealing with?”

“The worst of my descendants.” My fingers dug into the doorframe. “The Christians called him the Beast because he burned them alive. Our enemy is Emperor Nero.”

2016!filodox: I honestly can’t believe it took this long to reveal this? Was anyone surprised?

Nero’s reveal is rather late in the book compared to Commodus, Caligula, and even Tarquin iirc? But it makes sense, being the first book of the series. Also love how 16-year-old me was like “this reveal is silly because everyone, like me, recognizes Nero on sight” and didn’t question that assumption at all.

“Germani.” Instinctively, I moved in front of Meg. The elite imperial bodyguards had been cold-blooded death reapers in ancient Rome. I doubted they’d gotten any sweeter over the centuries.

2016!filodox: BITCH. See? This is why I love Rome. They knew what they were doing.

Ngl, as someone of Germanic heritage, I felt really represented by the Germani, which is hilarious on so many levels.

He tried to compensate for his ugliness with an expensive Italian suit of purple wool, his gray shirt open to display gold chains. His shoes were hand-tooled leather, not the sort of thing to wear while stomping around in an ant pile. Then again, Nero had always had expensive, impractical tastes.

2016!filodox: I don’t exactly like Nero, and actually think he was quite the shitty emperor, but I guess I mildly respect and “like” him on principle (in this book at least).

OH YOU SWEET SUMMER CHILD. I was so convinced that I didn’t actually like Nero, despite all of the lowkey evidence to the contrary? Who hurt you, past me? (Lmao, it was Tacitus, Suetonius, and Cassius Dio.) My working theory is that I was too much of an Emperor Augustus stan at the time to admit liking Nero. It’s hysterical. Look at me equivocating like a champ.

I’d been so proud of my son, the original Octavian, later Caesar Augustus. After his death, his descendants became increasingly arrogant and unstable (which I blamed on their mortal DNA; they certainly didn’t get those qualities from me).

2016!filodox: I’m glad Apollo and I can agree on something. Augustus was amazing and those who came after him...significantly less so.

See! The propaganda really got to me, what can I say?

Nero clasped his hands as if in prayer. “Oh, my. It seems we’ve had a slight miscommunication. You see, Apollo, Meg brought you here, just as I asked her to. Well done, my sweet.”

2016!filodox: This was obvious but I still find it...gods, the only word I can think of is “delicious”

. . .

“The Beast killed my father. This is Nero. He’s -- he’s my stepfather.”

I could not fully grasp this before Nero spread his arms.

“That’s right, my darling,” he said. “And you’ve done a wonderful job. Come to Papa.”

2016!filodox: Okay, but we should have known this since it became apparent her weapons were Roman. Also, oof. Also also, WHY did Riordan feel the need to add that last line? Why?

ASDFGHJKL: I CAN’T

“After the fire, we’ll rebuild,” he said. “It will be glorious!”

2016!filodox: The amount of times I have used this very logic is worrying.

For (some) context, Firelord Ozai is my favorite character from AtLA. <3

The scene might have been funny except that the Germani were now back on their feet, five demigods and a geyser spirit were still tied to highly flammable posts, and Nero still had a box of matches.

2016!filodox: Oh, I find this plenty amusing!

The emperor stared at his empty hand. “Meg...?” His voice was as cold as an icicle.

2016!filodox: The various ways his tone / voice have been described throughout this conversation are just 💕

*looks at camera like I’m on The Office*

Seriously, though. Nero’s voice is like the central descriptive element of his character because he’s so manipulative. It’s really cool and a great use of detail.

[Meg] turned to Nero. “You told me never to lower myself to my enemies’ level.”

“No, indeed.” Nero’s tone had frayed like a weathered rope. “We are better. We are stronger. We will build a glorious new world. But these nonsense-spewing trees stand in our way, Meg. Like any invasive weeds, they must be burned. And the only way to do that is with a true conflagration -- flames stoked by blood.”

2016!filodox: Real 👏🏻 Gods 👏🏻 Require 👏🏻 Blood👏🏻

I was way too enthusiastic about this whole situation, wasn’t I?

Nero grinned. “Good-bye, Apollo. Only eleven more Olympians to go.”

2016!filodox: Wait, shit, WHAT

Having read Tower of Nero, this probably had something to do with Python interfering with the Fates, huh? But does that mean it’s more Python’s plan or Nero’s? If this was Nero’s plan (with his 12 kids literally replacing the Olympians) that’s,,,really fucking bold.

Then I heard the screaming from Camp Half-Blood.

2016!filodox: Music to my ears ~

I’m presenting every edgy detail of my annotations so I have a proper case file when I inevitably have to face the question “On a scale of one to ten, how relatable is Emperor Nero and why should you have realized it’s a ten sooner?”

In a flash of silver light, the camp’s magical barriers collapsed. The Colossus lurched forward and brought his foot down on the dining pavilion, smashing it to rubble like so many children’s blocks.

2016!filodox: Payback! Dear gods, I can’t stop smiling! I’m just like “YES!” I know this will all probably get fixed or whatever but I’M HAVING A MOMENT.

I’ve learned to appreciate the small wins. <3

Percy grabbed one of the crown’s sunray spikes. He sliced it off at the base, then jabbed it into the Colossus’ forehead.

2016!filodox: As much as Nero is FAR from my favorite, I really don’t like defacing ancient (or replicas of ancient) statues and art...

This is where I just start laughing at myself tbh. I was so insistent on not liking Nero. Like, I sound like I’m in denial. Peak equivocation. What happened to that heart emoji a few chapters back? Why did I suddenly make it about *checks notes* ancient art? Updated translation: nooo don’t ruin the Colossus Neronis it’s so sexy aha

Just as the [arrow] reached its apex and was about to fall back to earth, a gust of wind caught it...perhaps Zephyros looking kindly on my pitiful attempt. The arrow sailed into the Colossus’ ear canal and rattled in his head with a clink, clink, clink like a pachinko machine.

2016!filodox: HOW MANY EX MACHINAS IS THIS ?! The dryads, the arrow, Percy, the enchantment, and THIS ?

One of my criticisms of Trials of Apollo in general is just that the stakes are so much higher and Riordan usually solves that problem by having his heroes win on long odds. The chances of them succeeding at like,,,anything they attempt are astronomical, but of course they manage. It’s not surprising but it does get a little tiring.

“Yo, Nico,” Leo called, “please tell me that’s it for the physical abuse.”

“For now.” Nico smiled. “We’re still trying to get in touch with the West Coast. You’ll have a few dozen people out there who will definitely want to hit you.”

2016!filodox: Oh I’d love to hit him. With the flaming, Imperial gold payload of an onager. Preferably WITHOUT the Pontifex Maximus attached to it -- unless of course you mean the false pontifex, Jason Grace.

Leo was the salt in the wound for this one, ngl. He rekindled my undying ire over Octavian’s death. As I said at the beginning of this, I was extremely ready to die on Octavian’s hill after Heroes of Olympus. That sentiment sticks around for a while...

And we can call that a wrap!

Though it may seem like it, my annotations are not, in fact, a compilation of Nero’s greatest hits. There are a lot of scenes of his that I love (naturally) but I didn’t have anything to say about them when I first read the series. Maybe I’ll share those another time.

In any case, I hope you got something out of this ridiculously long post! Until next time! <3

#trials of apollo #toa #filodox!#I don't know what any of you were expecting but this is what I've got #no these are not all of my annotations #I tried to pick the best ones #oh also #I'm sorry to everyone with hard copies of the books #since I have ebooks it's no problem to search for quotes and page numbers are imaginary #if you want me to put chapters with the quotes I can

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luminouswarriorwitch5879 · 4 years ago

Text

Skull Cavity/Faraday Cage: Musings

I hear him. I don’t know who he is yet. But I hear his cries. I hear the pain, anger, confusion and shame. He always held his high regard for practicality and sensibility in high regard. But who would want to be the pedestal on the first prize pedestal? Nothing made sense. Practicality ghosted him so hard he thought his mind had been kidnapped.

What really happened is far beyond his human cognitive skills. She never truly knew. Oh, she knew. He just never spoke the words. All she had was the feeling. Then Hades crawled out of his Plutonian dwelling place. He was triggered. When he saw her, she looked more like him. Not physically, of course. She was beyond beautiful. She had shifted in his mind. She had become Hades and Persephone alchemically in the flesh standing before him. She was all of his hate, all of his love. All of his pain and fears. They never spoke. Not one utterance of human language was shared between the two.

She dissolved. She disappeared. She shifted. He kept saying she did this and that she is why…

His cognitive functioning, his motor skills, they seized operations. Soon his brain made loops around her trying to pinpoint the moment the deceit was born. Yet he couldn’t find any signs of her having bore the traitor keeping his mind trapped in this feeling. He saw her pain, she was smiling. He saw her victories, she was tired and feeling defeated. He witnessed her life resurrect. The she that he had known was clearly dead and gone. This she isn’t real. Once again, he feels deceived. The pain deepens as he knows he will have to traverse the perilous Hell of Pluto. Then he loves again. That’s how she…

She knows. Beyond her human comprehension, she knows. Of course, her intellect demands the hypothesis be tested. With a mind that is always searching for hidden truths and golden keys, she opened Pandora’s Box.

Pandora’s Gifts are well known, or should I say notorious for being cursed. Great dangers, loss, grief and suffering have befallen many a recipient. When she received her very own blessing, she was full of rage. She screamed at the heavens, cursing any and all life. She felt that life was a cruel and meaningless joke some small town jocks play on the AV kids. The only thing she knew with absolute certainty is that she needed to die. So she did.

*************************************************************************************************************

They say that death, the process of dying, is something the living will never truly understand. If the dead cannot talk, the living cannot listen. She knows. She knows the feeling of life draining away. The frantic gathering of whatever can be salvaged into something that looks like she’s got her life together. She knew perfection was an illusion meant to make you feel small and unworthy. She understood that death was a process where she would never return the same. She understood that death was not limited to physically expiring. So she came back from the dead to speak to the living about the process of dying and living.

Pandora’s Gift always held healing. She was searching for the golden key hidden in the subtle feelings and unknowable knowings. The one that would unlock her inner Siddhartha. She wanted to transcend all of the pain and finally feel what the liberation of truth feels like. Truth had always been distorted by her external world. She felt betrayed by the books and the Magick Box of Pictures. Each scene allowing the princess to reach a destined point of space and time. She lived life one moment to the next but she lived in fear. Afraid that the next moment might tear away the joy of the scene she is currently living. Somehow that always happened. Her mind knew. She knew. Survival of the fittest, smartest, most resourceful. She didn’t know if she was the fittest, the smartest or the most resourceful. She just wore her cape and looked for opportunities to be there for her people. She knew how it felt to feel so alone and weighted down by it all.

She could only be healed by the truth. Her mind searched as if she was holding her breath until she was given what she needed to feel like she was safe. She would demand her cerebral librarian to search the entire archive. Find this answer! She had to hire many new librarians due to the dangers of the archives. They would receive their instructions and head off to unknown parts of her to find the answers. They would never return with what she needed.

One day, as she was gathering her mind to create a new librarian, she decided to investigate the archives. Creating a new librarian was very taxing on her mind. She found the archives sign in the back corner. Underneath the sign was a doorway with wooden stairs descending. They looked as if they would fall apart if she ate a heavy meal before stepping on them. Each step screamed of the dangers ahead of her. Warnings that she was about to open the door to demons and seraphim alike. She couldn’t discern the messages and pushed through her fears. As her foot stepped into the unknown darkness before her, everything disappeared. She was surrounded by such dense darkness she couldn’t see herself. Panic set into her mind as she questioned the core of her reality.

Her eyes became heavy. As if she knew the key was behind her eyelids. Her surrender is what saved her from every last sense and practicality being lost. Her eyes opened to reveal a corridor with a flickering fluorescent light stretching the entire length. As she stood under the light, she noticed many doors. She wondered if the librarians were stuck behind one of them. No, she thought. They probably didn’t make it through the insanity of the darkness. She didn’t want to have to come back down here so she knew she had to pick the right door the first time. There were so many to choose from. Not knowing which door to decide on, she stood in the hallway under the flickering light. For a moment, she thought she was back in the dense darkness at the bottom of the stairs. This gave her an idea. Something new inside her. She waited for the moment she felt the darkness envelop her. As the darkness swallowed her, she thought of the flickering fluorescent light above her head. At that moment, her eyes opened. She was in the darkness. Above her all she saw was the fluorescent light. It was a steady trail to door 7.

She reached for the doorknob. As the electrons of her existence met the electrons of the knobs existence, she remembered. Pieces of her existence woke up and reminded her of what she always knew. Lifetimes she couldn’t know. Souls with different faces. Souls with a frequency she was now following. She didn’t know who or where or when or why or how. She was simply following the frequencies. She infused herself into the threads she followed to see if she could discover the truth of each core. She knew that the threads leading to her led to truth outside of her. She didn’t know how that truth was going to help her find her truth.

Pieces of her existence were coming together and begging her to speak what she discovered within. She would speak. When the bells within the belly of the beasts rings their very last war cries, she will surrender her truth to the heartbeat of the universe. She needs to hear the angels sing and feel the wheel kick into movement beneath her feet. She wants to hear the seraphim confirm the cosmic truths which will break all matrix encodings entrapping human consciousness within these Faraday cages we call skulls. She will speak. When he has traversed death and decay within. When he has finally called in the jaguar and the vultures to eat away at the detritus he carries within the very core of his reality. He will find her there. She knows in an unknowing way.

*************************************************************************************************************

He screams and pleads for her to stop. Cease and desist. His mind has her stored. A cell for each memory. Locked away in his hell. He screams at her through the bars he has entrapped her behind. Why is she here? Why won’t she leave me alone? He has tried to kill her a hundred ways a day. But the memory of each breath that he watched dance from her lungs to his was frozen in its enchantment. He knows she is not real. He knows she is dead and gone. He starts to consider that he is not real. Exhausted from another day of slaying his demons and searching for his throne of fire, he rests. The deepest of rest surrounds him and he dreams instead of walking in nightmares, for once. He begins to feel that dream frequency he had forgotten. The one where her heart danced through each breath she shared with him. He never knew it was her heart that she was sharing.

Any good captain knows they’re going down with their ship. The underworld hellscape he was drowning him. It crashed all around him with serpents and feelings of absolute hopelessness. If she was dead and gone, how could he fulfill this feeling crashing into his mind? His crew has already abandoned the ship. Panicking and fearful of his mind being swept away in his rage and terror. He couldn’t see that he was the clouds and the waves. The rain falling upon the windshield distorted his view of his reality. He couldn’t see that his heart was simply saying “I love you” while his mind was calling the heart an infidel. A Godless Heathen sent to destroy all sense and sensibility. His crew had abandoned ship at this point so sense and sensibility were no longer applicable on these Plutonian Seas. If the captain must accompany his ship, he is surrendering to the descent. He released his grip on the wheel allowing his arms to fall to his sides. His eyes close and he questions what is down from here?

Nothing. Empty. There is nothing here. Devoid of everything that haunted every moment he remembers. Every tear, laugh, hug, pain, sorrow, joy and fear is….gone. For a moment, he calls this peace. He looks. He searches. He tries to find she. There is nothing for him to find. She isn’t real. The anger rises within him as he begins curing Heaven and Hell alike for this deception.

This doesn’t make sense. He panics. This is the dream feeling. If the dream is down here, why isn’t she? She is not down here. Her form begins to appear as he releases the grip on the wheel a little more. His mind drops into his heart. He sees her there before him. She is not present. Her frequency of truth dances around her with joy and peace. The demons in his cages orbit around her shielded by her dancing truth. He sees the breath that he once shared with her. His mind crumbles to now know that it was her that he was fighting the oceans for. She was dead and gone a long time ago. Her life dances willfully and liberated knowing exactly where to place her feet next. He is illuminated by an unknown source as he witnesses his dance arise.

His eyes open. He is back on the ocean. The serpents and knowings rise to meet his ship. If only for a moment to say hello. To greet his experience with a little more joy. He doesn’t understand why this calm has met him. He sees a beam of light flash into his windshield. He feels land nearby. The lighthouse on the shore will guide him to his familiar sense and sensibility again. He was not seeing a lighthouse. He was seeing his reflection. He was seeing the dance of his breath of life. His light was mapping out his fulfillment while he rested on the calm waters. He wishes he understood why her light had to be the teacher.

His eyes closed and he followed the dance within to discover where it was originating from. As the light of his calm waters faded away, he took a deep breath and his eyes opened. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he began to see an iridescent glow amongst all the forms he couldn’t define or categorize. He knew he was on the right path if he didn’t know where he was.

*************************************************************************************************************

They met there. The garden was where they always met. She would sit on the stone bench enjoying the sunshine on her skin. She would breathe the most nourishing of breaths as the peony filled the air with their healing magic. Between her and the unknown, were the evergreen trees. They stood there as if they were her personal guardians and ancient ancestors. She knew that any entity crossing that barrier was divinely intended to be there with her. He would step through and she knew. What she knew she didn’t understand. He would walk up to her with passionate force, whisper into her mouth as if it were a kiss and then look beyond her eyes into the cosmos. As he smiled, he turned away to exit through the evergreens. It was that moment there that she saw all of him. The smile that can’t hide the agony of being him. It gave him joy, in her eyes, to share that whisper that her heart suddenly felt. Because the smile she saw turn the corner of his mouth was pointing towards the heavens in prayer. Prayer for what was somewhere in that archive.

On this particular day she knew that it was something ordinarily mundane. She was sitting on the stone bench enjoying the sunshine and allowing the healing of the peonies envelope every cell in her existence. Her mind created willows of butterflies that would wisp around her crown. She would send them her heart’s song as an offering of gratitude for their beautiful dance. She didn’t see them store her wishes and dreams in their hearts and flutter off through the energreens. This day was like any other. As the butterflies flew past the guardians and ancestors, the sky began to dim. The sunshine was no longer kissing her cheekbones. She knew what this was as she had known this scene. Different forms surrounding her. The core of the frequency was always the same. It was the calm in the storm. It was wrapped in the screaming and grinding of distorted groundings. As this frequency breached the ancestors and guardians, the sky split open and her acid tears dissolved her garden. A maddening beeping and the slapping of lumber on metal rang through her skull as if it too were splitting open.

The void space had tricked her yet again. Time and time again, she woke up alone and realizing her life was an illusion. She had no choice but to create the reality where she knew peace. She never had him in her mind when she drew her blueprints. That’s the complicated part of carrying space in your heart. As her mind and heart tried to comply with her code of ethics, her two truths fought to be king of the dung pile. Each one rolling their truth up a hill slapping away at the vultures trying to lighten the load. As her truth was under attack by these ravenous vultures. She sent her armies to defend her truth. Unfortunately her truths weren’t saved that day. The heart and the mind anihilated each other.

Her heart still sang. It was something new. She knew this frequency. She forgot it. If she had remembered it the day of the Great Battle for Truth, she might have been able to save them all. But she did not. She was still forgetting the Truth. Not just truth. The Truth. When she allowed Truth to sing, she disappeared and all that was left was Truth. This truth was the anvil and the hammer. It was the lightning that cracked the sky open. It was the thunderous scream as the two parts of her reality separated. From the opening above her, acid tears rained from her eyes. She needed this all to disappear so she could dream of a new world in the void space. She needed to wake up there again so she could deconstruct what she had built in the garden. As she sat upon the stone bench, it crumbled beneath the weight of her rage. She asked the garden through her acid tears why she couldn’t heal there any longer. Nobody ever replied to this question. She silently raged in the wet cardboard box world she now inhabited. She became a stone angel defending to the end her only portal to him. She had become the guardian and the ancestor of her pain.

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He was wasting his energy. Somewhere there were supposed to be some kind of rest stops where he could safely rest and relieve himself. A respite from the hell he was running from. It was like driving down the turnpike while holding in a piss for unforseeable distances of space and time. Suddenly a sign would appear in the dim light of the headlights. “Next Rest Stop 85 miles.” Of course, he knows he can simply cross the line somewhere between “Hey man, we have to piss” and actually being incapable of holding it in any longer. He would cross that line and relieve himself, take a rest to cross back over the line and return on his merry way to 85. Until the next time his natural urges arise and he feels the need for relief.

The day the sign changed was like any other. Piss, 85, cross the line, rest, cross the line, drive. The familiar urge informed him of his needs. This time, the headlights illuminated “Rest Stop 58 miles ahead”. He thought it an average thing to see when you’ve been driving for forever and the distance to rest seems to be a bit closer to completion. He continued to drive along the road towards 58 as he knew when he was there he would have the greatest rest he had felt in a long time. Yet there were no further indications of his progress towards his destination. He made the decision to cross the line again.

As he opened the door, he felt the rush of a phantom train pass by him. Thinking he was about to be blown into the next dimension by an oncoming train he couldn’t see, he nearly pissed himself. Thankfully his practical mind kept his urge for relief in check. He can’t get hit by a train he can’t see. As he walked around the car to the side facing the evergreens, he could no longer control his body. His body and heart were joyfully walking through the trees. His mind was screaming in terror as he had no idea what was happening at the moment. His mind sent armies that never returned to the castle. He had no idea where he was going through these trees. His protest was largely ignored. Through the ancient evergreens he walked as if he knew what was through there. His eyes closed as he placed his foot on the other side of the evergreens. As he pulled his other foot through, his eyes opened. His mind could not comprehend what he was seeing. They spoke of worlds which did not exist yet and love which was yet unloved. The breath of life dancing in his DNA. He whispered into the core of the dance. “ ... “ He knew it was her. The one he called She.

His lips kissed the life dancing behind the ancient evergreens, his eyes closed and he felt heavy again. He knew it was time to cross that line again. He knew and it hurt. But in that moment, he felt wholly joyful for the experience here. His eyes opened as he had finished resting again. As he crossed back over the line, he felt the tearing away of something inside him. It was as if his innards were caught in a woodchipper that was on the other side of the line. He tried to conjure up the frequency of all that ecstatic joy from the evergreens. He tried to find it within him. Yet he knew it was her. He knew that the acid tears falling on his car were her acid tears she surrendered from her heart.

Fighting his own calling to 85, he would cross the line to rest. He figured he invested all of his energy into this journey. The countless hours of driving to 85. The numerous ways he calculated, categorized and capitulated the thought forms that weren’t fitting into the known. His mind would play stories informing him of phantom thoughts of strangers having phantom judgements against his very existence. Was he a phantom? He always said “Proven judgmental until you prove Self innocent.” He even applied it to him knowing very well that he was his own worst enemy.

He knows that improper storage of a corpse is illegal. His mind entrapped her corpses in the cages of his rage at her death. He wanted to keep her safe and loved. Days pass to nights as he keeps driving towards 58. He gets the urge, crosses the line, rests, crosses the line and drives. He carries the memory of an abstraction he can’t categorize. If only he remembered the flickering lights in the hallway. In his forgetfulness, he set course for 85. Her cries become subdued and the acid tears melt the screen of his mind. Slowly and completely, he dissolves into him. His void space truth infusing into every ACGT. A process that takes him beyond space and time. He stayed on the turnpike while his time processed in the beyond. His eyes close. His hands feel a gift being put in place. He shudders as he feels the dance he knows so well. On this gift, the tag read

<3 Pandora

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She always knew that sitting on a throne could put you in the cross hairs of someone’s scope. Something she learned about the scope was it could be finely focused on the subatomic details or widely viewing the whole. Her microscopes and mathematics allowed her to year things apart and look at the patterns. Pandora sure loved the patterns. It was in the repeating events where the scenery had been changed yet the fracture screamed the same frequency. Try with all her intellect and frustration, the lid would not go back on the box. The screams of this fracture were too powerfully unleashed for the powerless lid.

*************************************************************************************************************

He always knew that everyone was judging him. His mind projected all of the deep analysis of his every last hair out of place and wrinkle in his shirt. Surely, he was only steps away from full blown schizophrenia. As he walked by another face, regardless if it was printed or human, he could see their judgements. Not with his eyes. But he saw their face flash a grimace as he walked by. The same grimace he would make when he saw his own reflection. He grew to understand how to hide it. How to hide himself. Like deer piss on a hunter, he walked through this world disguised to make him feel secure.

As he parked the car within the confines of a painted parking space, he sat for a moment preparing his mind for the adventure ahead. He had made it to 85. Or was it 58? He couldn’t be sure at this point. He was deeply occupied in the art of disguise and placate to consider the destination he finally made it to. The opportunity of a soul’s journey. It was very often that a traveler on their own journey crosses by the sign above the entrance. There were very few that could see the sign above the entrance. It was as mundane looking as a toaster on a kitchen counter. For him, on this particular day, it radiated. He nearly lost control of his mind as he looked up and his mind perceived it. As simple as it was, it said that he had arrived somewhere significant.

∞

There was a feeling ringing throughout his body. He couldn’t understand what it was. It was like running a mile and sitting down to feel your heartbeat still trying to calm. The heart gets so excited to supply you with the nourishment you need! His urge for rest, and the reason for coming here, had faded. His mind was starting to wonder why he was here and what he was doing. His heart started to envelop his mind with a sensation of complete newness. He felt new in that moment. He closed his eyes. He felt for the handle of the door and as his hand touched it, he melted into him. Into the endless existence of him.

The beginning of it all is hard to pinpoint. They say that there was nothing to consider in existence prior to the Big Bang. We’re nearing 15 million years ago. As much as our science and math and logic has been a tool for huge advancements in human consciousness, they’ve also restricted us. He knew that. He knew that the limited world of facts and concrete knowledge held him back from the dreams of music and travel and art, beauty. He walked the line of hedonism so seductively that he nearly seduced his heart into thinking this was all real. Every now and again the truth would arise in him again. He would see massive catastrophe as a part of him was ripped away by rogue planetary development. That’s why he loved plans. Concrete knowledge. If he had known that the collision was imminent, would he have been able to save that part of him from also becoming a rogue? He thought of some “...bard and a rogue walk into a bar…” joke and chuckled a bit. He wanted to be here all the time. He wanted to be able to rewind and review so that he could course correct. The symbols and the messages weren’t making any sense at all. Even the musings deep within him were just too contradictory to what he knew to be concrete. She was dead and gone. He had never spoken to her. So how could she be musing him to feeling this way when she was no longer emitting her frequency?

He knew it was coming from beyond his mind. From spaces she was thrown into. His mind reeled from the thought of her alone in that cold darkness. Away from his warmth and the loss of her glow. He honored her and mourned her but he knew that he had to continue his own existence. That was concrete. She was not returning. Her song still rang through him. Like the heartbeat after a mile. It had infused within him and he felt her hugging his heart.

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She wanted to understand but she knew she couldn’t. Her heart was speaking and she gave her heart the stage. She sat in the front row and closed her eyes as her heart sang a song. She allowed the song to audition in her mind. The thoughts that began to dance were fantastical at first. Sheer miracles of love. Memories have a habit of creating this molasses dense trap along the neurons. The spots where ghosts haunt the current joy and fulfillment presented to us. The ghosts were pulling away at the molecules of this glorious song and dance the heart and mind had begun. She knew her heart could heal these ghosts and allow them to reach liberation through this dance of life. So she let her heart sing and her fantasies dance.

Within the neurons lie the memories of her pain. They’re nothing but memories at this point. Like a library section titled “Things Human Do To Hurt Each Other”. Her intellect knew she could figure out the reason and the rhyme. The cause and the effect. When she did find her answer in her library, she couldn’t reconcile what she had discovered within her archives. She knew it was him in her archives. He was not him. The one that had left the molasses trap in her neurons. But it was. Like a ship at port to restock on supplies, pillage and depart for the stormy seas again, he taught her more than he knew.

Her life had been a continuous series of events which confirmed to her exactly everything she had known. It also fortified the fractures and their detrimental deepening with each attempt at loving this world. Like a wedge meant to split wood and pile it up pretty for burning in the stove, her love had always been through the filter of what she knew and what the world confirmed for her. She didn’t know that her heart had the power to heal and love and protect her. She searched for someone in the world who had the sense and sensibility to be able to love. But love doesn’t follow sense or sensibility.

Sometimes she’d allow herself to day dream these stories of finding her place in all of this existence. But she felt like she was floating in the middle of nowhere all the time. She knew that void space is where thoughtforms and the emotional dimension meet and coordinate the creative process with the rest of the universe. She knew that if she could just rest for the time it took for the universe to coordinate all of their ends, what would be carried out of the void with her would be pure divinity. She knew that within the very creative process of her heart, mind and the universe working in synergy together, they could create something with graceful power.

What she could not see is that she was the creation. She had died and was sitting in the void space for so long she couldn’t discern between herself and everything else. When she saw the world of forms surrounding her, she saw nothing but the light of life itself swirling and dancing and living to the beat of the heart that powers the creator mind. How could she possibly be the one carrying divinity into the world of forms? It was in this question that she realized: She is the divinity in the world of forms.

*************************************************************************************************************

He couldn’t comprehend this calling. His feet had carried his so far without a fight. It was an automatic response to the world at this point. He would enjoy the things life had for him and then his mind would start spitting in his face. So he lost her.

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The journey is never something to take for granted. From the mundane everyday events which we find ourselves bored of to the grand awakenings that shake the very core of our existence. Every single day is something that brings to you an opportunity to live. How you live is entirely up to you. The thoughts that are processing in your mind are simply programmings which need to be removed and repaired. But repaired, I really mean neutralized. Much like being plugged into some command central explaining to you false prophecies of what life is, your mind has been programmed to operate in a way that is wholly detrimental to your living essence. There have been many events which have carried the essence of living for you to witness. Yet the density of your reality pulled you into its core. This is essential for you to know as part of this story is to warn you of the entrapments of gravity.

As you grow and amass more gravity, you will pull in frequencies which you do not understand yet. These are ancient frequencies we have forgotten. I will not categorize or define what it is for you because it is your responsibility to hold yourself accountable for that. Living, being alive, is to create. What are you creating? When you get an idea to create something in your life, what excuses are you using to support the programs which tell you that you cannot? How you live is entirely up to you. It is essential for you to really know that. You truly get to choose if you are going to be a decent human, a hero, a tyrant or a lesser than worthy human. Every single moment in your life you get to set the tone for who you are and what you represent in the eyes of divine life force. It doesn’t matter who told you what in your childhood. Nothing you have been told applies to your reality at this point in space and time. You are safe and your family is safe. There are always moments where we cannot see our way to peace. It’s vital for you to remember these moments are the spaces where our surrender to divinity and love creates unexpected solutions. I heard a collective scoff at “Love and light”. I am not all love and light. I am rage and terror and love and a destroyer. It is your perception of what the words do to your stable reality that causes you to recoil.

Sacred Rage can sweep the minds of a nation into revolution for equality and peace without war destroying the love of a collective. Terror is the edge of the cliff that the fool blindly bounds off of knowing so firmly that regardless of the fear welling up inside, the fool will get back up and continue on their journey. Love for the experience of reincarnation allowing us to arrive closer towards home each opportunity we discover.

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chmpn--a · 5 years ago

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TAGGED BY : @lathsuledin --- thank you! TAGGING : @dovwahlaan @we-are-strcng / @kroxn @serviant @knavegrin @abyssleapt & anyone who wants to do it! anyone tagged who’s already done it can ignore me. i mean, everyone can ignore me anyway, but---

— BASICS.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE ? Garrett could be considered toeing the line between average and tall, standing at 6ft 1in.

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ? It doesn’t bother him; he has no complaints.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ? Thick, dark, and short. There’s a wave to it if he goes too long without a haircut. As for body hair --- as I’ve stated in a headcanon, he’s got chest hair that’s only rivaled by Varric’s. Just as dark as the hair on his head.

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING ? Not at all. He rolls out of bed and leaves the house without a single thought about it. Sometimes he runs his hands through it, which is the most styling that it gets. He only seems to groom and spend time on his beard.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK ? He would say that he doesn’t and it shows.

— PREFERENCES.

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? outdoors. ▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? sunshine. ▸ FOREST OR BEACH ? forest. ▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS ? metals. ▸ FLOWERS OR PERFUMES ? flowers. ▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? personality. ▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? being alone. (with a friend or two.) ▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY ? one isn’t fun without the other. ▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? painful truths. ▸ SCIENCE OR MAGIC ? magic. ▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT ? peace. ▸ NIGHT OR DAY ? day. ▸ DUSK OR DAWN ? dawn. ▸ WARMTH OR COLD ? warmth. ▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? a few close friends ▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME ? playing a game.

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ? Garrett bottles and bottles and bottles. Every bad feeling he has is stuffed down and hidden away. If he doesn’t joke his way through every day, he just might lose his mind. Sometimes he doesn’t bless people when they sneeze.

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ? If you take canon, then he’s lost almost everyone close to him. His father passes away because of an illness, his sister dies at the hands of an ogre, his brother gets corrupted by the Blight and the Grey Wardens take him, and his mother gets murdered. He feels like he's responsible for at least half of these losses. As stated above, he bottles. Everything is a joke. When it usually hits him that he’s alone, he tends to isolate himself and fall into a depression for a few days that he cannot be coaxed from.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ? He has quite a few of his father. The two were close, especially because of the magical ability that they both possess/possessed. Garrett can remember the first spell that he perfected with Malcolm’s help. He can remember how Malcolm taught him how to defend himself without the use of magic. He has a few memories with Leandra, assisting in the kitchen when he was young, even if he wasn’t good at it. The Amell estate finally feeling like a home after the two of them cleaned it up was nice. He has many with the twins. They’re seven years younger than he is and he would always play with them when they were babies. And, as they got a little bit older, he’d help them prank one another.

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ? Physically, yes. He can perform fairly powerful magic, and he’s capable of wielding a sword if he needs to. Mentally, no. No one deserves to die unless they’ve done something heinous. In his line of work, though, he can’t think too much on it.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ? He cries, and goes the whole nine yards. Tears, sobbing/gasping, wanting to hide away from everything. If he’s somewhere public, he gets agitated because he can’t get away. He gets quiet and uncharacteristically serious.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE ? Yes, and he does. He particularly trusts Varric this much, and Mya @dovwahlaan

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ? He’s the same idiot that he’s always been, but he’s their idiot. He gets very affectionate and he’s always in their corner. There are no secrets. He’s himself around them, stopping the act that he puts on 24/7. Sometimes he’s sad. Sometimes he’s mad. Sometimes he’s this and sometimes he’s that. And they get to see it all.

#▐▌hawke: a study. — ‹ ism. ›#// [gestures vaguely] i'm lazy

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aquaminwrites · 7 years ago

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Skin Deep: 07

Pairing: Yoongi x Tattoo Artist!Reader (M/F) Genre: Friends to lovers, slow burn. Eventual smut. Rating: 18+ Warnings: Language, mentions of infidelity Word Count: 4.5K

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 (links removed due to tumblr issue)

A/N: We all need a friend like Hoseok. Also, thank you for the response to the last update! I hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think!

Two weeks pass. It’s late August, nearly September, and Yoongi has not heard from you since that day. He thought that it would be easy to slip back into his routine, the way it had been for twenty-plus years of his life before he knew you, but more than ever, he feels alone.

And not just alone. But lonely.

Loneliness is something that Min Yoongi, in the past, had never really felt. He’d always had his friends, his parents, his older brother. Occasionally, a warm body that would spend the night. But he always cherished his time alone. He revelled in it, the quiet in which his muse would start to sing, where he would come up with unique beats and lyrics for his raps.

But now, as he sits alone in his studio, staring blankly at his computer screen, all he hears is deafening silence.

There’s nothing.

Yoongi closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He tries not to imagine your face, he really does. But it’s hard not to when everything in his apartment reminds him of you. He hasn’t tried to contact you either, taking your radio silence as a sign that you don’t want to speak to him ever again.

Not that he would blame you, after what he said.

He still replays that moment in his mind over and over and over. The look of hurt in your eyes when he accused you of making him feel inferior. The rage that bubbled over when he said someone like you.

There are so many things he should have said instead. So many truths that he’s kept hidden in the back of his mind, things he’s been afraid to vocalize because he’s never said them out loud to anyone before. Things that he never expected to feel for anyone, because Min Yoongi is not the kind of person that falls in love, or vice versa.

He rolls his chair towards his piano, his right hand tinkering on one of the higher octaves. He closes his eyes and plays a tune he’s been working on for months, one that he can’t seem to put words to. He plays the tune over and over, fucking up more than once, before his left hand joins and he starts to pound on the keys.

The melody is wistful, romantic, and heartbreaking.

Something in him shifts. The silence in his mind starts to ebb away as the words start to materialize. He hums out a melody as he plays, trying to grasp at them. When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find that tears are streaking down his cheeks.

Yoongi continues to play, mumbling the words that won’t stop spinning around in his head, a brutal cacophony that crescendoes until they threaten to burst forth.

I need you, girl. Why am I in love alone, why am I hurting alone?

—

Another day, another client.

It feels like, at this point, you’re completely operating on auto pilot. You smile at your customers, make small talk with them, joke and laugh, but it feels disingenuous. You think that maybe you need to buy more plants, that taking care of them will distract you from the hole in your heart that Yoongi left when you told him to leave your studio.

Yoongi.

The name alone brings forth all sorts of memories and emotions. When you have a client in your chair, you can pretend that the outside world doesn’t exist, and neither does he. But when you’re alone in your studio after a long day of work, the moon already high in the sky, you can’t help but think of him.

You liked him. You really, really liked him. Hell, you still like him. But you can’t help but recall the things he’d said to you, the fury in his voice and in those sharp eyes that you cared for so much. That memory taints all the others, a bad seed ruining all the good in the months that the two of you had gotten to know each other.

You don’t hate Yoongi. You could never, not when he occupies every part of your mind and your heart. You haven’t felt this way about anyone before, not even Namjoon.

Your relationship with Namjoon always had a power imbalance—he was your mentor, and you were his apprentice. You were under his tutelage and that’s how the two of you got into your relationship. Some of the other artists in the studio thought that you were only sleeping with him to get on his good side, and so that he would bless you with his artwork.

And you knew that wasn’t true. You had loved Namjoon, loved him so much that you were willing to overlook his flaws. Like the time you’d been catcalled by a group of men in the street, and all he said to you was that you should have worn a sweater or cardigan to cover your arms instead. You forgave him because you figured he was right—if you weren’t wearing revealing clothing, then they wouldn’t catcall you. So you started to cover yourself more, dressing the way he wanted you to dress because you figured that only he should be the one to really see your body.

You even forgave him after you’d caught him in bed with Jisoo. You were at the studio, working on renovations with Junghyun, who had volunteered to help you replace the floorboards. You’d forgotten something at home, and so you’d swung by your house, only to find Jisoo’s car parked in your driveway. It wasn’t unusual for her to stop by your house to visit you or Namjoon, but she had said that she was going to be visiting her parents, which was why she couldn’t help with the renovations that day.

Namjoon had also come up with some sort of excuse as to why he couldn’t help out that day. Something about a client requesting a session with him at a colleague’s studio. So when you opened the front door and heard the moans coming from the bedroom, you already knew what was going on.

Namjoon and Jisoo had both begged for your forgiveness. You’d thrown Jisoo’s clothes back at her, and told her to get out of your house. Once she was gone and it was just you and Namjoon, you broke down, collapsing in a heap on the floor. He held you and apologized, crocodile tears cascading down his face.

He swore it was only that one time. That it was a mistake, that he loved you, and that it would never happen again.

And you believed him.

Until you decided to go to therapy, and your therapist made you realize that their affair actually been going on for months. Jisoo and Namjoon would always have excuses for why they were late to meetings and appointments, and they spent a lot of time together apart from you. You figured it was because they were friends before you and Namjoon got together, but instead, they were going around behind your back.

You said you’d forgiven Namjoon and that you loved him. But the more you let the wound fester, the more and more you grew to resent not only him, but yourself. You always talked about how you would never stay with a cheater, how you would never be with someone who would willingly hurt you so badly. But when you found yourself in that situation, you didn’t know what else to do.

Where would you go? Who were you without him? You’d spent nearly three years of your life being Y/N and Namjoon. And then suddenly, everything was falling apart. The perfect future you thought you had with your husband-to-be and your best friend at your side crumbled until nothing was left but lies and deceit. You couldn’t live like that anymore, so you decided that you had to leave.

And leaving was the hardest thing you’d ever had to do. To walk away from someone who you thought was your everything, from your house, from your friends…it was a difficult decision. But Junghyun had opened his arms and his home to you while you searched for your own apartment. He’d been there at your studio in your stead, making sure that Namjoon collected all of his things without causing any problems.

Yes, you had loved Namjoon. But Yoongi?

Yoongi was, and still is, different. Regardless of what you’d said in anger.

He didn’t mince around words or try to manipulate you the way Namjoon did. You’d openly criticized his world view, and while he’d initially challenged you on it, he really did try to make himself better by learning and reading and accepting that people are inherently different.

He bled music and passion, and you saw that firsthand while you spent time with him at his studio. You marvelled at how he could play piano with his eyes closed, just feeling the music as his fingers danced effortlessly across the keys. He’d told you jokingly one night that his piano was his first love, that no one understood him the way his music did.

And you believed him. Because as open and as honest as he’d been with you, you knew that you’d barely scratched the surface of the enigma that is Min Yoongi. And you wanted to know more.

Being around him gave you butterflies. There wasn’t anything about Min Yoongi that you didn’t like—you liked his gummy smile, his tiny teeth, the way his chin would dimple when he pouted, the way his eyes would widen whenever he was surprised. You even liked those weird sounds he made when he was thinking, that odd slurping sound he would make with his tongue, almost as if to punctuate a question.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. You miss him. A lot.

You stare at your phone, at the unheard voicemail from Yoongi in your inbox. You’re too scared to listen to it, too scared of what it might be. So, like a coward, you leave it and try to focus back on clearing your email inbox instead.

You’re in the process of re-reading the same sentence for the fifth time when the door swings open, the bell signalling the arrival of someone new. It’s already early evening, and you’re done tattooing for the day, so you glance up curiously at who it could be.

In your heart, you hope that it’s Yoongi.

But instead, it’s a welcome face that you haven’t seen in a long time.

“Hoseok!”

Hoseok grins at you, and you rise from your chair to run and give him a hug. He holds you close, giving you a comforting kiss on the head as he rocks you back and forth in his arms.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “How have you been? I don’t ever get to see your pretty face anymore.”

You rest your head against his shoulder and just allow yourself to enjoy the sensation of being held by someone. “I’ve been busy,” you say, and it’s not a lie. But you have a feeling that Hoseok knows the truth, because he rubs circles against the centre of your back and lets out a sigh.

“He’s been a wreck, you know.”

You stiffen at his words, and Hoseok holds you at arm’s length. He smiles at you, but it’s one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You bite your lip and look down at the ground, not wanting Hoseok to see that your eyes are getting red as you hold back your tears.

“Hey,” Hoseok ducks down slightly, trying to get you to look at him. He notices as you start to sniffle, and he guides you over to the bench so that you can both sit. “I didn’t tell you that to upset you, I’m sorry. Forget I mentioned him. How are things with you? Jimin and Jungkook ask about you all the time. So do Jin-hyung and Taehyung, come to think of it. We all miss you, you kind of just…disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear,” you mutter, hastily wiping your eyes. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

Hoseok frowns, and you can’t help but notice that it doesn’t suit his face. “You know what I mean.”

You groan, letting your head fall against the wall. “I don’t know, Hoseok. Things have just been…well, weird. I’m sure Yoongi told you about my ex coming to see me—”

As you say his name out loud, your voice starts to waver. The memory of the fight loops again, endlessly, and it feels like you’re drowning all over again.

Someone like you.

“Hey,” Hoseok snaps you out of your fog. “He never actually told me what happened. Just that he fucked up and that you probably hate him now.”

You look into Hoseok’s eyes, and shake your head. “I don’t hate him,” you promise. “I don’t think I ever could.”

Hoseok smiles at that, a genuine one this time. “I’ve known Yoongi a long time, Y/N. Most of my life, actually. He’s always been shit at expressing his feelings. He has all these thoughts running through his mind, constantly thinking and overthinking. Sometimes when he tries to get those words out, he just doesn’t know how to do it in any other way than through his music. He’s always been closed off, a little grumpy.”

You snort, looking away. “Understatement.”

“Let me finish,” Hoseok tuts. “He’s always been a little rough around the edges and his bad days outnumbered his good ones. That is, until he met you.”

Your gaze snaps back to his, and you can see the sincerity pooling in his irises. Your lips part slightly as you suck in a tiny breath. Hoseok continues.

“I’ve never seen him this happy before, Y/N. In all the years that I’ve known him, I’ve never once seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. His whole face lights up. It’s like you’re the sun, the moon and the stars. Me and the guys teased him about it for a really long time before he finally confessed to us that he liked you in that way, even though all of us could see it from day one.”

You rub at your arms self consciously. “I kind of figured that he liked me after a while,” you confess. “I wasn’t sure, until that day he came to get me when that creep was following me down the street.”

Hoseok waves his hand. “Oh, he liked you way before that day.”

You glare at him, giving him a playful shove. “Big difference it makes now. We haven’t spoken in weeks. He probably hates me. Or thinks I got back together with my ex.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow at you. “Did you?”

“I wanted to talk to him,” you admit, and Hoseok frowns again, deeper this time. “Not because I want to get back together with him. That ship sailed a long time ago. But…just to clear the air. As much as I resented Namjoon in the past for hurting me so much, he was still my mentor and I still have respect for him as an artist. And I also have sympathy for him, because I’m realizing now that him cheating on me was a reflection of his own insecurities, not of my worth.”

He nods, seemingly deep in thought. A brief silence settles between the two of you before he quietly asks, “Do you think that Yoongi is going to treat you the same way Namjoon did?”

“No,” you say immediately, without even having to think about it. “He would never.”

“I think you need to talk to him,” Hoseok states, and you can’t help but notice that he sounds tired. He’s probably had to deal with Yoongi for the past few weeks, trying to convince him to reach out to you again. And now here he is with you, playing the middle man again. “He doesn’t fall for people often, Y/N. Pretty much never. But he really cares about you, and I know that he misses you…even if he’s too proud to admit it.”

You chew on your bottom lip, your hands coming to grip at the edge of the bench. “He left me a voicemail that night.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows fly up into his fringe. “He did? Really? What did he say?”

You shake your head. “I’ve been too scared to listen to it.”

Hoseok’s hand flies up to smack against his forehead. “You’re both so dense. Oh my god.”

“Excuse me!” You balk, arms folded over your chest indignantly. “I’m going through a tumultuous time emotionally, could you cut me the tiniest bit of slack, please?”

“No, because you’re both dumb!” Hoseok declares, holding out his hand. “Give me your phone. We’re listening to that voicemail right now, you big baby.”

“Jesus, alright, fine,” you huff, rising to fetch your phone from where you left it on the other side of the front desk. You begrudgingly unlock it and hand it over, and Hoseok proceeds to play the voicemail on speaker for the both of you to hear.

As soon as it starts, and his voice filters into your ears, you’re suddenly hit with a wave of emotions. You can’t believe how much you miss him, how desperately you wish he was here.

Hey. I know you probably hate me…I hate me too, if it’s any consolation. I fucking suck. I’m a fucking idiot and…I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said to you today. You make me a better person. You changed me, yeah, but I needed that change. Just like I need you. And I don’t…I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I know I fucked up, and you probably don’t ever want to see me again, but…if there’s any chance that you do, then please, please call me back.

And then he’s crying. And it breaks your fucking heart.

Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re probably going to delete this message as soon as you hear it. But, uh…don’t cut the others out of your life because of me, okay? They’re good people, and they care about you. So do I, even though I’m shit at showing it. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me one day. So…yeah. Bye.

The voicemail ends, leaving the two of you standing there, staring at the phone in Hoseok’s hand. When you finally meet his eyes again, you realize that you’re crying as well.

“Talk to him,” Hoseok implores. “Please.”

You take in a trembling breath before you find your resolve. “Okay,” you promise. “There’s just one thing I have to do first.”

—

You’re sitting at a table at the café near your studio, your leg bouncing uncontrollably as you try to fight off your fight or flight instinct. You’re nervous, rightfully so, and you really, really hope that you made the right move by calling him.

Namjoon slides into the seat across from yours with two coffees in hand, a black beanie covering his hair. He sends you a soft smile, all dimples, and you smile back politely.

“Thanks for meeting me, Joon.”

“You know,” he begins, “when you called me all those weeks ago just to hang up on me as soon as I picked up, I didn’t know what to think. And now you invite me out for coffee out of the blue?” He takes a sip from his cup before continuing. “What’s going on?”

“I…” You clear your throat, sitting up straighter in your seat. “I just wanted to let you know that I still care about you. And that I’ll always care about you. But…”

“But…” Namjoon finishes for you, “There’s someone else.”

You glance up at him, and notice that there’s no malice in his eyes. There’s no anger, no disgust. He just seems a little tired, and a little worn. “I don’t think we were ever really meant to be, Joonie,” you say quietly. “You broke my trust, and that’s something that can never be repaired. But I’ve moved on, and I met someone, and I think I owe it to myself to at least try with him. I’ve been so unhappy for so long. And…I think he might be it for me.”

Namjoon stares at the dark liquid in his cup, nodding to himself absentmindedly. After a few seconds, he asks, “What’s his name?”

Your lips quirk up in the tiniest smile. “Yoongi.”

“Yoongi,” he repeats. “He’s the guy who came by that day, right? The one who brought you soup?”

You laugh at that, pressing a hand to your cheek. “Yeah, that’s him.”

Namjoon just regards you for a second, taking you in with soft eyes. He smiles at you again, a little more wistful, and with just the tiniest amount of longing. “You love him.”

You feel yourself immediately stiffen. “I…what?”

“You love him,” he repeats. “I can tell. You have that goofy look in your eyes. I recognize it because that’s how you used to look at me.”

You gape at him for a second, trying to stutter out a response. Namjoon just laughs, scrunching his nose slightly while lowering his head.

Lifting his chin back up again, he says, “It’s alright, I get it. I was an asshole to you in the past, and I ruined your friendship with Jisoo. If it’s any consolation, I’ve been going to therapy and figuring a lot of my own shit out in the meantime. It was unfair of me to pop out of the blue and come to your studio unannounced, just expecting that you would take me back with open arms.”

“You also kissed me in front of Yoongi,” you deadpan. “That was also not cool.”

“I couldn’t help myself, I’m sorry,” Namjoon sighs. “That was wrong of me. I just…I hadn’t seen you in over a year, and it fucking killed me to not be able to hold you or touch you the way I used to.”

“I’m not yours to hold or touch anymore, Namjoon,” you state plainly. “You should know that by now.”

“What can I say,” he huffs. “I’m an idiot. I ruined the one good thing in my life, and now I have to deal with the consequences.”

Your knee is still bouncing under the table, but not as rapidly as before. Because even though there was a lot of bad in your relationship, there was also a lot of good. And it’s hard to remember the good through the pain, but you know that your healing is long overdue. “I really have missed you, Joonie,” you tell him, hoping that he believes your earnestness. “I miss your friendship. When we broke up, I didn’t just lose my fiancé, I lost my best friend. And…I think I’d like for us to rebuild that. If you want.”

Namjoon smiles, showing off those dimples that used to make your heart flutter. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You smile back, taking a sip of your coffee. “Good. Because you still have to finish my back piece, you moron.”

“Hey,” Namjoon whines, slumping in his seat. “I’m a busy man! Be thankful I’m not charging you an hourly rate!”

The two of you laugh at that, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable around him. But things are different this time—you don’t feel that same pull to him as you did when you were together, nor do you feel the desire to reach out and touch him. It just feels like two old friends getting together over a cup of coffee, shooting the shit and catching up on lost time.

And so that’s what you do—you spend the next few hours talking to Namjoon, asking him about what’s been going on with him in the time you’ve spent apart. And the more the two of you speak, the more you realize that this is the relationship that you were always meant to have with him. Friends, nothing more, nothing less.

You tell him about Yoongi. You tell him everything, from how the two of you met because of Junghyun’s little brother, about his at-home studio, how he was helping you re-learn how to play piano, and about how he would spend time working on music at your shop so you wouldn’t have to be alone.

“I really am happy for you,” Namjoon promises. “It seems like this Yoongi guy might be your perfect match.”

You scratch at the back of your head and tug slightly at your ear, a habit you realize you’d picked up from Yoongi himself.

“Well,” you falter. “I might have fucked things up a little bit.”

Namjoon looks surprised, his head tilting to the side. “What happened?”

“After you left the studio, we had a fight,” you tell him, not wanting to divulge all of the details. “We haven’t talked since.”

He frowns deeply, before reaching across the table to flick you right between your eyebrows.

“Ow!” You declare, rubbing the spot gingerly with your fingertips. “The fuck was that for?”

“Talk to him, you idiot.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“I’m pretty sure it is,” Namjoon counters. “Look. From what it sounds like, this guy is your shot at happiness. Right? And you love him, even if you won’t say it out loud. So unless you want to be miserable forever, which I know you don’t, you need to go to him and fix things. I can’t be the only person telling you this.”

“You’re not,” you admit. “Yoongi’s—my friend, Hoseok, told me the same thing. I just wanted closure first. With you.”

Namjoon holds his hand out for you, and this time you take it. His fingers curl against yours, and you find comfort in the gesture as he regards you with the fondness of an old friend.

“And now you have it. I’ll always be here for you, Y/N, rooting for you from the sidelines. Now, go get your man.”

You give his hand a squeeze, and offer him a small smile. “I love you, Joonie.”

He returns it with one of his own, a gentle contentment settling between the two of you. You both know that things can never go back to how they were, not exactly. But the promise of starting anew, as friends, warms your heart to the very core. And he knows what you mean when you say that you love him. And he hopes that you understand as he replies, “I love you too.”

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mikodaiyo · 6 years ago

Text

Surprise

I googled ‘dog commands in Japanese’ for this one.

Follow my Dokuga & Pillowfort for more sesskag; I also draw! Consider commissioning me

The weather was pleasantly warm in the Sengoku today. Nice enough to let children run around the village into the plant grounds, where farmers looked upon their fruitful harvests with pride as their hands sifted soil. Warm breezes rolled over the bridge that gaped the village from the outside world, out onto the path of trees and, sitting right at the base of one such tree, the Miko of Inuyasha Village Kagome felt it caressing her face, almost with care, she blushed and fidgeted with the item hidden in her sleeve.

The young woman sat in her usual red and white uniform with a basket beside her. She was going herb hunting today.

She bit the inside of her cheek to prevent a squeal of excitement but it slipped out anyway, loud enough to evoke another annoyed sigh from the man sunbathing out on the tree branch above her.

“Y’know, if you hit one more high note down there you might consider hangin’ up the Priestess gig and taking your singing show on the road.”

Kagome tried ignoring him, closing her eyes and mimicking the pose of a zen leader, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You’re takin’ it wrong then.”

“Oi!” Kagome glared up at her best friend as he scratched his ear and pretended to ignore her back. She huffed and reached for the concealed item again.

“Cut it out,” Inuyasha sighed, fluidly rolling his body from the branch to a crouch beside her. He grabbed her arm and reached inside he sleeves, bypassing her protests as he pinched the item by one of its blue beads.

It was a fitting bracelet, laced with a dormant energy Inuyasha wouldn’t have known to search for had he not seen the item made himself. It had a soft hue,, the cold blue glass reflected against the sun and was strung together with wire, of course but, intertwined within the wire were fine strands of black and silver embedded with faint, bonding magic.

“You’ll break it before any demon gets a chance.”

“You swear you think he’ll like it?”

“Kagome,” He stared at her flatly, “you know him better than I do, don’t ya think?”

Kagome snorted, “I’m starting to doubt that with how much you hang out with him lately. Aren’t you only waiting here because you wanted to see your brother?” She teased, and thoroughly enjoyed Inuyasha’s embarrassed flails.

“What? No! Fuck him!” When the bracelet flew out of his hands Kagome made sure to catch it safely back into her sleeve.

“I’ll see what ha-”

“Aaah!” Inuyasha yelled, cutting off any continuation of her sentence. They stared at each other for a while, and then burst out in laughter.

Having a best friend like Inuyasha was exactly what Kagome needed in this era, it felt like it made... everything easier. Only after they enjoyed the peace a little while longer did Inuyasha speak up.

“Of course he’ll like it. I get that he’s Sesshomaru but any man appreciates a gift from someone they cherish.” Kagome watched him wistfully touch his rosary. Some time ago, Kagome had removed its spell for Inuyasha and Kaede revealed its original purpose, when Kaede was just a girl watching her sister attempt a romantic gesture. Inuyasha’s touch of the necklace was momentary but, such as how memories were, it made the present more poignant.

Suddenly, Inuyasha’s nose began twitching, and he languorously stretch out, resting his head on Kagome’s lap, who chuckled and flicked his twitchy ear.

“What’s up? You think one moment of clarity deserves some kind of reward?”

“Well, it certainly ain’t free advice I’m peddlin’ over here.”

Eventually, Kagome caved, giving his little ears attention and relaxing herself just in time for a swift wind to start blowing leaves to and fro and sweeping Kagome up amidst her own unbound hair. She untangled herself with her free hand at the exact moment to watch Lord Sesshomaru walking out of the thick brush.

“Sesshomaru-san,” The pink returned to her cheeks again.

His eyes captured hers instantly, making her heart quicken with each step until he was towering over them.

“‘Sup.” Inuyasha spoke with his eyes still closed in enjoyment.

Kagome saw Sesshomaru’s face tense instantly and raised her hands in the air, less like a child who caught caught stealing sweets, more like a woman who knew where to place her appendages by now to not get caught in Inuyasha’s ever impending karma.

Sesshomaru delivered a swift, precise kick to Inuyasha’s head, spinning him into the air and off of the Miko’s lap, who swore she saw his spirit checkout of his body for a moment.

“You okay?” She called out. Inuyasha popped out of the bushes in response, angrily spitting out leaves.

“Whaddya think?!” Inuyasha pointed at his half brother, “Sesshomaru-!”

“Kagome.” He greeted, kneeling down to dust off her lap, “Are you prepared?”

“Sesshomaru-san…” She could only respond shyly, even though a toothy smile nearly split her lips apart when her Lord reached up to push her bangs aside for a better view of her.

Kagome happily reached for her basket, “Yes. Let’s go.”

“OI!” Inuyasha broke their atmosphere, resulting in the always freezing temperature of Kagome’s cold glare.

“Inuyasha…” Kagome warned, and before Inuyasha could appeal to her good nature, “Ma-te.”

“It’s a much more appropriate spell for him than ‘Osuwari’ ever was.” Kagome mused as she and Sesshomaru climbed up a steep hill littered with tiny yellow flowers. “ ‘Stay’ really helps him think about the penalty for his actions. All of the children love climbing on him.”

Once they hit the fresh air of the hilltop, Kagome picked a patch of flowers to drop her basket, stretching one arm, then the other, pleased groans escaping with each bone pop.

“What a good day!”

Sesshomaru knelt next to her basket so he could place the extras she asked him to gather inside, before sitting himself, pollen and petals rising around the impact. Kagome couldn’t help but soak in his visage; the way nature sailed past him was poetry in motion to her, she loved any chance she got to simply watch him instead of sneaking shy, distanced glances at his beauty like others. Hell, like herself years ago.

Kagome took a deep breath before she fell to her hands and knees beside him.

“I...I made you something!” She blurted out, interest piquing in Sesshomaru’s eyes.

“And what would you have to give I,” Sesshomaru raised his hand to run it through her hair again, appreciating the unique softness of her cheek as it habitually nestled into the palm of his hand, “who wants for nothing except you?”

Kagome buried her smile in Sesshomaru’s hand and then removed herself from the tempting proximity to focus on presenting him with the bracelet from her inner sleeve. As he eyed it, Kagome reminded herself rarely was his silence to be taken negatively when it involved her and yet, she felt prickling nerves making her itch.

More than like it, she wanted him to want it.

Sesshomaru took it from her and sniffed it, his eyes lowly lidded. He was pleased.

“There is an energy to this armament.”

“It’s charmed. I charmed it, I-” Kagome stuttered, “I wanted to, you know, have something that always kept as connected. Lately, it’s more lonely when we’re apart.”

Maybe it was because he had recently made her his but, there was this feeling growing inside of Kagome, and not in the way her confidants embarrassingly suspected. Kagome was a powerful woman, her powers were constantly defying odds and, she was always learning and fighting but, even more so, her emotions were powerful; Kagome was a rarity in the Miko world because she was one who drew her strength from the relationships she formed, instead of the ties she cut.

She and Sesshomaru shared the strongest bond between two people in love. Not just physically or spiritually; more than giving one another their bodies, they had given each other intimacy, and it was so much more powerful than anything they could have imagined.

During the days, Sesshomaru and Kagome were many things still, at the end of each one, they only wanted to be two beings in love.

“I share your sentiments,” Sesshomaru admitted easily. Giving the bracelet back to her, Sesshomaru presented his arm, “I wish to wear this.”

Kagome was more than over the moon to slip the bracelet around his wrist, he could tell by the way her legs danced underneath her. She held his hand while it pulsed, the spell binding itself to his aura. Together, they watched a fine glow emit from the bobbles until it didn’t and Sesshomaru felt a refreshing wave slip around him, less like the protective layer he expected and more like an amplification, like the power in the ornament was letting him know this was a gift of freedom, not frailty.

“I asked Totosai to make sure this helped you in battle since he was so worried this might hinder your swordsmanship.”

Sesshomaru too noticed that but, Totosai underestimated him. A swordsman Lord of his power would obviously adapt to anything, especially anything his mate put thought into.

“I was thinking I’d get it reworked later… maybe, something smaller, like a ring.”

“What spell did you see fit to bless me with?” He wondered, playing with her. He would wear a ring and he knew she knew that. She was simply being noticeably coy so, he teased her by not taking the bait. Kagome pouted and Sesshomaru poked her forehead in response, a silly reprimand between them.

“‘Koi’.” She answered his question while dramatically prodding her “injured” skin. “I named the spell ‘Koi’.”

The bracelet gave, gentle responding thrums.

Sesshomaru smirked, a huff blowing from his nose, “Let no one ever doubt your infatuation with dogs, Kagome.”

Humming, Kagome laid her head in his lap, wrapped mokomoko around her legs and pretended not to hear him.

#sesskag #Sesshomaru x Kagome #inuyasha #kagome #sesshomaru #my fics #demiko #google said 'mate' is a commonly used command for stay and 'come' is 'koi' which I also thought Kagome might find cute as a play on words #see this one is better I can tell its improved. plus I already had an idea like this so im glad a one worded prompt brought it to fruition #my hard weeks of studying Japanese on duolingo has prepared me for this. The only real reason mate is spaced out is part syllables and #part I think the inu fandom sees that and instantly says 'mate'

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lethe-rpg · 6 years ago

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Perhaps he was just born a few centuries too late. That’s what Fionn figures. Back in the day, when the world was young and fae things were properly fae, he’d have done just fine - carousing and thieving, making merry and managing all sorts of mischief. Without anybody getting their knickers in a twist. By the time he came along, though, there were just too many hidebound traditional types around the Otherlands. Fussy old bastards. That’s what he tells himself. Fionn, cut adrift by parents he never knew, chased after by a brother and sister who had better things to do, understood that he was something of a burden. Had he asked to be born? No. Wasn’t his fault.

But he was here, now, and he wasn’t about to let a moment pass where he wasn’t drinking life’s splendor dry. That’s what they were supposed to be about, wasn’t it? Those elder fae seemed to think he drank too deeply, though. He neglected his lessons in the history and magic of their kind, shook off stately affairs and protocols to run through the hills and dales with stranger, wilder faeries. Young and cocksure, Fionn took what gifts he’d been born to and scoffed at those that came harder, the ones that took work and thought to develop - the shifting of energies, that fae spark, the knowing of another’s heart. It was envy, maybe. His sister was so brilliantly talented in those crafts, his brother so respected, an artisan in iron. Was it fair, to hold himself to their older example? Perhaps not, but he did it all the same. And no matter what he managed, Fionn always, always came up short. Who was he trying to please, anyway? Those runaway parents? His beleaguered brother, his stifled sister? Himself, even? Fionn couldn’t say, so he couldn’t do it. And, in time, he stopped trying altogether.

A few duels, a couple scandalous affairs, and several spectacularly destructive incidents was all it took to turn the Otherlands against Fionn, in a decided sort of way. Let the humans deal with him, and his brother, too. Cora had already left, tired of the same old, same old staling madness of life among the fae. When they struck earth in Ireland, Fionn was too indignant to feel bereft. Or even awfully responsible. He was just being what he was meant to be, what they were all meant to be - a rover and a rambler, a lover and a singer of songs. And the human world was wonderful, really. Even if, eventually, they wound up having enough of his nonsense too. That was alright, though. He’d move on. To someplace new. There was so much to see, and so many people to share his music, his art, and, of course, himself with. So much for them to share with him, too - their revels and whiskey, ugly violence and breathtaking creativity. Study in contradictions, humans were. For once, Fionn found himself fond of research. Inevitably, that pulled him further and further from Faolan’s side. Then, of all things, his brother got himself a family. Started settling down. Like… humans, or something. So off Fionn strayed, for good, wandering from scene to scene, bed to bed, taking in all the wonder and mess humanity had to offer. Which was plenty. His family, such as they were, didn’t want or need him. And he didn’t want or need them, or anyone else, did he? Best to live in the present, with the company he had. Fleeting, mortal company, but lovely. His unnatural talent and his fae charms, roguish though they might be, made sure of that.

Unfortunately, now and then, even Fionn’s honeyed tongue and handsome eyes aren’t enough to get him out of the shit he stirs up. He’s quite literally stumbling into Lethe held together with duct tape and will, after falling afoul of the sort of people you really shouldn’t fall afoul of. Ever. Usually, his unnatural luck looks out for him. This time, he was very nearly gutted like a fish, a rabbit. He’d heard of a place, hidden in the woods, that drew magic and held it safely; somewhere like that would have somebody who could help, perhaps even one of his sort, to do a proper job of patching him up. So here he’s come, battered and worn. Never had the knack for healing, not for a scratch, nevermind anything so bad as this. But somebody around Lethe will. Probably. Not that he has money to pay, not at the moment - had to drop and run, after all. But he’ll find a way to make good. Or leave, quickly, whichever winds up being simpler. That’s the notion, anyway…

Unsurprisingly, Fionn hasn’t the foggiest idea what’s been going on in Lethe. He doesn’t even know his brother, sister, and daughter, all long lost, are in town, nevermind that people have been crawling out of the river on the regular. You’d think a creature with a life so long as his might be disturbed by the thought of your memories getting washed away, but… honestly, Fionn doesn’t remember terribly much with perfect, sober clarity. He’s been drinking, drugging, brawling, sleeping, and musing his way across and around the world for centuries, and the Otherlands are a distant recollection. Even his many sweethearts have faded away, with the years. All but one, the one he tried to forget most, honestly - Aurora. Beautiful beyond sense, for a human; every bit as sweetly ferocious as the summer he was made from. They shared some sweet times together, months in the California sun, tearing down the boulevards, tumbling about in the soft, fine sand. It was all fun and games, and love. You can have all three, he’d insist. Then it turned out she was pregnant. Fionn was gone by morning, slipping away in the dark. Only, he couldn’t keep going. Not this time. He’d never had a child of his own. Not that he knew of, at least. Never even met his own father. What could he do for Aurora, now? Put down stakes? It wasn’t in his nature. Be contrary to everything he’d ever been. But Fionn came back, all the same, slinking through the door. And he left. And he came back. And he left. And so on, flitting about like some frightened bird, bringing gifts and money when he had any, trying to feel right about any of it. Aurora, bless her, wanted him to be there. Fionn couldn’t understand why. Still, there he was, when the time came; her hand in his, and, then, a beautiful baby girl in his arms. Then, then… a crush of screaming hospital monitors, nurses, and doctors, pushing him out. As his Aurora left, without warning. Their girl wailed. It was just the two of them, now, and Fionn, he’d barely been prepared for the three of them. He tried, though. For a while, anyway. But it was obvious, wasn’t it? Fionn had never been nothing but trouble. An incapable wastrel. They were right, weren’t they? For all the magic in his blood, there’d been nothing at all he could do; another faerie, a better one, could have saved Aurora, made sure she lived to see her little girl grow up. But Fionn wasn’t better, and he wasn’t going to get better, and even if he did, it was far past time where that meant anything. She was gone. He didn’t even have the strength to name their child - it could only be unlucky, couldn’t it? A name from her craven, bastard father. She deserved more. She needed more. And so, he did the only thing that made much sense at all: tucked her into another baby’s bed, bound for a family. That was the last time Fionn saw his daughter, the last time he ever expected to see her. Like the rest of his blood, she would be better off without him.

Fate appears to have other plans, as ever - meaning a few Riverborn will be far from Fionn’s mind. Far and away…

#taken #taken male #taken fae #cillian murphy #fionn meadowes #Fionn Ó Lonán

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hekate1308 · 6 years ago

Text

Owe No One Anything, Chapter Four

Chapter Three

This was worse than she had thought.

If whoever was behind this (and she was rather inclined to agree with Crowley that this was Heaven’s work) could make Aziraphale throw his beloved books away…

She needed to get a closer look though, so she entered.

The gaze that was bestowed on her made her all the more glad that she’d decided against taking Crowley with her. There was nothing of the friendliness or even decency Aziraphale normally showed people he barely even knew; there was no recognition; and perhaps, worst of all, his expression was utterly and completely blank.

“Oh I’m sorry” she said, “I thought this was a bookshop”.

“It used to be” Aziraphale told her shortly with no sign that he recalled ever seeing her before “It’s closed now.”

And he let another few books drop into the box. She managed not to wince.

At least it gave her all the opportunity she needed to study his aura.

What was left of it.

Oh God.

------------------------------------------------

Crowley was impatiently waiting next to the Bentley when she returned, feeling slightly ill. “And? Did you find anything?”

“He’s… it…” she took a deep breath. “I think you should know that he’s closed up shop and is busy throwing away his books…”

She realized it had been the wrong thing to say when the demon hurried past her. “What – Crowley! You can’t! What if he sees you –“

But she could only run after him as he ran towards and right by the shop, turning the corner. Thankfully Aziraphale seemed to be busy inside since he wasn’t visible through the windows.

She found Crowley near the bins, staring at the discarded boxes full of books, making distressed noises.

“These – theses bastards! Look at that! All his first editions – oh my God that page is crooked, he’ll have fits –“

“Crowley” she tried, “We can’t –“

“I know” he sighed, proving that he hadn’t lost every bit of sense, “I know.” He snapped his fingers and the boxes disappeared. “There; they’re safely in storage now.”

“Won’t he notice?”

“Do you think” he challenged her, “He will care?”

A part of her wanted to lie. “I think we should find some place to talk.”

Crowley looked at her then, and just like that she could tell he knew that what she had seen was bad. “There’s a coffee shop nearby… Aziraphale loves it. Follow me.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Once they were seated – and it was just a place that Aziraphale would have enjoyed if he was his usual self, rather than whatever they had turned him into – Anathema took a deep breath. “This may sound strange, but his aura looks… clean.”

“Clean? What does that mean, clean?”

“White. All the edges scrubbed of. It looks like…” she paused and searched for a metaphor. “It looks like… someone reset him to factory settings.”

“Factory settings” Crowley snarled, “So that he’d be an obedient angel?”

“That’s my best guess. Sorry I can’t say more.”

Crowley apparently hadn’t listened, for he suddenly asked, “Do you think he’s still in there?”

And with startling clarity, Anathema realized that if she said no, they’d lose both of them at once. There was no doubt in her mind that Crowley couldn’t and wouldn’t live without Aziraphale. “I think” she said carefully, “That it’s almost impossible to extract so many pieces of someone’s aura and still leave a functioning… person. Therefore, it should only be hidden away.”

“You mean they took everything that didn’t fit Gabriel’s view of a pferct angel and just… made him forget about it?”

“Something like that.”

Despite everything, Crowley seemed to take that as encouragement.

After a few moments of silence, she began, “Maybe that’s the way back to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was an angel with factory settings once, wasn’t he? And he still fell in love with you.”

“He had already given his flaming sword away when we first met” Crowley argued. “He wasn’t… this. He said… He tried to…” he swallows. “I hardly doubt he’d be amenable to me courting him now.”

There was something almost quaint about his use of the word courting, but she didn’t mention it. “Still, though… if the rest of him is somewhere in there, there is a chance you can bring him back.”

“I suppose you don’t know any magic tricks?” he asked, sounding resigned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Someone else is going to be, though” his hands tightened around his cup of coffee “when this is all over.”

A demon, of course. They were supposed to be wrathful.

And yet… remembering Aziuraphale’s empty eyes, Anathema couldn’t find herself sorry for those who had done this to him.

“Alright…” Crowley mused. “So. They took away his memories. They’re making him give up his bookshop. I strongly assume he won’t be eating or sleeping anytime soon, either.” He sounded as if he were in pain. “And they’ll make him do all sorts of miracles and blessings, I suppose.”

“That won’t be that bad, surely?” she ventured forth.

“I wouldn’t put anything past Heaven” Crowley said bitterly. “Say what you want, but when they and hell… let’s just say things happened a year ago, and – I at least was supposed to get a trial in Hell. Heaven was just out to destroy Aziraphale.”

And now they were doing exactly that little by little, Anathema thought. Stripping away the things he liked to do, his memories, his love for Crowley. Turning him into nothing but an obedient soldier doing their bidding.

She’d not mentioned it to the demon because it would only hurt him more, but even the clothes Aziraphale was wearing weren’t his usual style. They were too white, too clean, too pristine. And no ornament in sight.

And if Heaven was indeed as vindictive and out for blood as Crowley claimed, then it was more than likely…

“Whatever you do” she said quietly, “Promise me to be careful. If not for yourself, then for him.”

Crowley looked at her through his sunglasses and nodded. Just once.

She’d have to be content with that.

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“I don’t know why you bother. You should know by now that there is nothing to be done.”

“There is always something to be done” Aziraphale answered before he could stop himself, and hated himself for it. That thing simply had too much of Crowley’s voice and mannerisms for him to ignore it completely.

“Why can’t you just take the easy route for once?”

“Because” he said simply, “It won’t lead me back to him.”

Not-Crowley rolled his eyes. “I am telling you, most likely he’s dead by now.”

As always when he brought up the possibility, Aziraphale’s hands tightened around the book he was holding. “Then” he said quietly, “Seamen else is going to be dead very soon.”

“Yes, you if you’re not careful.”

Aziraphale glanced at him.

Not-Crowley groaned. “Really? Now his existence is the most important thing in the universe?”

“It always has been” Aziraphale admitted. “I just didn’t know it.” And when he had known it, in that burned-down church, he’d pushed the feeling back down, not ready to come to terms with the fact that he loved one of the damned.

“Obsession, that’s what it is. Not love.”

Another point to prove that this wasn’t just Aziraphale talking top himself. He would never doubt the love they shared again, he’d sworn to himself on that bus ride back to Crowley’s place a year ago; and he was not going to break his oath now.

Not-Crowley sighed and sat down next to him. “You don’t even know what they did to you, not exactly.”

“I know it hurt” Aziraphale said quietly.

And something else, too.

He might right now be locked into his own mind, but that was still a good thing. Because it meant –

He could fight and get back to Crowley.

And that was what he would do.

------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t know how much time had passed, either in his mind or out of it. It could be that he’d only been here for a heartbeat, although he doubted it, seeing as he’d needed a few weeks alone to realize something was wrong.

How long had Crowley been out there, alone?

Well, not quite alone – they did have a few friends these days, but what could they do? They were lovely, but human.

Aziraphale sighed and concentrated back on the book on ancient spells he’d had since… oh… the mid-nineteenth century, hadn’t it been? Shortly after he’d told Crowley about his plans to open a bookshop, it had one day appeared in his place.

Despite everything, the memory made him smile.

Now, if only he could find out what sort of spell –

And suddenly he realized something.

He was all split into parts. The parts of him that were apparently a “perfect” angel who didn’t love a demon – or at least the parts that would have returned out like that, if he hadn’t found a friend and soulmate in Eden’s serpent – they were out there, doing God knew what; then there were the parts of him he chose to show to the world, and especially Crowley – those were here, wherever here exactly happened to be; and then was not-Crowley, part of his subconscious and at the same time probably at least slightly ebbing controlled by Heaven.

It was all about parts. Pieces. Elements.

And that meant –

Well, wouldn’t it just be logical if the other angels had chosen to take different parts of spells too, then? At least it would explain why Aziraphale had never heard of this before.

He began to read again, very carefully this time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright” he muttered to himself “And then there’s the Enochian memory spell – “ He wrote it down.

This was bad.

Apparently they had taken ingredients from five different spells and mixed them all together to do this to him.

And to Crowley.

If some time had passed outside – and it was very probable – then Crowley must by now have realized something was wrong with him.

The poor dear would be so worried, and perhaps a little heartbroken, that Aziraphale didn’t recognize him.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he remembered that word again. Please.

Don’t worry my love, I will return to you.

“Fine” Not-Crowley, who had just spontaneously appeared next to him, said. “You know how they did it. Great. A+. Now what? Doesn’t mean you can do anything g. You certainly can’t cast spells yourselves; nothing here is real, you can’t get to the ingredients…”

“Doesn’t matter” Aziraphale answered simply, “I will just have to take control again.”

“You what?”

“I’ll have to take control over my body. It’s mine, after all.”

Not-Crowley shook his head. “You’re delusional.”

“That may be” he replied, “But hope springs eternal, as the humans are so fond of saying.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

“It is rather disappointing that the serpent is not already dealt with” Gabriel said, “But otherwise everything is going according to plan.”

It truly was. They’d made Aziraphale abandon his silly hobbies as well as the old-fashioned and impractical clothes he had been wearing; and ever since they had sent him back to earth he’d been one of their most diligent and trustworthy operatives, never questioning an order, and not wasting a single thought on that demon.

The spell, even if he said so himself, had been one of his more brilliant ideas.

“Yes” Michael said, “But I would like to know how he escaped.”

This was troubling Gabriel a little, too. Aziraphale had had orders, and he was suppose to follow them now. And he did. Apart from the fact that the demon Crowley was still out there. And now he was warned.

But there was another possibility…

After all, they were supposed to love one another, weren’t they? It seemed incredibly that a demon would even consider itself capable of loving anything, but still. It seemed Crowley laboured under the same delusion they had healed Aziraphale from.

And that –

Now that they could use to their advantage.

Chapter Five

#my writings #ineffable husbands #aj crowley #aziraphale #good omens

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queerwelsh · 6 years ago

Text

“Memory” by E. Prosser Rhys

E. Prosser Rhys won the Crown in the National Eisteddfod of Wales, Pontypool, in 1924, with “Atgof.” “Memory” is a translation by Hywel Davies.

MEMORY

THE STORY OF A SENSIBLE LAD

“The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted … …” John Keats. In his second introduction to “Endymion.”

When hot with youth I fled down weary ways The suing voice and its insistencies; I would not listen to its warning lays Of hell encoiled within the heart of bliss. A coward thing, I said, were I to dim My ardent ways and take secure root, When I would yield myself to every whim, And taste delight of the forbidden fruit. But the pursuer followed after still, Nor ever did his divination fail; He witnessed all my torturings of will, He followed and he followed on my trail, Like some God given envoy during strife To ward me from the knowledge that is life. * * * The smell of burning peats! Swift as light, It strides along the highways of my brain, Till I am filled with memories of delight, My own white house and the hedged fields again. Once more the little rooms, the glint of sun On ancient chairs, familiar ways and ease, And they who gave me life, the day being done, Dwelling in love’s divine consolaries. And I remember storms that whipped the door, Whilst I all swinkéd lay before the fire, Till beckoning sleep would show her magic store, And mother’s song waft me to my desire. And I would sleep, my weariness unfurled, Between the two most happy in the world.

Most happy in the world! . . . I lived to see Beyond the unruffled days of laughing youth, Their amorous contentment piteously Entangled, snared, grow pale and die in ruth. For here, and I growing, I saw one Who wept and raged in bitter unavail, And he, the father of her child, undone By whispers that were flame about the vale. The mother’s heart--though heavy be the road That winds between the Church bells and the grave,– It not oppressed by a more heavy load, Than dead desire and beauty that she gave To him whose blood is still unspent and lewd, Bound to her only by cold habitude.

Cold custom! Was it not a fault, allow, To moss her ever in her tiny bower, With passion’s tide so fickle in its flow, And fallacy our universal dower? Is it not vain the vowing unto God, And we blindfolded of our own desire, Rebelling vainly till death’s wink and nod, Rebelling vainly in our children’s fire? And I believed, there in the smell of peat, That love was but the lusting of the flesh, A swift, mysterious gladness it was meet That youth should lie with ere it slipped the mesh,– A wild, shy thing of the woods, no willing thrall To run this way or that at beck and call.

Our love at back and call! Did ever love, of yore, Concern itself with aught but its own needs? So tell me why should men strive evermore To bind her running feet with their small creeds? For her of old was courtesy a cloak; Her bright eyes shone above the tournament; T’was in her name the poets and sages spoke, And for her sake the plans of Kings were shent. Though stronger than the buttressed mountains are, More fickle is she than the playing breeze; Who holds her prisoned now shall find afar His truant fancy sailing the high seas. Stale custom shall not rust my spirit’s knife: To tread the caprice of Love’s dance in life.

To live! What then of him, the priest who saith That love o’ercometh passion and its evil? What of my home that was the home of death? Shall God created bliss be blamed the Devil? I shall take love even as it is, I said, With eyes afire and feet aflame to snare All women to the silver net I spread, And drown my senses in their tresséd hair. Great rock recesses shadowed from the sun Shall be the pantheon of my desire; Let all the birds sing out their praise as one, And all the winds touch now upon the lyre; May the white moon turn to Orion and the Wain, And laugh at twinéd love and its sweet pain. * * * So ran my vow. And eager in pursuit The suing voice came riding down the wind: Think well before you taste forbidden fruit, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. Was it not wedlock that awoke from sleep, Suckled and fed and housed the infant mind? Released from its travailings in the deep Great Nature’s measures to preserve our kind? The pangs of birth are no vain chance of pleasure, The mother’s pain hath its appointed place, For this is Life’s glad offering of treasure Upon Love’s altar to redeem the race. Beware. The altar is too consecrate For love unruled and lust insatiate. * * * The smell of earth! When Spring comes through the rain Out into shining days of clear delight, With deathless memories rustling in her train Of Love’s adventurings, and that dread flight, From out the shadow of fear and of reason, To where Love lies in glowing mightiness. And drinking deep of my own father’s treason I shamed away the whispers of distress. . . . The smell of earth! The smell of that clean sod Where I would soothe my weariness to rest; And now the thorn where was the rose. Dear God, That I should so have stained the white, the blest, Unversed in this: whatso the day has bred, Dreams in my bones, lives in my flesh, till dead.

But my desire was for the subtle wine Distilled in woman’s soul by gift of Jove. I live again the night I walked with mine To prove the perils of adulterous love. Loud were the shouts of labourers at the ploughs; Even and red lay the long furrow rills; Life was a song among the green leaved boughs; Life was a dance about the eternal hills. And joy was one with everything I saw, Joy to my ear all the sounds I head, And happy I--joy without end or flaw, And Life within my grasp, a fluttering bird, Her bright plumed wonder, as it were, tip-toe Upon expectancy, lest I should go.

Lest I should go! The vengeful night had chased Day from the hills; close to a lake we lay; We moved together and we there embraced; She hung her head abashed, but with my play Her sloe back eyes were filled with tender tears; I kissed her with my eager, full ringed mouth, Caressed her gently till she knew no fears, And she was passionate as the sun warmed South. And in upon our tranced selves there came The tide of our desire . . . and we swoon . . . Is there another sweetness like to flame That turns to bitter memories so soon? We go our way. No word of love is said, And loathéd pleasure in my heart lies dead.

Mair, if we were nine and bound in love, Instead of twice that sum of sorrowing years, We would not know these wild desires that move Our tempest souls to ecstasy and to tears. We’d play at keeping house for our delight, Or row prodigious Queens across the ferries; We’d deck ourselves with flowers blue and white, And dine like faery folk upon the berries. If we could have our wish and live again The babbling days of happy innocence, Divest ourselves of knowledge and pain, And walk once more in our magnificence, Treading illusion’s way, our brains untaught In this poor truth of which the world is wrought!

In there be harmony in life, I said, It is to yield to passion’s every gust, But I its pilgrim now am surfeited, I forswear woman, turn away from lust. Woe unto man, great God’s unclean endowing Of wily woman’s soft, persuasive ways; To my intemperate and accursed avowing I sing a glad farwell for all my days. Frustrate is all desire, though we have clothed Its meagre loins with garments fir for Kings. To friendship do I vow myself betrothed, For comradeship is clean. Upon its wings Will I surmount desire. This is our tryst: Friend, I will go with thee wheree’er thou list.

So ran my vow, and eager in pursuit The suing voice came riding down the wind: Think well before you spurn the Master’s fruit, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. The comradeship of men shines out like gold Through all the chronicles of the star crossed earth; I give thee leave to travel with the bold, To grasp their steady hands and prove thy worth. But give not all thy faith to friendship’s rule From surfeiting of woman and desire; Thy glowing body shall not thus grow cool,– Two of one sex may know a hidden fire That may of comradeship make such a rue Shall thy far fleeing steps all time pursue. * * * On Summer eves, the smell of new mown hay Borne faintly on a breath of dying wind, Brings back to me the many twisting way Of our companioning. There comes to mind The busy questing, and my winnowed choice Of friendship that would bless my eyes with truth, And grant respite from that incessant Voice, Nor leave my heart a temple unto ruth: And as I came upon the charméd stream Of Menai silvering from sea to sea, I met my mind’s own image, he, the dream, And greeted him my comrade happily, Sweet from the swathes of new mown hay these rose Incense to bind our lovely friendship close.

Oh golden haired and generous of heart, There is no secret hid away from thee, Of close communings from the world apart, Of dreaming towers raised against the sea. We said the world was evil to the core; We would have earth an earthly paradise,– Reshape its way to beauty evermore, So men might walk the world more kindly-wise. We vowed to trample nature to the dust, Make flesh a casket only for the mind; Though youth is swift to snare his feet with lust, To love’s enchantments were we now not blind? For we could hear, faintly from afar, Some singer singing of a fairer star.

A fairer star! The musing night was deep Between the high-pent hedgerows of the lane; The world lay quiet in a windless sleep; The scent of hay rose freshly after rain. Our hearts were of a sudden filled with ease, In some high Wisdom awfully arrayed . . . From a grey convent shadowed in the trees There rose a chant of praise to Mary Maid. We stopped. And there made chaste our hearts from greed, Anger and lust and strife, till strong within The holy words of that Latinian creed Singing of cloistered continence from sin, We chased down secret arches of the brain The world’s enchanteries and the world’s great pain.

The secret arches of the brain! . . . We kept No vigil on our thoughts, walled in from wrong That grave, fantastic night. And as we slept Our ears were tolling with the holy song, We slept, half drowsily aware, unwilling, Yet glad that each was in the other’s arm. And so desire . . . the flame of our fulfilling And sudden lapse of love’s ecstatic charms . . . And then awake, remembering what had been My brain became a pool of burning wroth: My comradeship and love, alike unclean, For all our sacring and our plighted troth. Wilt thou not leave me now alone, Desire, For I am sick to death of Life entire.

Life, in laughter and in loveliness! But Flesh is like a shadow over all; My richest dreams are dust and emptiness, And striving Soul is bound a slave in thrall. What art thou, Flesh, that shivers to the cold, Melts to the noonday heat, yields blood to steel, That walks, and sleeps, is lorded o’er by gold, That sees, and hears, is swift to know and feel? What art thou, Flesh? Thou art the unsought crown, That fickle chance of bodies trapped in lust; And that same lust, waking or lying down, Is pent again in thy sharp blood. Oh dust! And why, in this poor pot of earthenware Should’st Thou have poured a wine beyond compare? * * * Another way I chose from out the mire, And still the swing voice came down the wind: Think well before you banish all desire, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. I bade the keep within the holy way Of Nature’s law, nor spurn her great design; I bade the not, in Friendship’s hour, bewray Thy hidden passion, no, nor drink that wine. Unheeding, thou hast sinned and surfeited On woman’s love, the comradeship of men; And now, oh fool, in thy fool’s heart hast said That death is in the touch of lips. What then? A love afar, unhoped for … Oh vain word! For life is soul and sense in sweet accord.

The smell of sea-weed! When the noonday sun Is bright upon the levels of the deep, To watch the children windblown to a run Of shrill delight across the sands . . . and weep! The smell of sea-weed! Festal life debates In the swift strains of music from the band, And maidens robed in white, sure Love’s oblates, Laughing at sunset in a green leaved land. The smell of sea-weed! . . . Wandering amazed, My senses dead from my adventurings, One from the throng of white clad maidens gazed With calm and level eyes… My pain took wings Before her slow smile dawning unafraid, I vowed swift hearted I should love the maid.

Her will I love, I said. Though carnal Lust And Love’s sweet self are in one body meshed, There is from God divinity will thrust The twain apart; beyond desire, unfleshed, Our ways shall move to splendour. Love has ended The mind’s submission to its yoked zest. . . . We held no converse, went out way unfriended; Looked not for kisses, knew nor lip nor breast. Walking the sea’s wide marge along the bight, Our glances met,–revealed our deep set bliss A cold, still flame of radiance burning white In eyes were swift to read and swift to kiss. Before our silent love there was unfurled Rich gifts that mute the poets of the world.

Mute is the tongue, for how should tongue make known The eternal saturnalia of the house? Where by the roadside many seeds were sown One spears the sod, makes glad the way with flowers. Her soul had windows where from deeps of blue A child’s white thoughts came peeping in and out; Her walk, her dress, her ways alike were true,– A vestal maiden armouréd about. And grudging Life, who had denied a crumb, With glowing hands poured treasure at the last Bound the wise world’s knowing … I stood dumb, Spell bound in awe, divinely chained, held fast, Wise fools awhile scraping that ancient lay That two and two is foolish children’s play.

Oh that smell of sea-weed holds in trave The hour we stained love risen from the sea. Perchance the bathers tumbled by a wave Troubled the secret waters heaped in me. There came a dream upon the wings of night, And I had pleasure of the mute, sad maid. . . Dawn in the East had set the world alight When I awoke . . . remembered the betrayed. . . God knows how agonised in bitter pain I wrought upon the death of my design; I walked the sun lit sands from hell’s lifted Sign, Away beyond the hills, for I had read Guilt in her eyes of what the night had bred. * * * Deep in a wood I lay, and by me sate Pain for a friend. I cried: How vain Is all my girded armour against fate; Sure Lust has found a flaw, and Love lies slain. Wilt Thou from whom I fled by night and day Speak unto me, for I am stripped of fear? Strange Guide and my sure Prophet, say Where wisdom lies; speak, and I shall hear . . . My head is cradled on a tuft of grass. . . The trees are shadowed from the burning sky. . . Heart of the world that beats, and beats. . . Pass, Little bird, fly on, away. . . A great wind’s sigh… The leaves are listening, tense … no breath, no sound . . . The Voice’s accents sweet, above, around.

You too have bowed your lusty head at last, Though long eluding down the evasive ways; There is no heart so secret, feet so fast, Can find a chamber privy from my gaze. A puny thing is Man! You named me here Your kindly Prophet and your own strange Guide. The suing voice that tracked you through the dread Vain trespassings, Thyself, and none beside! As though the life that teems about the fields– The ribbed oak or failest blade of green, Were to renounce the sap the good root yields Drawn from the earth that bore it, shaped it clean, And so renouncing, fail of leaves and flowers To pine in helplessness through death’s slow hours.

Lush from the roots that probe ancestral earth I am the sap that moves along your veins; Deep in the secret dark you hid my worth– Unblest of me, frustrate, thou hast known pains. I am nor good no evil,–but the taste Of earth, thy earth, is sharp upon my mouth. Perchance an unwise word may slip in haste; Perchance I make my law some out worn truth: But wise or foolish, thou thyself demeaning Both Soul and Body to my unseen end, In me thy Life shall find a richer meaning, A shriller laughter, agonises that rend, And peace in serving, chastened of His rod, Inerrably the purposes of God.

You yielded, yes, but not before long erring, And never sin was sinned but drew its wage. No shelter is there in the world’s wayfaring From retribution on the scoréd page. You will not know the smell of burning peat But memory shall come and clasp you hand; Nor joy of earth, but Spring with shining feet Shall lead you to the lake, and wave her wand. You will not know the scent of fresh cut hay, But Comradeship will come and sit with you; Nor smell the sea-weed drifting, but you pay Your desecrating love with bitter rue. * So must the price of sin be pain with hell, Till Memory’s sting is dulled, and all is well.

#e. prosser rhys #atgof #memory #lgbt history #queer history #lgbt history month #e prosser rhys died on this day in 1945 aged 43 #welsh history #welsh queer history #lgbt poetry #by m

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