#also i have to fine tune the speed those little squares are not supposed to move

[thinkmanythingsofit]

IT LIVES!!

Have a few notes of Leonard Cohen :)

[eirikaanemo]

Can You Keep A Secret?

Warnings: imprisonment, mentions of starvation and sickness

Note: I haven't actually played Dvalin's quest but I tried to keep it as close to canon as possible. Feel free to leave a comment or message me if you see something wrong.

Venti x GN!Reader

1.9k Words

Your soulmate is secretly Barbatos... now what?

Everyone has a soulmate. And everyone is born knowing your soulmate's biggest secret. For most people it’s really unhelpful, but for some people it helps them find their soulmate. You’re in the latter group, because yours gives you a name.

You've known your whole life that your soulmate is secretly Barbatos. It's… interesting, to say the least. Of course you'd never dare to tell anyone. Thankfully, asking someone what their soulmate’s secret is isn’t very common. It’s considered to be very rude, so no one asks you what your secret is. They'd think you're crazy!

Barbatos hasn't been around for centuries and you're a mortal. This is the sort of thing you would read about in trashy romance novels! But even though it’s crazy and kind of overwhelming, you know it's true. You don't know if he'd ever accept you or want to be with you, in fact, you’re pretty sure he won’t, but you want to try.

Once that’s settled, you just have to find him. If he's anywhere, it's probably the city of Mondstadt. That’s where he seems to have shown up the most in the past, after all. So you move to Mondstadt. It’s a nice place and the people are friendly. Finding a job with the Knights of Favonius was fairly easy and it paid pretty well.

Unfortunately, the 'Storm-terror' problem starts shortly after you move. He throws the whole city into chaos the first time, and then proceeds to keep doing it regularly. The fear is all encompassing, but that's fine, you try to convince yourself. It will all be worth it when you find him. ‘If you find him’, your traitorous mind whispers.

It's been months, a year even, and you're starting to lose hope. How were you expecting to find Barbatos anyway? Shout from the rooftops for him to reveal himself and whisk you away? He hasn't been around for a long time and you knew that. And to be honest, at this point you've given up.

Going home is the logical thing to do, it’s where your family is after all. But you stay because you made yourself a home here. You have friends: Jean, Lisa, and Kaeya. You have come to love the city: music, freedom, and camaraderie. Well, you love the city except for the 'Storm-terror' attacks. Those aren't very lovable.

What concerns you the most though is that 'Storm-terror' is a dragon. And dragons trend to be important (like, archon important). But no one seems to remember this one. So you research. You visit the cathedral and speak with some nuns. You dedicate some time to listening to bard’s tales, asking them if they know any songs about dragons. One does, and it's surprisingly informational. You spend time at the library, pouring through book after book. And after all this investigation, you've come to the conclusion that 'Storm-terror' is actually Dvalin of the Four Winds. Not that anyone actually believes you

It didn't stop you from telling people your theory though, and being more respectful in how you refer to him, despite all the damage he's caused. Eventually they do start considering it and the city starts catching on. If you keep doing this, you may be able to change the city's perspective of and reaction to Dvalin.

The abyss mage catches on to this, and he just can't let that happen. It could compromise the whole plan. So one day he has Dvalin abduct you and locks you up. And true to your luck, this happens out of the blue while you’re taking a walk that you’d finally convinced Jean to go on with you. Which, of course, reverses all your progress and makes the situation even worse than it was before. Incidentally, this also does the exact opposite of what you’d been trying to do by stressing out poor Jean more.

The abyss mage doesn’t care about anything other than making sure you’re not able to go back to Mondstadt. The mage does not care about human necessities. Who cares if you die? Not him. He hates humans. It's kind of part of his job description.

Your prison is where Dvalin retreats to when not attacking. And the mage has to go report to someone else sometimes, giving you opportunities to speak with Dvalin. He never responds to you, but you can tell he eventually starts listening. You start by rambling about various subjects; then talking about how you know he's Dvalin, and that you're sorry he was being treated like he was, once you know he is listening. Because while you don’t know the whole situation, you know that he feels hurt by how humans have treated him.

After several days of talking to him, he slowly starts warming up to you. It’s a strange sort of bond that grows stronger as time goes on. He starts responding and the two of you actually have conversations instead of just you talking. Eventually you even mention how you know your soulmate is actually Barbatos and that you've kind of given up finding him.

He gives a thoughtful hum, lets you vent out your feelings, tries to think of an appropriate response, then allows you to drop the subject once you’ve worn yourself out emotionally. It’s becoming obvious that your health, physical, mental, and emotional, is degrading faster as time goes on.

One day Dvalin and the mage both disappear for longer than usual. After the mage makes sure you won’t be able to escape, of course. It’s not like you would’ve been able to leave anyway. At that point you’re not able to do much at all.

Little did you know that only Dvalin would be returning. They ended up facing the traveler and their companions in battle, and Dvalin was freed from the mage’s influence. The first thing Dvalin does is take them to help "the one decent human, that he actually cares about". You're in bad shape at this point, starving, sick, and weak. But you’re aware enough to hear Jean call your name and feel someone gather you in their arms before blacking out.

When you wake up you're at the cathedral and are feeling much better. Certainly you are not fully recovered, that will take weeks. That one bard who was able to play you a song about Dvalin is always there. You vaguely remember him being there when you were found. He doesn’t really interact with you much, he’s just kind of there, but he does play peaceful music that helps you fall asleep when you’re struggling to rest.

Then the day comes for you to go home. They’ve done all they can for you and you’re past the worst of it. But you’re well enough to be out and about. “Now you take care of yourself,” Barbara lectures you. “Don’t push yourself, get plenty of rest, drink lots of water, and eat three square meals a day, got it?”

“Got it,” you confirm. “Thank you for taking care of me, I really appreciate your help.” She smiles, wishes you well, and returns to the cathedral. You take a moment to breathe and just appreciate being back home, free of your prison and the small cathedral room they’d kept you in while treating you.

Taking a deep breathe you start on your way home. “Hey!” You hear someone exclaim behind you. “Could you hold on a second?” Turning around, you see the bard quickly excusing himself from a street performance before running to catch up to you. Once he’s caught up, he gives you a smile.

“Hi! I’m Venti the bard! Would you be willing to speak with me about something? It’s kind of private so we would need to go to windrise or something, but you’ll want to hear this, I promise.” He says. “Alright,” you agree, “but I can’t make it all the way to windrise. Would my home do? I live alone so we’ll have privacy.” He nods, “that’ll work great!”

The walk home is quiet but comfortable. The bard’s content to hum a tune as he follows you through the streets. Soon you’re home, unlocking the door to let you and your guest in. You lead him over to the couch where you both sit down. “So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

“Well, I was talking with Dvalin a day or so after we freed both of you and he said you mentioned you came to Mondstadt searching for your soulmate. And that you said your soulmate’s biggest secret, the one that you know, is that they’re Barbatos,” he explains. You feel a pang of betrayal at Dvalin’s actions and some guilt for sharing your soulmate’s secret in the first place.

It probably showed on your face because he quickly spoke up again. “He didn’t just tell me for no reason though. You see, I am Barbatos. I’m your soulmate.” Your head, which had been drooping with the weight of your emotions suddenly shot up as you fumbled for a response.

Apparently that showed too because he continued, “And I’m sorry I made it so hard for you to find me. I’m sorry I almost made you give up on me. Most of my waking time is spent incognito so I can watch over everyone while not being put in a position of authority. I didn’t anticipate meeting you ”

There’s a moment or two of silence as you gather your thoughts. “It’s okay,” you assure him. “I understand why you did what you did and I’ll never hold it against you. How were you supposed to know I was even born yet, not to mention that I’ve been in the area searching for you.”

You take another moment or two to gather your wits. “I will also understand if you don’t want to do anything about this,” you state. “I don’t want you to feel forced into having a relationship with me if you don’t want to. The last thing I’d want to do is be responsible for making you miserable. And that’s not to mention how you’re an archon and I’m just a mortal.”

Your talking speeds up as you start rambling, losing control of the conversation as you feel more and more nervous. Once you realize you’re rambling you shut your mouth with a click. “Sorry about that,” you mutter. “I do that sometimes when I’m nervous.”

When you chance a glance at him, he honestly looks a little offended but mostly just really sad. “Is- is that really what you think I think about this?” He asks softly. “Because it’s not. I absolutely want this. I absolutely want you. I’ve been looking forward to this moment for millenia and I wouldn’t give this up for the world.”

He reaches over and slowly, hesitantly, so as to give you time to escape if you want, gathers you into his arms. You realize that he’s the one who picked you up to bring you home. Your ear rests against his chest as lean against him, and his heart skips a beat as you gently grab one of his hands and kiss it. “I’m glad,” you breathe. “I’m glad too,” he voices softly.

You yawn, feeling the exhaustion from your journey home and the rest of the day hit you. He pulls you close and whispers in your ear, “Sleep well, my cecilia, I’ll be here when the sun comes up and when you wake up.” You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

[pressedinthepages]

Breeze

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier

Rating: T

Masterlist

a/n: reader request: [Hello! I read that you would like to write something other than x reader from time to time, so I have a (hopefully cute 😳) Geraskier-request for you: Geralt saving money and surprising Jaskier with buying him his own horse. And Jaskier is deeply moved by that action (maybe he's crying) and Geralt just laughs and gives him cuddles/kisses him. 😌] awe dumb softe bois

also thanks to @sometimesiwrite​ for being a wonderful beta :)

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: mild language, ~yearning~, geralt has to use his voice to communicate

Two idiots and a horse get another horse.

    “Geraaaalt. Why aren’t we staying at the inn? I can literally see it from here, the soft bed and the warm bath beckoning to me through the dark. ‘Come to me, Jaskier,’ it’s saying, Geralt. It’s not like we’re strapped for coin, either. The alderman actually paid you pretty well for that bear ghost-”

    “Barghest.”

    “Yes, yes, exactly. But back to my earlier line of inquiry. I ask again, why in the shit are we staying out in the middle of the woods for what feels like the thousandth night in a row?”

    Geralt sighs, staring up at the stars on the clear night. “I’m trying to save my coin.”

    Jaskier scoffs, drawing a raise of the brow from the Witcher. “For what, pray tell?”

    “New armor.”

    “Oh, so the Witcher can get new armor every other week and it’s fine, but when I go and buy a new outfit for a performance, it’s a ‘waste of coin, Jaskier?’”

`    Geralt hums with finality, listening as Jaskier just continues prattling on. There’s no real heat behind it though, and Geralt does feel bad making Jaskier rough it out here with him. But he knows that if he lets the bard wander into town on his own, Geralt will end up having a much larger and more annoying mess to clean up.

    “Jaskier,” Geralt hums, listening as he stops his ranting. “Come get some sleep, I’d like to get down to Blackbough by the new moon.”

    Jaskier huffs in response before he undoes the little buttons down the front of his doublet. He shucks it off of his shoulders and drapes it over a log on the ground, rolling up the sleeves on his chemise up to his elbow. Geralt tries quite desperately not to watch, but his eyes are drawn to every new inch of skin revealed under the low light of the embers. 

    Jaskier’s bedroll flaps loudly as he sets it between Geralt and the fire. He plops down onto it, stretching out and turning to face Geralt. The Witcher peers over at him, admiring quietly the way that the last few sparks of light dance over the high planes of his cheeks. 

    “Ah, Geralt. Another day, put to rest. Sleep well, dear Witcher.” Jaskier turns over with his back to Geralt, scooching back a bit, close enough that Geralt can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Geralt hums, his fingers flexing at his sides, itching to touch, to hold, to gather Jaskier into his arms and never let him go.

    Instead, Geralt only gives a whispered, “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

    ***

    The sky is black when they do finally arrive in Blackbough, bespeckled with stars far and wide. Jaskier leans against a post while Geralt checks over the notice board in the center of town, the bard kicking off one boot and digging his thumb into the tender skin of his sole. 

    “Fuck, Geralt. My feet are exhausted. Don’t get me wrong, I would happily trot along at your side until the end of my days, but I may need to invest in some new boots sooner rather than later if that’s to be the case,” Jaskier groans, sliding his foot back into the soft leather of his boot. Geralt hums as he tears a slip of parchment from the board, watching it flutter between his fingers.

    “Wind’s howling,” Geralt rumbles, tucking the parchment into his pack atop Roach.

    “Yes, dear Witcher,” Jaskier’s hair flaps about his face, “thank you for the weather update.”

    “Why don’t-” Geralt starts, peering over at the bard. “Why don’t you head to the tavern, see if they’ll let you play for a night in a room. I’ll be out scouting this contract, so you should absolutely stay here.”

    Jaskier looks back at the little building, noting the light shining from the windows and the voices still floating in the din of the evening. He nods, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at the lack of argument. “Oh shut it, Geralt,” Jaskier grins, “you know that I would typically be more than happy to traipse through spooky fog and poky underbrush. Alas, I am fucking tired. So, on this one occasion, I will admit that you are right.”

    Geralt gives one of his rare smiles, a cheeky turn of the corner of his lip, and turns to lead Roach out of town. “I’ll come collect you in the morning. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

    Jaskier scoffs half-heartedly, swinging his lute case around as he turns towards the tavern. Geralt listens to be sure that Jaskier is secure in the building before he changes course, heading instead to a large structure situated just on the edge of town. 

    ***

    Geralt stands in Jaskier’s room, surrounded by the dulcet tones of his deafening snoring. He has called out to the bard several times, but nothing has been able to wake him. That is, nothing until Geralt decides to grab a sweet bun from the innkeeper and a cup of steamy tea.

    Jaskier hums when he smells the herbs next to his face, smiling a bit when he sees Geralt brooding in the corner. Jaskier takes a great bite out of the pastry, moaning quite obscenely at the taste. “Have a nice night, Geralt?”

    Geralt hums, gathering Jaskier’s stuff from around the room. By the Gods, he was only here for a few hours. There is a doublet over a chair, trousers on the dresser, one boot by the door and one by the fireplace, and blankets and furs all over the place. 

    “Alright, Bard. Let’s go, I have something to pick up before we leave town.” Geralt chucks the pants to Jaskier. They hit him square in the face before falling into his lap, revealing quite the impressive side-eye.

    Jaskier sighs, sipping his tea as he goes about getting dressed. Geralt watches once more, chuckling to himself as Jaskier tries to ruffle his hair into something that doesn’t quite resemble a harpy’s nest. 

    The two of them head out of the tavern soon after, the morning sun greeting them through the dew. “Geralt, where’s Roach?”

    “Stable.”

    Jaskier responds by strumming a chord on the lute with a look over to Geralt, confirming his permission to play for the time being. Geralt gives a short nod of the head and Jaskier begins, something quiet and slow as the world warms in the dawn.

    The stableboy sees them approaching and ducks inside, leaving Geralt and Jaskier standing alone. Geralt closes his eyes and just listens to the tune that Jaskier hums, relaxing into the sweet tone that drips like rainwater off of a fresh flower. 

    The stableboy comes back out, followed closely by Roach and a second horse. She is palomino blonde and slender with a spring in her step. Jaskier quirks his brow at the latter, stepping confidently towards the stablehand, who most certainly does not get paid enough for this. 

    “Thank you sir, but it’s just Roach for us. Geralt, would you mind-”

    Geralt tosses the kid an extra coin as he takes both sets of reins, passing the palomino to Jaskier. But Jaskier only looks at him, even when he gives the soft leather a good shake in the bard’s direction. Roach butts Geralt on the shoulder, wisely prompting him to use his words. “She’s uh...she’s your horse, Jask.”

    “What? Geralt, I don’t have a horse. Did you get hit on the head or something, you silly Wi-”

    “I bought her, Jaskier. I bought her for you.”

    Jaskier finally shuts up, taking the reins from Geralt’s hand with a tentative grip. The palomino steps closer to Jaskier, snuffling his hair. He giggles, setting something quite tender alight in Geralt’s heart. 

    “Geralt, I-I don’t quite know what to say...I thought you needed new armor?” Jaskier’s voice is quiet as he scritches along the horse’s nose. 

    Geralt shakes his head, fiddling with the straps on Roach’s saddle. “No. Wanted this to be a surprise.”

    Jaskier goes silent, and Geralt can’t quite bring himself to look over at him. But then Jaskier sniffles and Geralt looks up, finding tears on his cheeks and a soft look in his eyes. 

    “You-you got her for me?”

    Geralt nods, struck by a sudden boldness. He moves forward, grabbing the soft fabric of Jaskier’s doublet at his wrist. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. You-” Geralt huffs, grappling for words. “You’re far too important to me.”

    “I-do I need to actively hold onto the reins all of the time, Geralt?”

    “No, why?”

    “Because I would very much like to kiss you right now, and I would love to have both hands free for that.” Geralt’s eyes widen a bit and he nods, his breath catching as Jaskier drops the reins and surges into him. Jaskier’s lips are so much softer than Geralt had ever let himself imagine, and his fingers in Geralt’s hair feel like the closest thing that he will ever get to true paradise. 

    They part, but only far enough to look each other in the eyes. Geralt looks into those eyes, the clearest blue rivers rushing to raging seas. Geralt’s hands rest on Jaskier’s hips, his thumb rubbing little circles into his sides. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead onto Jaskier’s, reveling in the way that Jaskier’s heart speeds up and his breathing tightens a bit in his embrace. 

    “Thank you, Geralt. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” Jaskier whispers, light as a feather between their lips. 

    Geralt hums once more, still holding fast to the bard. “We should be leaving soon.”

    “Can I have another kiss?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt can hear the smirk in his words. 

    “I suppose,” Geralt smiles as he leans back into him. 

[mithrilwren]

Ceremony

Wedding: You touch adult humanoids willing to be bonded together in marriage. For the next 7 days, each target gains a +2 bonus to AC while they are within 30 feet of each other. A creature can benefit from this rite again only if widowed.

Over the course of the Stolen Century, Barry and Lup shamelessly exploit a convenient magical loophole.

(Also on Ao3)

---

49.

Three months into the forty-ninth year, Barry turns to look at Lup. Her face is lit by the cascade of neon flashes from the frogs in the trees above, croaking their many-coloured song, and the air is cold on his tongue, and his hand is in hers as they walk through the night air. She notices him watching. She always does, and her eyes glint in amusement: purple and azure and green and gold.

“What’re you thinking?”

He takes a breath and says, “We’re going to get married, aren’t we?”

He says it not with nervous hesitation, but with the wonder of realization, like a child dazzled at their first snowfall. Lup’s smile is wicked, but the hand around his squeezes gently.

“Well, duh.”

And they do. Not that year, because Lup’s not having a wedding on the planet of radioactive frog slime, and Barry likes the evenness of 50 for an anniversary. It’s a nicer number than 49, at any rate. Some just are.

This world ends quietly. The Hunger comes and the whole crew, safe and sound aboard the Starblaster, watches from the bridge viewport as the neon lights that once sang amidst the blanket of leaves twinkle and then fade. Not even Taako, who’d spend the whole year cursing the frogs for disturbing his sleep, says a word.

None of them has ever seen silence fall before.

They all keep quiet, and still, and then they all fade too.

50.

The fiftieth year is spent planning. Lup tells Taako about their plan, and then Taako teases her about it in front of Magnus, who can’t contain his excitement long enough for damage control and suddenly the whole crew knows that this is the year they’re finally making it official, and they are pumped. Everyone is eager to sink into any strategizing endeavour that doesn’t involve thousands of lives, and preventing the destruction thereof.

Davenport and Magnus set to work chasing the light of creation on this new world, this fiftieth home – a vast oceania, with towns dotting the edges of the many archipelagos that make up the landmass of the planet. They find it easily enough in the rocky shoals of one of the smaller islands, before the locals can get too attached to the new meteorite in their bay. With that problem squared away, everyone’s attention is back on the wedding, and the first ever IPRE Party Planning Committee is brought to order.

Taako’s got the food on lock, because of course he does, but he also helps Lup pick a dress from one of the open-aired markets in town: a breezy lilac slip with golden threads that catch the highlights in her hair.

Lucretia gets all their paperwork in order in case they want to file properly when they get back to their own world or… well, in any case, it’s good to have a record. She’s also unofficially in charge of streamers, because nobody but her and Magnus are sufficiently inoculated towards slimy ocean creatures to spend their evenings weaving strands of shimmery seaweed into party decorations.

Davenport cozies up enough to the local mayor to score some fine liquor for toasts. He sneaks a few bottles extra into his quarters, for safekeeping.

Magnus works so hard. He spends every spare minute practicing his carving, getting ready for the main event. At first, he fills Fisher’s tank with progressively more detailed ducks – an attempt to sooth the loneliness of the now-orphaned child, as much as any other purpose. But soon he hides away in a little cave by the coast, only returning to the ship to retrieve more boughs from those he collected from the forests of the previous planet. He refuses to let anyone see what he’s making until it’s absolutely finished.

Merle… frets.

“I mean, you could just ask Davenport. I figure, since he’s the captain and all... Isn’t he, you know, vested with the powers that be?”

“We could,” Lup nods. “Or we could ask you. Like we just did.”

Merle rubs at the back of his neck, using every inch of height disparity to avoid looking at Lup and Barry’s eyes. “I’m not- are you really sure you want me doing this? Me?”

“Why not you?” Barry asks, genuinely curious.

“I know I’m like, a cleric...”

“Debatable!” chimes Taako from the other side of the wall, and Merle grits his teeth just a little harder.

“Not helping, dear brother mine!” Lup calls cheerfully, and shoots a subtle charm behind her back that stands the hair on Barry’s arm on end. Moments later, there’s a thud and a slew of curses, and Lup smiles. “You were saying?”

“I’ve honestly,” Merle lowers his voice in case Taako is still in earshot. “I’ve never done one of these before. It’s the type of thing they train you for when you’re fully initiated and I never got that far. There’s special words that you’re supposed to use to complete the bonding, and a spell, and I just… I don’t want to screw this up, ok?”

“Merle,” says Lup, bending at the waist till she’s on eye level with Merle’s flushed face. “There is nothing, nothing, that you could do on my wedding day that would make me happier than to completely fuck it up. Where’s the story in perfection? Where’s the pizzazz. Say the wrong words, blow something up! I live for uncertainty.”

“Please don’t actually blow anything up if you can help it, though-” Barry interjects.

“But if you do, I’ll be behind you, 100%. As I push you between me and any sparks that get too close to the bomb-ass dress Taako and I picked out.”

“Oh yes, I feel much better now,” Merle grumbles, but he also stops arguing, which means they’ve got the priest, which is really, the last thing they needed.

Lup and Barry get up one morning – a full two months before the Hunger’s arrival – and suddenly, it’s the day. Taako forces eggs and coffee down their throats, prescribing four hundred calories apiece before they’re allowed to get dressed. Merle picks wildflowers and lays them out in matching corsages on the breakfast table before rushing off to resume his muttered practicing. Davenport and Lucretia take them each aside and help them into their outfits, and Barry has never felt more nervous in his life than as he slips on the lightweight suit. Blue, to match the sea, and because he lives to meet expectations.

And then everyone else is outside, and they’re standing hand in hand, waiting to walk down from the open door of the ship, and Barry turns to look at Lup. “We’re getting married,” he manages to get out through his rapidly closing throat.

“Sure are, champ,” she says quietly.

It’s funny. He’d always figured he’d be the first one to cry.

Everyone’s waiting when they finally step through the door. Two thick streamers of seaweed form an aisle from the gangway to where Merle stands beneath Magnus’s project: a giant archway of hewn branches, twisting eagerly in an arc towards the sky. Whatever rough patches and nicks remain in the wood are covered by intertwining flowers, perfectly matched to the garlands around their wrists. On either side of the aisle, their friends sit cross-legged in the white sand: Taako and Davenport on one side, and Lucretia and Magnus on the other. Cradled in Magnus’s lap is Fisher, who hums cheerfully at the sunlight and the joy of living, probably.

They all end up sitting in the sand, even Merle, and it feels less like a ceremony than a congregation of friends sharing a lazy afternoon, and Barry wouldn’t have it any other way. Merle stumbles his way through his lines, but he manages all right in the end, or at least Barry assumes he does. He’s too busy staring at Lup to listen, committing every second of this perfect day to memory: her loose curls twisting in the breeze, her smudged mascara, her bare feet half-buried under the sand.

When he tunes back in, it’s to the last words of Merle’s benediction, and his chest swells with warmth and love and- that’s a little too much warmth, actually, and judging by the alarmed look on Lup’s face, she’s feeling the same strange glow in her chest.

“Well, shit,” Merle breathes. “It actually worked.” Before Barry can ask, he’s patting them both gleefully on the shoulder. “By the power invested in me, apparently, you’re now husband and wife! And also, you get a bonus week of Pan’s blessing – so now’s a good time to get into a boss fight I guess, if you’re itching for one.”

Barry doesn’t hear that last part too clearly. He’s too busy being shoved into the sand by his wife oh my god oh my god and kissed senseless.

Merle wasn’t lying about the blessing either. When they’re together, there’s this warmth of surety, like anyone or anything who tried to separate them would need a miracle to succeed. Magnus accidentally hucks a rock in Lup’s direction and it glances off her shoulder like a rubber ball. Barry stubs his toe on the edge of a reef and barely feels the sting. The warmth is strongest when they’re pressed against each other, every inch of them connected, and so they stay like that for three wonderful, magical days – never out of arm’s reach.

They go swimming, just the two of them, on the fourth day. Barry’s never been so pleased that Taako taught him as he is now. They’re just twirling together, treading water out past the dropoff, and the sky is growing dark when Lup says they might to head in, it’s getting chilly, darling, and then the hail starts to fall.

At first, there are only little pieces that ping in the water all around them, nipping at their bare shoulders like blackflies as they start to swim back. Then a great chunk of ice slams into the spot Barry’s outstretched hand was reaching towards. All around them a pounding rhythm picks up pace, and Lup starts muttering shit, shit as they double their speed. Through bleary, salt-drenched eyes Barry thinks he sees the shadow of a figure standing on the shore with arms outstretched, but he can’t hear what they’re calling over the wind and the waves and the relentless pounding in his ears. All he can hear is Lup and her desperate muttering as she tries to form a sigil in the air with the hand he isn’t desperately grasping, dragging along. With a cry, she sends a blast of force cascading out in a sphere around them, and for a moment, the roar of the sea and the storm disappear and it’s just the two of them in silence, clinging to each other-

And then red blooms behind Barry’s eyes and he’s sinking and with every foot he slips the water grows colder, or maybe it’s him that’s gone cold, without her. Or-

Or-

He wakes to find Lup already wrapped around him on the Starblaster deck, and the supernatural warmth of Pan’s blessing is gone but she’s safe and he’s alive and the press of her arms is enough for him any day.

She murmurs hoarsely, words meant only for his ears, and he can tell she’s crying even without seeing her face. “These last months, Barry… god, I missed you so much, you can’t even know-” He squeezes her shoulders and she sighs, before lifting her head and declaring to the room of equally tearful onlookers,

“This man had the nerve to fucking leave me in the middle of our honeymoon? That’s it, Barry Bluejeans.” Her smile is wet and determined and beautiful.

“I demand a do-over.”

51.

For Lup, the announcement is mostly a joke, but then everyone is… kind of on board and she… kind of very much wants them to be.

She got her perfect fairytale wedding once, and she doesn’t want – doesn’t need – to replace that, but to lose her husband three days after getting him? She’s imagined some pretty bleak futures in her time, and even the worst of them didn’t tip the scale to quite that depressing. They may have all eternity to cycle. Might as well try for the perfect fairytale honeymoon too.

The second wedding is a more rushed affair. The new planet comes with warring factions and a power struggle and the Light lost somewhere in the fray of muddy battlegrounds, and it takes all of their combined efforts to retrieve the thing before one despot or another can get their hands on it. By the time they do, they’ve got less than a month till the Hunger comes, and most of the crew are footsore and weary from the last push. In fact, Lup’s pretty sure it’s not going to happen at all. She doesn’t bring it up – no use adding one more mission to the pile – but it pulls at parts of her that she’d thought she buried, the memories of lonesome nights spent wondering if there was any happiness in the world that couldn’t be taken away.  

Against all expectations, the one who brings it up is Merle.

He comes and knocks at their door and she answers, and waits patiently for him to stop shuffling his feet. Which is to say, she patiently says, “Spit it the fuck out, Merle.”

“Well, uh, what day were you wantin’ the wedding to be? Now that we’ve got this whole situation under wraps, I thought you’d-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the thought with his head smothered in Lup’s shirt as she pulls him into a tight hug.

The roles are different now, but maybe they all are too. The years go by quicker, and they all seem a little older with each cycle, though their bodies stay the same. Lup likes to think the change is for the better.

Davenport finds a copse of trees somehow spared the ravages of war and they set down there, working to clear the area as quickly as possible. He coordinates decorations, not refugees, and his shoulders untense for the first time in six months.

Magnus apologizes for leaving the arch behind on the last world. The apology is for Barry’s benefit, not Lup’s, because Barry doesn’t need to know that no matter how hard Magnus had worked on it, and how much she wanted to spare his feelings, Lup couldn’t bear the sight of that arch after the night of the storm. She’s not sure what he did with his creation after she told him, but she never saw it again. Maybe it’s lying at the bottom of the same ocean that Barry- nope. That’s not a thought that needs to happen.

Taako hangs fairy lights from the eaves with his wand, and they all settle in on the newly-swept ground. The world around them couldn’t be more different than a seaside paradise, but they’re all still a congregation of friends. Merle is more comfortable this time around, even injecting a couple jokes into the stuffy liturgy, and though the overwhelming exhilaration of the first wedding is dampened, there’s an ease to the affair that’s new and welcome.  

Merle places his hands on their shoulders again and says, “By the power invested in me, blah blah, you know the drill-” He startles backwards, grey eyebrows flying up into his hairline as a familiar warmth settles back into Lup’s chest. She cocks her head.

“What’s up?”

He blinks. “It’s just… the spell. The blessing from Pan. It’s a one-time-per-couple deal. You’re not supposed to be able to place it twice on the same people, not unless…”

“Go on,” she says, as he greens, suddenly cagey.

“Well, there’s a clause in the case of… if someone is widowed. Then they can get it again. Usually that means with another person though-”

“I think our whole existence is an affront to the natural order. Let’s not sweat the technicalities.” And she pulls Barry in for a kiss, because he’s her husband, and because she can.

They barely leave their room for the next week. Lup won’t admit to being afraid of the moment shattering again, and Barry is similarly reticent, and so they talk about everything else in the world except death. Barry learns a bit more about Lup and Taako’s childhood, and he tells her about the cat he rescued from a garbage can near his university, and they read, and make love, and sleep, and wake up to find the other still there. The rest of the crew give their cabin a wide berth.

It’s not quite a fairytale, but it’s nice. And that’s more than good enough.

On the evening of the seventh day, Lup is lazily drawing patterns on a sleeping Barry’s shoulder when she feels the warmth in her chest begin to ebb. She digs her nails in and shakes, heart beating too fast all at once because no, this can’t be happening, it can’t, not again, until Barry flips over with a yawn and she regains control of her lungs.

“What’s up?” he asks, and then his eyes widen, hand going to his own chest. “Guess that’s that.”

“End of the honeymoon,” she says faintly. Her chest is cold, like swallowed seawater.

“Time to rejoin the world of the living?”

“…Nah,” she says, and burrows her head back into his shoulder. His heart thuds against her ear with a gentle pulse, and she slows her breathing to match its rhythm.

They stay like that, curled into each other, until the silence is replaced by the roar of engines and Davenport’s voice through the intercom. Liftoff. Everyone to their stations. Lup closes her eyes and pulls Barry back down when he tries to get up.

She’s never been good at following orders.

58.

“Do you honestly think I would abuse Pan’s divine favour for something this trivial?” Barry, Lup, the entire cosmos sideeyes Merle. “… Yeah, fair enough. Fine,” he sighs, resigned. “Where do you want me?”

It was actually Barry’s idea. The scientist within him was burning away at the question, and true to form, Lup was just as eager to test out the constraints of any new and interesting magic.

“We can do it right here, if you want,” Barry says, gesturing down at the galley table they’re all seated at. Well, that he and Merle at seated at – technically, Lup is seated on. From the other side of the room, Lucretia pricks her ears up, obviously interested in what they’re doing, but keeping her nose firmly buried in her book.

“What, no garlands and twinkles this time around?” Merle says.

“I’ve had two beautiful wedding days already. I’m ok with this one being quick and dirty,” Lup explains.

Merle rubs his hands together, mouth twitching nervously beneath his beard. “Well, alright then. I guess we’re doing this… now?”

“Not getting any younger,” Lup says, which is both so completely true and completely untrue that Barry’s head spins too much to make a joke out of it. “Hey, Luce! Got a sec?”

Lucretia pads quietly from the other side of the room, her book still propped open in the crook of her arm. “What’s going on?”

“Getting married again, darling,” Lup says sweetly, and tugs her down till she’s seated in the chair next to Barry. “Want to be our witness?”

She looks confused a moment, but then slowly nods. “Sure. I’d be honoured.”

“Great!” Lup reaches down from her perch and ruffles her hair, which only drags a small frown to Lucretia’s face. “Let’s do this!”

Merle skips straight to the good stuff this time around, getting the blessing out in practically one breath, and Barry readies himself to feel the warmth in his chest, and-

Nothing.

“Huh,” all three of them say at once.

“Maybe Pan’s taking a nap,” Merle says. “Want me to try again?” Lucretia flips a page in her book, settling in for the long haul.

They do try again, more slowly this time, and Merle repeats every work of the liturgy, and Barry and Lup say their entire vows, and again, nothing.

“Sorry. Guess I lost my juju.”

“No, this actually tells us something interesting,” Barry reassures him. “I’d be wondering what happened to us at the end of our cycles, whether we just die and get remade, or if we blink out of reality and reappear. If we actually died, I’d assume the blessing would be nullified. Since it’s not, we can rule out death as what’s happening at the end of each year.”

“That’s only sort-of comforting, babe,” Lup says, patting his arm.

“I’m hoping neither of you are planning on dying again, just so you can reap my holy tax benefits.”

“Never,” Lup promises, and Barry thinks it’s another joke, until he turns and looks at Lup’s face. Her mouth is set in a grim line. The hand on his shoulder tightens, then tightens again. “Not if I can help it.”

59.

“Barry. Darling. Love of my life.”

“What?” he says, as Lup pulls him into her arms, back on the deck of the Starblaster once more. This time there are no tears, but she looks a little more faded than he’s ever seen her.

“Please tell me you didn’t take that crossbow bolt for science.”

He puts a hand over his chest, where only a moment before there had been a bleeding hole.

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even answer. He just holds her close.

78.

They fucked up.

They fucked up, oh fuck oh f-

Lup tears her eyes away from Magnus’s limp body, sprawled across the obsidian floor mere feet from the Light, his torn shirt cast in hazy red from the streams of magma that cascade from the ceiling. Another rock breaks free and crashes to the floor, and Lup can’t see Taako anymore, she can’t see him she-

“Lup!” Barry’s hand catches her and drags her back as a spire falls onto the place she was standing, shattering into jagged shrapnel that bites at her calves and thighs. “We have to go!”

“Taako’s still-”

“Taako’s gone, Lup!”

And he is. She saw him take that fateful misstep. She saw where he fell.

Nobody, not even her, could survive that much fire.

Then run maybe ten paces before another rock crashes down in front of them and they have to pivot back towards where they came. She can’t see anyone anymore, not Davenport or Lucretia or Merle and why did they all come, why did they get this careless? Yes, the stones were heavy to move but someone should have stayed behind-

Another rock tumbles from the ceiling and smashes into Lup’s arm. She’s flung forward, nearly wrenched from Barry’s grip by the impact, half-sobbing from frustration. They can see the exit from here… but they aren’t going to make it. It’s just too far.

None of them are going to make it.

Oh, fuck.

They have to try. They have to. Even if everyone else is dead, they have to-

A hand, smaller than Barry’s, grabs her shirt by the tails and yanks her back towards the wall. She feels Barry moving in the same direction and they both slam into the stone at once, coming face to face with Merle’s sweat-stained face.

“What-” but he’s already chanting, eyes closed, muttering words too gentle for the horrific sounds of death and destruction as the room collapses around them, and when he finishes Lup’s chest warms, and warms, and she does sob now, because it feels good. It feels like hope, when there was none.

“Bring us home,” Merle says, and shoves the two of them towards the blackened cavern entrance. “Go!”

Lup tries to grab his hand but he shoves her away, and she and Barry take off running, bounding around projectiles with catlike grace as they move in sync, like they share the same body. She only looks back when their feet pass the threshold, and she sees Merle still standing there against the wall, watching them with a sad, relieved smile.

Another rock loosens. She hears the crack as it breaks away, but Lup turns before she can see where it lands.

82.

The night before the ritual, Merle takes the two of them aside.

“So,” he says. “You’re really going through with it.”

“Yeah, Merle,” says Lup. “We really are.”

He smiles, something tight and curling and frightened. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” Lup smiles back. “Didn’t think so, but I had to ask.” He takes out his book, and both Barry and Lup frown in confusion as he flips it open to a familiar page. “One last time, for old time’s sake?”

They look at each other. “Why?” asks Barry. “Once we’re liches, I’m sure the spell will dissipate. I doubt it transfers between metaphysical bodies.”

Merle snorts out through his nose, then turns his head away, rubbing one heel of his hand against his cheek, just above the tufts of his white beard. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.” His voice goes husky near the middle, but he refinds its center before he turns back to them. “But this is what I can do, so if there’s even a chance that’ll it’ll help…”

“Then we’ll take it,” Lup says, grabbing Merle’s hand before he can close the book. “Shit. Thank you.”

“Thanks for what? I haven’t done nothing yet.”

“For everything.” She swallows. “For everything. And if this doesn’t work-”

“Lup-“ Barry warns.

“If this doesn’t work,” Lup continues. “I just need you to know that. Alright? You did everything you could.”

“What are you talking about?” Merle laughs. “Of course it’s going to work. I’ve done it five times now. Have a little more faith.” He looks at Lup, and she looks at him, and their shared gaze is warm, and understanding. “So don’t you worry, I’m going to take good care of both of you. That’s my job.”

“Thanks, Merle,” Barry says, echoing loops words, and Merle’s wobbling tone.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this.” He takes both their hands and places them on top of the book. “By the powers vested in me…”

Merle’s words fade out as Barry looks at Lup. Her brilliant eyes meet his, and even as the warmth swells, the look they share is one of farewell.

No matter what happens tomorrow, this’ll be the last time they share this.

But no matter what happens, they’re going to be together.

Come hell or high water, he’s never going to leave her alone again.

~&$(No DATE given@(*#

It’s cold up here, in the sky.

Barry wraps his jacket around Lup’s shoulders, and she leans in under his arm, swinging her legs to keep warm, or just to keep moving. Her bare feet flicker as the lights below pass by – a sparkling metropolis by the sea, and they can see it all from their perch on the last metal outcropping of the base: Neverwinter, in all its evening glory. After everything, impossibly, safe and sound.

Lup slides a little farther, sticking her big toe out as far as she can reach it, and suddenly the entire foot becomes buoyant, like it weighs nothing at all. Lup giggles at the sudden loss of gravity, and Barry redoubles his grip on the fluttering pages in his lap.

It figures, that Lucretia would have still had these. If there’s one thing she takes seriously, it’s her paperwork.

“What do’ya think?” Lup says. “If I spit, do you think it would hit someone, or would it just burn up in the atmosphere?” Before he gets a chance to answer, she hocks a loogie and lets it fly. They both watch the orb of spit vanish into the frosty air.

“It’s more likely that it’ll find its way back around the moon and land on someone up here.”

“Even better.” Lup grins, and Barry pulls her in all the tighter.

He’s missed this.

He’s missed so much, and this most of all.

“This feels silly,” he admits, shuffling through the papers. “I don’t even know why Lucretia wanted them in the first place. It’s not like we even officially exist anymore. Nobody’s going to come checking to see if our personnel records are up to date.”

“Yeah, but what Luce wants, Luce gets,” and there’s a bite to the words that wasn’t there before, and the air gets a little colder, and he shivers for the both of them.

Even with so many things mended, there are some they can’t undo.

Still, Lup’s voice softens as she takes the first page and holds it up to the light of the second moon, the real moon. “You sure you don’t want one last ceremony? Just for old times’ sake?”

He chuckles, imagining Merle’s face if they asked. “I’m good. All I want is you, at my side, forever and always.”

“That’s some corny shit, Bluejeans.” He shrugs, and she tucks her feet back up under her. “But you know I love it.” She puts the page back down onto the pile and pulls a pen out from behind her ear, then passes it to Barry. “So, what do you say? Will you make me an honest woman, officially?”

In every lifetime, in every moment, past and present, his answer has never changed.

“Yes. I will.”

He takes the pen and scribbles his name down on the dotted line, then passes the pen back. Lup adds her own signature to the other, and they both sit back, staring at the blocky letters of script at the top of the page.

Certificate of Marriage

No ceremony, no warmth, no mystical connection. They set the papers aside and kiss under the lights from above and below, and it’s only them, and that’s plenty. That’s all they need to be.

Forever and always, connected.

[forgadgetsandgizmos]

Rolling Down This Road

Written for Day 2 of Malex Week 2020 | Prompt: Trope Day

Summary: Michael gets a handcuffed-shaped excuse to cuddle with Alex (who just wants him to take this seriously, dammit).

Read on AO3

“There’s a motel a few miles from here that pays by the hour, no questions. You can sleep the powder off until you can break these” —Alex jostled his left hand where it lay on the center consul, rattling the handcuffs binding it Michael’s right— “then we’ll ditch my jeep, steal a car, and drive somewhere we can buy a burner and call everyone to come pick us up.”

Michael scoffed at the vague plan, not taking his eyes off the road.

“It’ll work,” Alex snapped next to him. “Everything will be fine.”

“Not for the poor sap whose car you’d have me steal.”

“I don’t see you coming up with an alternative, do I? If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” Alex hissed indignantly.

Michael let out a abrupt laugh at Alex’s childish retort, despite knowing the meaning behind it. Knowing that Alex handled his anger with sarcasm. An Alex making quips and clenching his handcuffed fist so tight it was pulling the metal around Michael’s was a terrified one.

“If you keep sayin’ stuff like that, I’ll start to think we’re staring in our own comedy action film,” Michael remarked. The irony, though; an alien and a human, handcuffed together, speeding away in their getaway car (well, jeep, but same difference) as they made their daring escape from the shadowy government agency hunting them.

“I think this would classify as sci-fi, actually,” Alex said wearily.

Michael risked a quick glanced at Alex’s face just in time to see his lips twitch and suppressed his answering retort. Couldn’t argue with that. He pressed down harder on the gas, eager to etch out every last mile per hour this hunk of metal had to offer, not bothering to hide his grin.

Thankfully, they hit the outskirts of the motel before running out of gas and were able to walk the last couple miles, albeit after a somewhat awkward experience having to climb out of the same side of the car due to the handcuffs. Michael had worried over abandoning the car, but they’d taken anything even slightly valuable, including Alex’s emergency hundred-dollar bill stashed in the glovebox. Michael found himself thankful that Alex could afford to keep a hundred bucks stashed away, though Alex’s repeated assurances (This situation is exactly what the money is meant to be used, Michael) didn’t make him feel any better about Alex paying for him.

Michael had also worried over the jeep being tracked, but according to Alex, he watched too many actions movies and real life wasn’t like that. Their goal was to get back to Roswell, where they could rest and recruit backup. No such thing as going off the grid when the person hunting you was, at least in Alex’s case, your own flesh and blood and knew exactly where you lived and worked.

Plus, an upside of his race being a massive government conspiracy? He couldn’t be arrested for it in public.

“You still got the jacket?” Alex asked him when the flickering, rundown sign of the motel was in sight. “We should probably start using it now.”

Michael nodded and grabbed it off his shoulder, bunging it up and switching it to wrap around their clasped hands so that it covered the glistening metal binding them. That had been Alex’s idea too; better to be awkwardly holding hands and a jacket, risking a few judgmental looks, than to have anyone question why they were stuck in handcuffs. It was a relief to cover the metal (it had started to burn his skin a mile back) but the weight of the jacket made their hands, already slick from sweat under the burning desert sun, a furnace. Judging by Alex’s grimace, he felt the same. With him holding onto his metal crutch he’d brought but couldn’t use because of the handcuffs, he probably felt worse.

“I’ll talk when we get up to the counter since I’ve got the money,” Alex said to him.

“No problem,” he answered, relieved. Michael was exhausted, and a midday hike under the prime heat of the desert sun wasn’t exactly mixing well with the effects of the yellow powder he’d practically suffocated on back in the warehouse. If it wasn’t for Alex’s support, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to stand steadily enough that he wouldn’t raise alarm.

Content to let Alex take the lead, he tuned out Alex’s exchange with the desk worker, not bothering to pay attention again until he felt the heavenly burst of air conditioning from room Alex was ushering him in. He paused a couple steps in the doorway to let Alex close and lock the door behind them.

Michael glanced around the room, unimpressed. Faded yellow wallpaper riddled with cracks coated the walls, matched by plain gray, frayed carpet and a puke-green comforter on the bed. “Nice digs,” he remarked, eyeing a particularly suspicious yellow stain where a rubber barrier separated the carpet from the white, square tile of the bathroom.

Alex didn’t respond, but a gentle tug on his wrist pulled Michael onto the bed, the springs moaning under their combined weight. The only bed, Michael noticed. He raised an eyebrow at Alex, who scowled and lifted their hands, placing the chain in front of Michael’s face.

“It’s not like we could’ve used a second one,” Alex said, letting their hands drop between them. “And a one-bed room was cheaper. The cash that was in my jeep is all the cash we got. A hundred bucks only goes so far. We still need to buy a burner phone and food, too.”

Michael snorted. “You’re the boss.”

“Why don’t you try to take a nap?” Alex suggested suddenly. “Hopefully when you wake up, you’ll be able to get us out of these.”

Michael looked down at the bed and then up at Alex. Neither of them had turned on any lights when they came in and the curtains were still closed, but the thin fabric did little to block out the sun’s rays, making for a adequately lit room. Still, it was a room with a bed and a door with a lock, so he supposed he couldn’t be too picky.

But Alex— “What about your leg?” Michael asked, forehead lined with concern. His leg had to be hurting; he’d been limping after climbing three flights of stairs back in the warehouse, and that was before finding the ambush that had been waiting for them. Not to mention the mile trek through the desert.

Alex winced at the reminder. “I’ll be fine.”

“You need to take off the prosthetic and let your leg rest,” Michael insisted, pulling up the cuff of Alex’s jeans.

Alex brushed Michael’s hand away before he could move it up any further. “And if someone barges in that door and I’m stuck on this bed with one leg, we die.”

Michael was shaking his head before Alex could finish. “If someone comes in that door and I have my powers back, it doesn’t matter if you have your prosthetic on or not. If I don’t, well," —Michael tugged his wrist, hard, and Alex fell forward in Michael’s arms with a grunt— “we aren’t doing much fighting like this.”

Alex just closed his eyes and fell back against the headboard, seemingly resigned to Michael’s point.

“So,” Michael continued, “you may as well take that off so when I can get these handcuffs off, you can actually walk out of here.”

Alex still didn’t speak but took off his shoes and plopped them on the floor off the side of the bed. Michael took that as confirmation as followed suite before reaching over to help Alex pull his pants leg up enough to remove his prosthetic. When Alex finally pulled it off and laid it carefully on the floor next to his shoes, it was with a grimace and a stifled grunt, trying to hide the pain that Michael could see etched on his face. Alex had never had much luck hiding his feelings from Michael before and this wasn’t any different.

Michael used his hands (well, hand, since one was functionally useless) to massage over the swollen skin under the slip, pressing deep to knead the skin when he found a knot and letting his fingers trace lightly over everywhere else. He ignored Alex’s sudden curse when he found a particularly large knot, pressing down harder.

“Fucking hell, Michael,” Alex grumbled.

“Would you rather be sore tomorrow? You know how you get,” Michael reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Alex let Michael massage his leg for a few more minutes before cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “Okay, sleep now,” he insisted. “I’m fine. You need to get yourself back to full strength.”

Michael reluctantly pulled his hands away. Knowing Alex was right didn’t make it any easier to sleep, especially knowing how much pain he was in. He laid down on top of the comforter, unwilling to actually get underneath it, and rested his head on one of the flat pillows stacked against the headboard. He closed his eyes, not that it did much to block out the light and tried to get comfortable.

He spent a few minutes trying not to move, but he could feel every place where the old springs dug into his back and the comforter scratched his skin where his skirt had pulled up in the back. It didn’t help that his right hand was stuck laying limply by his side where it was still being pulled by Alex, who had yet to lay down from where he sat on the edge of the bed.

A sudden, sharp pinch on his rest was the last straw and his eyes flew open with a frustrated growl. “Alex, lay down,” he said, looking at the man.

Alex blinked a few times as if shaking off a haze, then looked at him confused.

Michael let out an exasperated sigh. “How am I expected to sleep when I can feel you over there practically radiating anxiety? And you’re pulling on my wrist,” he added as an afterthought. “Lay down with me. There’s no reason for you to need to be awake.”

“Someone needs to keep watch; I can wake you up if anyone tries to come in.”

“You said abandoning your jeep on the road wouldn’t matter because they couldn’t do anything in public.” Michael threw his free arm out wide in display. “This is pubic. No one’s getting through those doors without alerting everyone else here, including the desk worker. We’re fifty miles from Roswell, at least, no one would think to look here anyways.”

Alex shot him a distinctly annoyed look that Michael ignored in favor of grabbing his shoulder with the intention of pulling him down on the bed beside him. Alex didn’t fight him and let himself be pulled until they laid on the bed, curled in towards each other in mirrored positions.

“Isn’t that better?” Michael asked.

“It’s stressful,” Alex answered, though his tone lacked any bite.

Michael rolled his eyes and straightened out until his back was against the bed again. Alex fidgeted beside him, switching between his place on his side, his back, and trying to roll around the other way before having to stop when the handcuffs help him back.

“What’s wrong?”

Alex mumbled something Michael couldn’t make out.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Laying on the side hurts my leg,” Alex repeated louder, tinged with annoyance.

Understanding and a twinge of embarrassment at not realizing the issue filled Michael. “Okay, lay on your back,” he directed after thinking for a second.

Alex obliged, lying flat against the bed the same way Michael had earlier. Michael scooched closer to Alex until he could loop his leg in between Alex’s thighs, then centered his right hip with Alex’s waist. He bent his leg back away from Alex, using the gap where Alex’s prosthetic usually is, and laid their bound hands on Alex’s shoulder.

“Better?” he asked once he’d rested his head in the crock of Alex’s neck. He didn’t want to move (Alex made for a significantly better pillow than any of the actual pillows) and sent a prayer that Alex didn’t want to either.

He felt Alex’s breathless chuckle rise against his chest before the man buried his head deeper into Michael’s hair with a content sigh.

“I can’t believe you,” he muttered fondly.

Feeling Alex’s cheek pressed into his curls and his thumb slowly brushing over his hand, skin cool against his own, Michael let the exhaustion carry him away.

[mirandagoing4baroque]

Field of Streams: Ariodante, in Concert, While Making Lasagna

The English Concert was supposed to perform Rodelinda in concert at Carnegie Hall on May 3rd 2020. Obviously they did not. In some ways I am lucky--if the Met hadn’t done Agrippina I might have made plans come to New York to see Rodelinda instead. It wouldn’t be unprecedented. In fact, in 2014, I finally got to call in an IOU over a decade old. As I mentioned on this blog, when I was in kindergarten and first heard Alcina, I managed to get my father to promise to take me to see Alcina live whenever it came to the east coast. And more than twenty years later we finally got to see the English Concert perform it in concert in Carnegie Hall. In the intervening years there was a debate about whether Toronto counted as the east coast, but my father insisted that he had only meant the east coast of the United States. And when the English Concert brought Ariodante on tour in 2017 they were kind enough to take the show to the Kennedy Center which was considerably more convenient.

As a replacement for the aforementioned cancelled Rodelinda concert, they streamed a recording of the Ariodante in Concert recorded at and live streamed from Carnegie Hall in 2017. As I mentioned above, I was lucky enough to see this concert at the Kennedy Center when it was touring, and I also watched the stream at the time, and then I rewatched it when it was streamed again this past weekend (twice, I regret nothing). So I am, shall we say, intimately familiar with this production.

Opera in concert is an interesting phenomena. I’ve seen three operas in concert (Alcina, Ariodante, Zelmira) and a few others that were only ‘semi-staged’ (Don Giovanni 2x, Radamisto, Giulio Cesare at Boston Baroque). Well, Miranda, you say, “the monkey paw has curled, and you got what you wished for in the Acis and Galatea review, an opera stripped of any ‘razzle dazzle’ or distractions. So, can the emotional drama stand alone?” On this subject I cannot speak for anyone other than myself but I believe it can and it does. I am sure that there are those for whom the grand sets and costumes are an integral part of the experience, and that is a legitimate position to take, but not one to which I ascribe.

However, especially in these times, watching operas in concert (stay tuned for my review of the Boston Baroque Agrippina stream) makes me think about what the bare essentials of opera are. The sets and costumes are fun, sure, and all other things being equal, I would rather have sets and costumes and the full spectacle. And they can cover a multitude of sins. It is far more difficult to create an entertaining production when it is just the orchestra, the singers, and an empty stage. But this production is, to me, as moving as some fully staged productions I’ve seen. So what is the immutable core of these operas? What is it that I am searching for when I am “Going for Baroque?”

The value I find in opera is as an emotional touchstone. This is not a novel concept, and I am not the first, or even the thousandth to think it. Why it is Baroque Opera for me and Jazz or R&B for you, I cannot say,* but when I hear this music performed well my heart (or my soul, or my grey matter, or whatever the thing is that is that feels the feels) stirs in response. So what I am looking for when I am going to an opera is not a spectacle. I am looking for a conflict that put the characters through a variety of feelings, music that is performed with care in a baroque style, and singers and musicians who will sing or play with pathos, so I can have the transcendental experience of sharing an emotional response with a room of strangers, and most importantly, with my father. We have been watching many of the same streams, and sharing our thoughts over the telephone but it’s not the same as sitting next to him in a hushed auditorium and seeing, out of the corner of my eye, a small small creep across his face as the horns come in because he knows they are my favorite. I am counting down the days until we can share this again.

But enough philosophizing. Let’s review the stream. So we know the standard, how did this production measure up? Well, I watched it four times, so that’s a hint. In fact as to music performed in the Baroque style, this performance could be considered a gold standard (of course along with the Glyndebourne Giulio Cesare). I am such a sucker for period instruments. To my ear the difference between Baroque Opera performed with and without period instruments is the difference between your average red wine vinegar, and an expensive aged balsamic. The red wine vinegar is fine, but the aged balsamic has a far more interesting, layered, intense flavor. This is especially true with respect to brass, where the natural horn is basically a completely different instrument from the french horn. The English Concert has never once disappointed me. Harry Bicket is always a master of the correct tempo, but in this concert, the flowing dance rhythms that undergird the arias really shone.

So next up we have a drama that puts the characters through a variety of feelings. If you need a refresher on the plot of Ariodante, I covered it earlier here (and if you’re too lazy to click the link, think the Hero/Claudius plot from Much Ado About Nothing), but there is no debating that it certainly takes the characters on a roller coaster of emotional situations. The stellar cast dug deeply into the libretto and squeezed every drop of feeling from Handel’s brilliant arias. Ariodante was composed when Handel was at the peak of his operatic abilities and it contains some of his most sublime music. 

Mirroring the tasteful stylings of the orchestra the cast had subtle but effective ornamentations in the da capo sections that elevated the theme but did not obscure it (no mean feat in such arias as “Dopo Notte”).  The King of Scotland was played by Matthew Brook, who I do not believe I had seen before and nor have I seen him since. I really enjoyed his performance and he was an especially capable actor. He leaned into the paternal aspects of the role, and I found his emotional arc quite moving. David Portillo was a wonderful Lurcanio, and I still hope to see him again in something (hint, hint, DC directors). I particularly enjoyed his “Tu Vivi.”  In this aria Lurcanio tries to dissuade his brother Ariodante from choosing suicide after seeing a woman they believe (incorrectly) to be Ginevra let a man into her rooms. It is often sung in a rage, which allows for blistering speed and impressive displays of vocal prowess, but in David Portillo’s interpretation, it was a desperate plea to save his brother's life. By toning the aria down a notch, he accessed some very interesting interpersonal and emotional drama that added novel layers to a familiar aria.

This was my first time hearing Sonia Prina live, but I had fallen in love with her voice on many Baroque recordings. She has a wonderful vibrancy and fluidity  in her lower register, which is particularly critical for women playing Polinesso, in my opinion. Sometimes they can sound a little stilted in the low runs, but she had full power and flexibility. I also appreciated her aesthetic. The punk rock bad guy Polinesso she portrayed was believable as a love interest for Dalinda, and as a villain. It is not her fault that Polinesso’s arias are all a little one note (think Iago’s extensive monologues in Othello).

I absolutely adored Mary Bevan’s Dalinda. I hadn’t heard her prior to this concert, and I eagerly await my next opportunity (still waiting......). She was believable as a young woman who fell in love with the wrong manipulative man and made a mistake. I loved her portrayal of the rising horror throughout the second half as she realized what was going on. I always love "Neghittosi, or voi che fate?", the aria where she calls on the heavens to strike down the man who wronged her, but I found her interpretation to be a particularly affecting vision of female empowerment and rejecting the notion that she was culpable, and laying the blame squarely at the feet of Polinesso, where it belongs.

This was also my introduction to Christiane Karg, who was a vocal standout as Ginevra. I would have liked a little more emotion from her, but, as I’ve acknowledged above, I like my Handel drama cranked to eleven, so that may just be personal preference. Regardless of the acting, her singing was note-perfect and I have no real complaints.

Which brings us at last to Joyce DiDonato. Her performance in this production is one of my most treasured concert memories, and the kind of magic you are just grateful to bear witness to. Any performance of “Scherza Infida” is a miracle of acting and vocal stamina. As I said in my last review of Ariodante, the song is 12 minutes long, and contains four lines of distinct lyrics. To hold the audience’s attention with no prancing dancers in nude bodysuits, with only your voice and the music--that is a gift. But you can google reviews of this production and read critics who know far more about this than I do raving about her “Scherza Infida” and her “Dopo Notte.” I want to talk about the redheaded stepchild of Ariodante’s third act arias “"Cieca notte." This is the moment when Ariodante learns that he was fooled--that he was betrayed by his beloved, that in fact he has betrayed her. (Apparently I have a thing for arias in which Handelian heros realize they have been fooled, see also, “Mi Lusinga” from Alcina) To watch her sing this aria, and to see the distinct waves of realization rolling across Ariodante’s soul as the aria progresses is to watch a master at work. I will at some point write up my magnum opus on how, when properly performed, da capo arias should replicate the structure of the Hegelian Dialectic, but that is a problem for another day.

So there it is, how you can strip away all but the absolute essential bits from an opera and still have a dynamic, dramatic, engrossing evening (even when you’ve seen the thing three times already). Because for me, I got what I needed out of it. I felt that resonance in my soul. I found a little comfort in these times. It’s no replacement for live opera, but it soothed a bit my parched throat. Okay, I lied, I do have a few things to say about “Dopo Notte.” Ever since I watched this stream, I’ve been listening to “Dopo Notte,” the bravura aria Ariodante sings at the end of the show, rejoicing in his reunion with Genevra, almost every day, because it is the tonic I need during these times (you can listen here if you think it might be the tonic your soul needs too). It is a promise I make to myself; permission to let myself hope. A promise that the sun will shine again, that these dark and stormy waters will not drag us under, and that someday I will sit next to my father in a dark opera house, and we will once again share in the experience of Handel’s glorious music.

“After a dark night, the sun shines in the heavens and fills the world with joy...”

*It was definitely the brainwashing. 

[dirtyfilthy]

I  guess Janis Joplin is very free indeed.

“It is the absolute freedom of every working locomotive to gaze longingly out of it’s own windowpanes, and then -- having caught it’s thoughts on some particularly picturesque piece of scenery or another -- to daydream of that distant mountain range all day long -- and imagine what it would be like to climb up to the peak of it,  to stand on the very tipmost top of that mountain and look out over the clouds. This forlorn place -- I mean the summit, being extremely mountainous and also very rugged and almost entirely made out of snow & rocks & vast sheer cliffs with vertical drops into hundred of meters of nothing, this is most certainly no fit place for a plain ordinary train such as myself. Sadly,  it is also very likely that no rails will ever run there,  because honestly there is no good reason for them to do so, and yet, even then, knowing all of this as I obviously do, somehow this very same train finds it can’t stop itself from wishing...”

Gordon has begun to trail off, looking wistful.  Thomas The Tank Engine began to wonder if this story had any dragons in it, or perhaps some flirtatious passenger carriages (although Thomas often found them to be altogether Very Silly), or maybe it was even a story with an Instructive Moral ending. The Fat Controller was always telling Thomas about Instructive Morals, normally after something very bad had happened. This, reflected Thomas, was entirely the wrong way round. It would be far more helpful to learn the important lesson before the fatal disaster had occurred, rather than afterwards, when it was usually too late to be of any real use.

“Does this story have an Instructive Moral?” asked Thomas, feeling very clever.

“Only one lad”, replied Gordon very gruffly; “that it’s sometimes kinder to strangle Hope in its’ crib, when it is still a baby, rather than slowly battering it death one day at a time over a period of many years”. And with that, he huffed off to the Depot, looking very cross indeed.

It really doesn’t matter if you are the White bishop or the Black bishop, there are simply some squares on the chessboard you will never get to visit. They say we are each free to pursue happiness in our own way, in whatever form that may mean to us personally, and in the idiosyncratic manner best suited to our own inclinations.

Every form of freedom I can think of that is worth actually having either costs a lot of money or has already been made illegal.

Am I free to walk off into the forest and build a log cabin? I mean sure, if I first purchase the land, then get the planning permission & employ a licensed contractor to build it to the safety specification etc etc

Can I take a group of friends and occupy some abandoned industrial factory, then try and turn it into a.rich green garden of over-growing plants and tangled, blooming relationships and perhaps even (in the right season) farm a crop of meaning out of it? 

I think you know the answer to that. You’re free to buy the standard package.

Is there no place left on earth we can still wander & get a little lost in, where if you go they won’t try to follow you? 

The only frontiers that remain exist purely in the realm of the symbolic. The little private fiefdoms we can carve out for ourselves because surveillance is (not yet) all pervasive and enforcement of the law remains an economic game of how best to assign entirely limited resources to practically unlimited crimes. 

Shit man. I think our only chance is to slip like pick pockets into whatever obscure through-fares of ideology that may yet remain unnamed. Look: If the only soil they are going to give us -- the soil we are supposed to farm enough meaning from to supply the entire rest of our lives -- if this “soil” is really just the dead black dust of recycled asphalt & finely ground up plastic 

-- then I think we simply have no other choice but to build a whole new psycho-geography of hope, right there on the top of it.

I leave true revolution to the prayers of the idealists. My only real wish is for there to be enough cracks left in the concrete that something truly wild might get to grow unnoticed. 

I’m old enough to know that confronting power directly is often extremely foolish, and that better results may usually be obtained by simply routing around authority. To be a smuggler of dreams requires nimble feet and a faster speed boat than your opponent, still, it is generally better not to dress too flashy. While staying anonymous, no particular indignity is likely to occur to you beyond the usual laundry list, but if the Eye Of Sauron ever becomes focused in your direction then may god help you because the authorities can easily bring down such  immense force to bear so incredibly quickly, they will  come to your home carrying a huge lever & then not hesitate to use your little life as a fulcrum, merely for causing them some minor irritation.  

This is why finding those phantasmal frontier towns is so important. It’s less about the initial gold rush than it is finding a place for you to finally  stretch your legs. Time to remember what walking normally feels like, before society stuffed it’s hand up so far up your ass you felt more often like a puppet than you did a person.  These new conceptual spaces (the internet, crypto, the CHAZ etc) that continually open up every now and again are normally beyond the rule of law (at least initially, for one brightly shining moment in time, a moment almost always entirely too brief  --  I do find that the sweet songs with a little too much truth in the tune have an unfortunate tendency to end up -- not as chart hits -- but as choked throats or as conveniently cut break-lines. If the coroner actually had any left of his own, he’d have to write “sincerity” as the real cause of death in such cases. The typical verdict, “suicide by song”, isn’t exactly fooling anyone.). 

Looks like you got there just in time! Here before they fenced the prairie. The fresh country air (ah! nothing compares to the old-timey smell of a working industrial coal generator) is alive with the phosphorescent glow of freshly hatched possibility vectors, zipping wildly about, moving around this way and that, and giving off the occasional “pop!” of a dot product whenever they randomly collide together. 

On a night like tonight, on a day like today, you begin to feel like a man might really make something of himself here, perhaps even cast off that rotten old albatross of his past. Maybe he could invent a brand new man (a far better one) to replace the tired old shell that originally stumbled his way down the road and into this town. Besides, I reckon that tired old man has got far too many barnacles of regret & remorse growing on the hull of his soul to do any real sailing these days, not now anyways. Time to scuttle the ship and go claim the insurance.

So, possibly maybe perhaps, at this time, at this place, you might just have found that right sized slice of peace you need to actually live with yourself for a bit

That is: until the great meat grinder of government finally gets wind there is a good thing going. Then, when enough of the bureaucratic cogs have joylessly rotated into their designated satanic alignments, something eldritch will start to rumble deep within the grim bowels of the machine.  A bell tolls. It is time. Somewhere in the pits of hell, within an anonymous, windowless office, orders are issued. They will now send in the police. Each officer is proudly armed with the latest in “non-lethal” crowd control technology, a shiny new police issue woodchipper, polished to a mirror finish. They are here to clean up the streets, remove all the riff-raff  and generally make the place reputable for ordinary decent law-abiding citizens who speak with the right accent and don’t look suspiciously “foreign”.

Of course,  the new sheriff will have to hang a few skellywags and neer-do-wells to really get his point across. There’s a new law in town! Examples must be made, standards must be set, and any deviance, degeneracy or drunken shenanigans of any sort must be quickly and severely punished ( for the sake of clarity,  “shenanigans” also includes decadence and/or diabolism). There are no ifs, buts, or caveats; a new curfew is now in place: from sunup to sundown, “if you think you might, don’t”; additionally, there is absolutely no tom-foolery to be had without a permit (permits are NEVER issued), and any vagrants (exact definition of this term is left to the Sheriff’s discretion) found without a leash or collar in a public park will be first taken to the city Pound and, if unclaimed at the end of seven days, humanely euthanised. Tickets to perform humane euthanisations are available at a cost of forty dollars and strictly provided on a “first-come, first-served” basis. 

Looks like it’s time to move on. 

ˇ

[ankulometes]

The Pelerin, Part 3: Maldwyn

The town of Lemesos sits just behind the crumbling port like a tide mark; a jumble of rock that appears to have been deposited on the shore by a particularly violent storm midway between two ancient predecessors long since destroyed. Its warren of festering streets burrow through the rubble in a collusion of narrow passageways that pullulate with life from every corner of the known world.

It is a city moulded entirely from hard-baked stone. Mortared by the tiny pebbles of single room dwellings packed tight with the sprawling families of hawkers and fishermen, as if boxed for imminent sale and shipment. Coursing with the expansive rocks of wealthy Iddewic moneylenders and Christian merchants, their opulent chambers and shady water gardens secreted from the noisome street by hewn shield walls and towers.

The buildings all gather around the mighty boulders of the castle and temple church that frown down upon the sea and from whose precinct the city’s impregnable walls unfurl in a protective embrace that ends with the clenched fists of two indomitable bastions on the harbour. They are accustomed to visitors arriving with hostile intent and have perfected the art of drawing themselves into a huddle and baring their hard behinds to the ocean. They will endure any punishment you might try to inflict.

It would be unfair to call Lemesos unbeautiful. It possesses a certain terrible grandeur that is distinctively Bysantine. But it is certainly not pretty. For refinement and elegance, one must go to the capital of Lydiria that sits at the very centre of the island where the cyns, episcars, and mawrmeistrs secure themselves in luxury. In Lemesos we find people of business: moneylenders, merchants, sailors, and whores. Some of them are no less wealthy than their supposed social superiors in the capital. Lemesos is where Cuprys gets its hands dirty. It is a well-guarded backdoor. The hind quarters.

It is Monday the 1th of Iun. In ancient Albion, this point in the year was occupied by a 7 day solstice festival known as Litha. Nowadays, the central date of that festival, on the eve of the 3th and the day of the 4th, is dedicated to Sant Ioan the Baptist. Pasha has long since been and gone, for both the eastern and western communion. The Iddewic community has celebrated Pesach. A fine, fresh Mediterranean spring filled with the scent of pine and honey has transformed into a drowsy heat of chirruping crickets. Yet the Etesians are still skipping in from the west to keep conditions relatively cool and well-watered for the time of year.

It is early morning and wonderfully sunny and fresh as I make my way through the town. The fishermen have been out since before dawn. Their tiny dinghies now swarm the coast along the beach beyond the town like a bob of seals. I sidestep into a doorway to avoid a scurry of porters whose rickety carts and threadbare baskets are overladen with fish. At intervals, one of these still thrashing creatures attempts to effect an escape and is set upon by the lurking packs of dogs, cats, rats, gulls, and vagrants that survive on this meal. If they can avoid the attempts by the cart owner to reclaim their fallen quarry as it thrashes in the dust and filth that fills the street. It is a tiny war of survival for them all, played out in an endless series of daily battles. Just one of many.

At this time of year, the harbour throngs with ships of all kinds that arrive every day. Some are ornate Fenisan galeas, painted in crimson and gold, with three latin-rigged masts and a crew of oarsmen 200 strong. Many others are one or two-masted navas from the kingdoms around the Balearic, Ligwarian, and Tyrrhenian seas. They travel in flotillas, their round hulls bobbing and rolling on the waves like walnut shells. Capacious Sarasan dgalbut or diminutive dhows regularly drift serenely into port laden with spices and gold amidst an escort of agile liberna. Even with sails furled amongst such a cosmopolitan gathering, the ships I seek stand out. Despite having been a regular sight in these parts for a cantury now, they remain unmistakably alien. They are Alban gwylliar, or brigantone as they are sometimes referred to in these parts.

At almost 100 feet from bow to stern and around 20 in the beam, they are as long and sleek as the largest Fenisian galea. With three steepling masts, they tower over every other ship in the harbour despite being less tall in the body than many. A superfluity of rope streams from each like a maypole to support the uniquely Alban configuration of latin, square, and gaff sails that are crafted to extract momentum in any direction from even the slightest breeze. Despite the apparent complexity, it can be operated by a crew as small as 10, although expertise typically restricted to Brytish sailors is required.

It is a form of rigging that would tear those other ships apart in the open sea or cause them to capsize even in light winds. However, these boats are constructed on heavy frames of seasoned Alban oak, their aquadynamic hulls are formed from a double skin of flush-fitted, steam-formed planks, and their keels are weighted with lead for stability. God forbid should anything get through that, their integrity below the waterline is secured through four watertight bulkheads that divide the cargo hold into five distinct zones. A gwylliar would have to be compromised in at least three separate places before it was assured of going down. Built for the treacherous seas that surround their homelands, they are stronger and faster than any other vessel in the west.

They are also versatile. A typical example can carry around 100 tuns of cargo which, whilst well short of many large vessels that are more dedicated to the job, represents a good load in this world at this time. Their speed, agility, and ability to sail close to the wind more than compensate for any lack in capacity. There is little point carrying 300 tuns or more if it is going to be a sitting duck for pirates without an expensive military escort.

A small deck house embedded into the middle of the craft just forward of the main mast contains a galley that makes it possible for the ship to undertake longer journeys without stopping for resupply at potentially hostile ports. Fore and aft of this are openings that lead down into the cavernous hold in the belly of the vessel.

There are no fore and stern castles for defence as these are felt to disrupt the balance and stability of the ship. However, beneath the deck aft of the mizzen and ahead of the foremast where the dynamic lines of the hull sweep upward to prow and stern, are concealed two low decks almost tall enough for a man to stand. These serve as crew quarters and castles as needed. They also possess gunwale ports for a number of oarsmen should the ship ever become becalmed or require additional manoeuvrability. They are cramped and uncomfortable. Most crews prefer to sleep and fight on deck, especially in the Mediterranean.

Inevitably, gwylliar are expensive and difficult to acquire and run. Each costs more than most earn in a lifetime and the skills required to build them exist only in the shipyards at Carador where they have been passed from father to son for over a cantury. Successive generations have refined the design in increments to realise the magnificent vessels that now travel to the farthest reaches of the known world.

Like many of his predecessors, Cyn Iorweth keeps those shipwrights busy by maintaining a standing fleet of 100 gwylliar and ultimately he decides who may or may not make use of their services. The Marsioras have been permitted half that number to fulfil a charge from the pope to protect Christian shipping against the pirates of the Bherber coast. The man I wish to meet numbers amongst the very few to own such vessels in any quantity. He received the cyn’s grace because his expansive clan — or famwli as they are more often known in Brytan these days — own and operate both the shipyards of Carador and the trade route from Tyrodanar to Cuprys that supplies the Marsioras amongst many others. He has at least 20 gwylliar. No one is sure of the exact number for he is reticent when it comes to the subject of his wealth. Certainly, he has had 10 of them sitting in port for some months now, impatient to leave after overwintering in Lemesos. You can neither miss nor mistake them.

They are all freshly glossed in the Olani colours of Alban red with silver detailing and tarred black from the laden waterline down. The sails are made from a finely woven mixture of linen and brenlain infused with oils and wax. They are strong, light, waterproof, and luxuriantly dyed-in-the-wool to the same distinctive rich red hue. Even furled, one can clearly detect the sinuously branching arms of their distinctive heraldic charge — an argent apple tree, eradicated and fructed vert — which has been sewn into the fabric using huge quantities of silver thread.

There are not enough berths in the busy and compact port at Lemesos for so many great ships to moor at once so the flotilla is lashed together at midships, creating a pontoon that sprawls across the harbour. There is a constant to and fro of people running over the planks between them, loading goods and provisions to a rumbling tune of creaking wood, clanking chains, fluttering fabric, and hollered instructions in any and every language and dialect.

Moored immediately adjacent yet separately with its own berth is the flagship which stands out for its profusion of ornate carving and intricate paintwork. The prow culminates in the figurehead of a silver wolf’s head with fearsome gaping jaws. Printed in large, clear Alban script on the stern in silver lettering is the name of the ship: “Bleithredivy”.

It is not intended to be read by the mainly illiterate sailors and port authorities who encounter the vessel. For many at this time, in Albion especially, the written word possesses a kind of magic. Much like the carved figures and patterns with which it is adorned, these forms inscribe a spell or blessing that protects any who sail in it.

For those who can read, it also represents an erudite play upon the name of its owner that emphasises the qualities for which his vessel is admired. In Brytish, “Bleithredivy” means “running wolf” and the name “Bleithri” means “wolf ruler”. But personal names have long since become conventional and detached from such direct meaning. To appreciate the play, one must have received at least a basic education in the history and language of ancient times in Albion. It is a form of learning that has come to be seen in recent sinades as an essential part of schooling amongst the nobility throughout the Brytish Isles.

Upon the ship stands a great burly, barrel-chested Bryton with a thundering baritone that storms over the decks of the fleet. His thick black matted hair and bushy beard are tied with pieces of frayed twine into a shock of spikes that give him the appearance of a hedgehog that has neglected the barber for too long. Even from a rod distant, I could detect the pungent reek of stale brine and old smoked fish that filled the air around him.

Bestriding the prow, he impatiently commands his cowed underlings who, despite looking well capable of handling themselves, never hesitate to say “ei, emyromwr”.

He is Maldwyn, lord of the sea. Naked aside from a pair of loose canvas breeches. His scarred and salt-lashed leathery hide is incised with terrifying tattoos that cover his thick arms, chest, and back. On precious chains around his neck hang an Alban cross, carved ivory figurines of saints, and various pieces of some poor dead mammal or other. He wears a heavy gold ring on every finger, a collection of jewel-encrusted bangles about his wrists, and a winding gold torc in the form of a serpent around his right bicep. A long, sheathed dagger with a carved wooden handle is slung about his waist. In the middle of a square face, beneath a heavy brow, sits a wide flat boxer’s nose which looks as though it has seen the hard end of a mallet more than once. Of his two ears, about three quarters have survived slicing and burning. Observing my tentative approach, he glances my way, glaring with piercing grey-blue eyes, and distractedly demands to know my business.

“I am seeking passage west,” I inform him.

“Isn’t everyone? Not on any of my ships,” he growled. “Wherever you came from — Satan’s farty arsehole, by the looks — you can fych right back there. I’ve had quite enough of your kind this season.”

“But I must get to Carador …”

“That far, eh? A piece of rank kelp like you?” he scoffed. “You’d be dead before you even felt the Levant ring your bells.”

I felt a degree of relief that, despite the outward appearance, he seemed to be finding both my person and proposition an amusement. So I persisted. “... and then on to Gwyrhyd. I must meet with emyr Bleithri. I have a message for him. And a gift. Something of great value. Something he will want to receive. Undamaged,” I stuttered.

At the name of Bleithri ap Ioan Olani, Maldwyn stopped what he was doing and studied me carefully from head to toe through narrowed eyes. “A gift, eh? For mi emyr no less,” he pondered the matter. “What is this gift? I must know if it is to come aboard any vessel of mine,” he demanded.

I handed him the book. Maldwyn regarded it sceptically, turning it over in his massive blistered hands before briefly flicking through the thick, leatherbound pages. As he did so, a gap-toothed grin of black and gold teeth emerged from his beard like a monster from the depths as he laughed to himself with rueful recognition. “Can you fight?”

I shrugged a sheepish denial.

“Hmmm, well. I guess if the Bherber try anything we can always throw you at them,” he roared with laughter. “You must seek out Meistr Tomas, the emyr’s agent in these parts, and inform him of our arrangement. His house is on the market. Doubtless he will want to write it in his ledger and charge you for the honour,” Maldwyn snorted with derision. Thrusting the book back into my arms, he turned to his crew. “We have a berth, lads. Honoured guest of the emyr. So wrap him in spice and none of you sodomites are to touch him. Not before he’s dead, leastways!” he bellowed. “Bring your own fychin scran, ei?” he said, turning his attention back to me with a heavy jab of his finger in my chest. I nodded my eager assent and thanks but Maldwyn had already stomped off to attend to a port handler who was evidently about to feel his wrath. “We put to sea at the sound of the ship’s bell so you better run when you hear it because we won’t be hanging about! We leave Ioan’s Eve at the latest even if we have to swim!” he hollers after me, still holding the handler in one hand by the neck like a dead fish, as I scamper away.