#trystan is endlessly entertaining to me. he's somehow one of my oldest OC's and has remained a complete dumbass for the duration

[muddshadow]

find the word tag (again again)

featuring a delicious batch of words from @tc-doherty​ and @awritingcaitlin​ , thank you!! cooking these words with love for @calicojackofficial​ , @the-void-writes​ , @isherwoodj​ , @splashinkling​, @the-finch-address​ , and anyone else who would like a slice!!! OUT , THOUGHT , SMALL , DEEP , LOOK .

all excerpts from trystan

BED //

I stare at the ceiling beams. It takes several moments to rally the courage. Eventually, I lift my hand.

My left palm is wrapped twice over in gauze and bandages. It’s barely sore now, but the memory of decaying bones, disintegrating flesh, and evaporating wards hasn’t quite rinsed from mind. I try to feel something about it; rage, hate, my old friend fear. Anything that sparks and burns.

All I manage is dry, hollow defeat. My arm drops to the bed.

BREATH //

Sebastien furiously twists back and forth to no effect. Percy thrusts a knee and hurls him off. Losing momentum, I constrict my arm. He gags, groans, and then with the full-force of his seven-foot ursine strength, Percy smashes me against the wall.

The foundations shudder. Two of Sebastien’s picture frames drop from their nails. I lose all the breath in my body and most of the thoughts in my brain, but not my iron-handed grip. Not until he smashes me the second time.

As I crumple to the floor, the television is laughing again.

BAG //

The minivan rumbles under a red stoplight. Outside, the sky is indigo and orange and nearly dark. I wriggle on the door lock and firmly ignore Sebastien hovering the corner of my vision. I think he expects me to say something.

“Well?” he says. “Do you need some dream syrup?”

“Don’t really want your mini-van alchemy killing the rest of my brain cells.”

Sebastien returns his gaze to the road when the light turns green, but I still feel him edging closer to something serious. My bag of liquor clinks and jingles between my feet and it’s the only thing I want to be serious about.

BEFORE //

When she pulls the knife from the depths of her jacket, I start to laugh. But it isn’t any gas station butterfly or kitchen set cleaver – it’s mean looking, thin like a stiletto, serrated edge, wicked sharp soot-grey steel. And my laugh catches. It’s a relic from the Veil.

I’ve never seen one before. I can feel it seeing me in return. The knife looks at me like considering prey.  

Dread swells my voice as I can’t look away from it. “You actually found one.”

“I’m sorry,” Magdalena says, and she might really mean it. “We’ve made some mistakes of course, and I’ve tried helping you in all ways I could, but you’ve only ever been belligerent to the world…”

“Uh huh,” I say. I flee for the back door.

MOON //

Magdalena seizes my neck with a harpy’s grip. It only almost hurts, but surprises me enough to choke on an inhale.

She hisses low, “My dear, do you know what phase of the moon it is?”

As if I needed the reminder. Not from her, not from Seb, and not from anyone. Every shadow in the moon haunts the bones of my thoughts, every shift in the balance of magic whispers at the drums of my ears. It’s a beat I don’t have to memorize, don’t have to gaze at the night sky to know. The moon pulls me like it pulls the tides.

But Magdalena’s talons still clutch my neck, so I muster a reply. “Trying to cut magic from my life these days, Mags. Never did me any good.”

MESSAGE //

On my way out the door, I take Sebastien’s suggestion, despite the futility. Cherry only picks up her phone after five o’clock when she finally crawls out of bed, which is late even for my one-to-two in the afternoon taste, and she never answers if she suspects I might need something inconvenient. She’s got a sixth sense for knowing.

Unsurprisingly, the call goes to voicemail. I accidentally leave an eight-second message swearing at the apartment lock. It smells like weed and cat piss on my way down the stairs – and then cold, rainy-day mist as I hit the second floor.

I don’t stop. “Don’t have the time, Dee.”

SILVER //

“Am I missing something?” Sebastien demands. “Have you two been talking?”

“Not talking, maybe just talked, real briefly—”

“Trystan, you fucking clown—”

“Boys, that’s enough,” Magdalena says. Even standing near the door, she’s the center of the room. “You know I’m particular about time.”

Sebastien replies with more hospitable phrases, I want to talk down whatever’s climbing up, but confusion locks my tongue as I stare at her. Something is changed. Not just the outfit, not just the setting. A silver haze lingers behind her movements. Smoke whispers from her lips. I wonder if she died sometime after lunch and the Veil hasn’t sunk in yet. I wonder if I’m imagining it.

Magdalena’s eyes embrace me, and my bones fill with fog.

BRIDGE // tw: suicide mention

Sebastien snorts. I reign my ranting. Swallow that shred of resentment. “Veil is sorta fond of me,” I say, plateau. I lift my bandaged hand. “And this is a beacon.”

“Oh,” Cherry says, and pauses for a beat. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. So, let’s discuss the best ways to off myself.”

“Trystan,” Sebastien says wearily.

“It’s better than monsters eating me, Seb.”

“We could drive you up to the Golden Gate Bridge,” Cherry suggests. “That’s pretty theatrical.”

“Chelsea.”