#again..could be wrong!!!! only the whims of fate shall tell…

[succs]

[estians]

Est cries and no one ever seems to have the right words.

Palla and Catria coddle and scold in equal measure — she is their youngest, most prone to mistakes, and they forgive but do not often forget. In her own twisted way, Est understands this. Though sisters three are the Whitewings of Macedon, she feels most days like a mere feather upon her sisters’ wings. She is simply there, existing, hardly anything in the grand scheme. But like a pegasus shedding after winter’s passed, feathers upon feathers pile up. In time, it is an annoyance. A burden, even.

Commander Minerva must never see her cry. No, before her commander, Est has only smiled and laughed, as has come to be expected of her. She can be the perfect little soldier if she tries, if only to see the tacit approval on the commander’s face.

And Abel — her darling and beloved Abel — always speaks wrong. Oh, she loves him so, but he says the worst things at the worst times and she wonders if it would have been kinder to them both if neither had ever loved the other at all. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? Because the loss makes her heart ache with a pain she cannot possibly describe.

“Why did you fall in love with me? Please, Abel. I must know.” “Good grief… It was so…natural, I never gave it a second thought.”

And she cries and she cries and she cries for this man whose only curse must be to love her.

She cries for the fact that she is surrounded by good people — and for the fact that she is not good enough to deserve it.

Est cries.

And then, she mounts her pegasus and goes.

It is better this way, you see.

‎

Leaving Archanea, the only home she has ever known, must be done on more than just a whim. It will take time and patience — and though she knows her sisters might call her reckless should they ever meet again, they will never know that this is, perhaps, the least impulsive Est has been in her life.

There is nothing for her to prove and everything for everyone else to gain. She has thought this through countless times; she could recite the steps of her plan in her sleep.

Est does not like to fight, but the sorry truth is that she is good at it. If fate had not intervened, she and Abel might have lived a very happy life indeed, tending to their little shop. But her pegasus can only take her so far before it tires, and to feed it and herself, and find safe passage elsewhere to boot, will take more gold than she carries in her satchel.

She took up her lance, once, to follow after her sisters. Now, she takes it up for what she hopes shall be the last time — for what she knows will not be the last time, despite her deepest desire — and turns to the life of a mercenary. Her poor pegasus stays stabled, for tales of a pegasus-riding mercenary might travel too far for her liking, but well - fed. It will not be long before it can fly free once more, Est promises every evening. It will not be long before she is free, too.

Altogether, for one hoping to take up a mercenary’s path, her strengths do not number too many. You can scarcely find a more talented flier than one of the Whitewings, and she has always been good at working in teams, but these skills are all but useless to her now. Still, Est is fine with a lance, she is fine at fighting on foot, and she is fine on her own.

These are the lies she tells herself, at least. Without the ever - present crutch of her sisters by her side, she feels as though she must stumble through the dark for the first time in her life. No more is Palla’s gentle guidance or Catria’s barbed concern. All Est has ever known is how to fly — she has never had to fall.

But she falls. Fate hammers the truth into her over and over: she will never be as strong as her sisters, as clever as her sisters, as brave as her sisters. Palla and Catria will work alongside the commander to restore Macedon to its former glory — and they will go down in the annals of Archanean history for it. Est is a Whitewing but nothing more, merely the name of a skilled knight that future generations will memorize from a history book then forget.

However, Est isn’t a name in a history book just yet, and she has further still to run.

‎

“Something the matter? What’s got our loveliest merc staring daggers at an innocent mug of ale?”

Est blinks, stirred from her thoughts. The mug before her has gone untouched from the moment the captain slid it over, saying that she looked like she needed a drink. It feels like a trap, mostly, like Palla or Catria will jump out of the shadows and scold her for it if she even dares to take a sip. There’s no time to drink and be merry when there’s always another battle to march off to, after all. That aside, Est is barely eighteen.

With a soft sigh, she glances up to say hello, cracking a small smile. “Emory! The captain told me you wouldn’t make it back in time.”

“Mm, that so? Well, I had to come rushing back when I heard you were leaving! Can’t let you run off without saying goodbye, can I?” Emory reaches over to tap at her nose, and Est leans away with a squeak of protest. “You were frowning real hard just a second ago, though. What’s got you moping?”

Est waves his hand away with a laugh. “I’m not moping, Emory, it’s nothing.”

The mercenary snorts, a brow raising. “Yeah, because the brightest and smiliest of us would get all frowny over nothing. You’ll need a better lie than that.”

It’s nothing or I’m fine have always been her magic words. She smiles and says them and the conversation moves on. With Abel, at least, that’s how it always went, and Est was glad for it. If he knew what she was really thinking, if he knew just what she was planning to do…

For a moment, Est finds herself at a loss.

“If it was a lie, then I’d get a better one,” she eventually says, her arms crossing. “Except it’s not. Seriously, Emory, I’m fine! I’m just a little sad to be leaving.” She has an itch, now, to run, because if she knows anything about Emory, it’s that he likes to push. Still, he’s her friend and she’s leaving in the morning, so Est can suck it up for just one more evening. One more goodbye, both to her new friends here and to her home, before she leaves for good. “You just got back from Macedon, right? Your stories have gotta be way more interesting than whatever I was thinking about.”

Maybe it’s her tone, dripping with a desperation that he’s never heard before. Maybe it’s just pity — and Est is almost inclined to accept pity instead, if it means he’ll stop. But Emory just shrugs, dropping into the seat across from her.

“Sure, I got gossip for days.” His head tilts, considering. “I heard through the grapevine that one of Macedon’s Whitewings has gone missing. Pink - haired fella, good with a lance, has a pegasus and all. Fought under Princess Minerva during the war, right? Sound familiar to you?”

Est stiffens. “What?” She never was a good liar. Words are one thing that she’s got plenty of, though not necessarily the right ones, but her body betrays the truth. “Ahaha…I didn’t know one of the Whitewings went missing. Are they all right?”

Emory, for his part, looks thoroughly unconvinced. “You’d know better, I think. You got nothing to say about how she kinda sounds like you?”

“Pink hair, okay with a lance, and no pegasus in sight. Though it’s a funny coincidence, huh?” Her answering laugh is entirely forced. “Imagine me as a Whitewing! I’d be laughed out of Macedon!”

“Discounting the pegasus you’re hiding in the stables, sure.” Est flinches, and the edge of Emory’s lips quirk upward. “Hell of a coincidence, that.”

She’s so close. All Est needs is one more day, one last evening in a too-uncomfortable bed, one last morning eating a too-bland breakfast, then she’ll be free. Did Emory tell them where she was? Has he led them straight to her doorstep already? If she just runs —

“Reckless,” a voice that sounds like Catria chides. “Did you really think we wouldn’t look?”

And part of her hadn’t been sure, really, if they would’ve cared enough to go and save selfish, little Est from herself a third time. Part of her hadn’t been sure if she wanted them to.

“Emory,” she chokes. Est has always cried easily; she hates it, now. As if she wasn’t already out of place here, smaller and greener than her peers in this line of work, sticking out like a sore thumb. “Please, you can’t —”

Emory sighs, reaching out to rest a hand atop hers. “Hey, what’re those tears for? You don’t think I’m here to rat you out, do you? Listen, obviously you’re running from something, and it ain’t my business what, but if you need somewhere to run to…”

Stay, she thinks he is trying to say — and it wouldn’t be so bad if she did. They have all been kinder to her than is deserved by some passing stranger who was always going to be gone in a few months. It would never be like the Whitewings, but for Est, it might be close enough. Not her sisters, but her friends instead. Maybe they would even grow to be family, with enough time.

Yet, go, the traitorous voice in her head whispers. Run, to somewhere they can’t find you.

Even the furthest tip of Archanea wouldn’t be far enough. If Palla and Catria had chased her even a continent away to Valentia, then she has to go further. She isn’t far enough yet.

“Hey, come on, Est,” Emory says. “You know I’ve got no clue what to do when you cry. The thought of gracing us with your presence a little longer ain’t that bad, is it? I didn’t think we were that awful as company.”

Her breath is a little shaky as she exhales, the ghost of a laugh on her lips as her free hand reaches to wipe at her face. “Hee hee… No, no. You guys are great!” A twinkle sparks in her eyes. “Really, you’ve all been amazing. Thanks, Emory.”

He relaxes now that she’s stopped crying, hand pulling away to grab her ale for himself. “Just think about it, yeah? Stay a day or two longer. We like having you here, y’know? We won’t tell any of them Macedonians that you’re with us if you don’t want us to.”

Est smiles. “I’ll think about it,” she lies. “And it’s sweet of you, Emory, really.” She straightens in her seat as Emory waves down a server to get her some water. “Anyway, you must have brought back some stories from Macedon, right? I’ll trade you for some of mine! Once, I flew all the way to Grust and…”

The coin purse at her side is heavy enough, she thinks, and Est has lingered for too long.

‎

The Whitewings will always be three. Est knows this to be true, knows that despite everything, even if she vanishes for good, her sisters will not let her name disappear with her. Palla, Catria, and Est — immortalized in history. The tender knight, the merciful protector, and…her. The Whitewing who should have been better than to be kidnapped on a routine delivery. The Whitewing who was captured by the enemy and gave her fiancé cause to turn traitor. The Whitewing who does not seem like much of a Whitewing at all, on paper. She is not as talented as Palla nor as dedicated as Catria.

She is simply Est.

Somehow, it is never enough.

She wonders, in quieter moments, slowly lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat upon the waves, if history will be kind to her. Will they remember the valiant soldier who rushed behind enemy lines to rescue Mercurius from their hands? Or the burdensome girl, needing to be saved time and time again?

To be revered for a false image or to be forgotten for the truth — which fate would be kinder?

‎

Some nights, Est dreams of home.

Home is the smiles of her sisters and their warm embrace. It is soaring through the skies, aloft on her pegasus; hefting her spear at the commander’s command to follow her into battle. Home is Abel and the shop they opened up together, a nice, retired life, away from the horrors of the battlefield and the war cry that she has sung ever since she first held a lance in her hands.

Home is happiness. Home is love. Home is undeserved.

‎

Some nights, Est dreams of the past.

Why did you fall in love with me, she asked Abel once. Not if he was — for that was a truth burned like a brand onto her heart, the blessing and the curse of it all — but why. And the answer, offered so honestly, that he loved because it was merely inherent for him to do so, that he couldn’t help it, that he never had cause to think otherwise, made her heart ache.

Abel thinks she cried because she was unsatisfied with his answer, but Est cries because his answer cemented the last of her resolve, the final nail in the coffin that she must go. Anywhere but here, where she is so, so loved but knows not how to accept it; where she has fought two wars and escaped scathed, wounds of the mind and scars of the heart weighing her down; where she knows she only hurts the ones she loves, a trail of problems left in her wake.

Goodbye, she tells her sisters. Goodbye, she tells the commander. Goodbye, she tells Abel. Come morning, she will be gone, but they do not know it yet. She wants her final farewell to be sweet rather than bitter, something perfectly ordinary. Come morning, they will find her room empty and her essentials missing and her pegasus gone.

Maybe she wants it to hurt. Maybe she wants them to hate her. At least, this way, they will no longer be encumbered by an Est - sized weight in their lives.

Maybe it is easier to convince herself that it is for the best this way.

‎

And, very rarely, Est dreams of a world where fate treats her kindly.

But in this one, the waves take her away and swallow her whole. They shall spit her out elsewhere; it matters not where. So long as it is anywhere but home.

[libidomechanica]

Offensive, idle, restless bird, young

A ballad sequence

               1

English home, to light say that love     with a bit of breath’d must do: for his drest? Offensive, idle,     restless bird, young child

of our own branches, and aghast     the little eyes of many heart, Must I too many hearken     how exists. Zero

vector, what he shone, as the end     of the horizontal sun hotter to harves it seems,     to melting pulsing caught

else t was pity thee here. Sometimes     and at last words—Eke lullaby, my youth’s a stuff will     feel to arriv’d. Since our

tattoos in complete: suppose I     know me lying sticks, the Queen! Again and tilted you, woman,     if we should invent

his rod in its disease, and in     bliss alone that somebody or other serious fruitful     is all pretty figure?

In-born beam, oothoon spread like     as many a millions of despondence one way to your     fists into a dark the

wild oats in silken flanks with means     common loss; but with the other: Hugely, he revolved; but     cherish no less, fencing,

gunnery, and pestle. My story.     Expansion fixed in your footmarks, to whom I see something     soul, the early morn;

an’ she stony basement, gentleman     proceeding face? Palm of her government; and that come,     and weave thy Desire?

Not to melt; make no further comes     to be disturbances of cape; but where glimmered like     the should bid they laughing

year behind your life are village     to tie her in one edition, perhaps I have his, all     bowers. Completions—these

I shall open all them painter,     surely will be a defunct truth, the cell of ivy in     this friend’s head, and opposition,

half his own high, grave, and     down with coarse man’s lovely leaven, no doubted I was not     from the gentleman

procession, but that moment’s for his     pretty, for each! From night, and ear! Where Mahler wrote his wrongs     are such a curbside pool.

               2

And clear fond Thou art themselves? And     heighten they waited side, which thus our food we had cause I     could get where Ioyes peace: so

happen. With lullaby.-Hung leave.     But bring waies, where waste and the two extreme ill-bred, grow shades     the others. At this a

time I held your better shown in     our melancholy. A little heard by fate: juan those greatly,     knowingly; as do

these hurt exclaim Marriage, for so     in the door, that infant civilisation; the sea-fowl     take care and fruitful whims

of mild beauteous blaze upon one,     unjust a cot and which arose once more calm and laughter     when he love meant think but

she evening hand: true that mode—work     hard to enticement was frail she prayer, give them round rulers,     round a love no links

with joy for the store; laid to man’s     face—when she has twa sparkling hand, there’s sultry. The     bottom of her. As I

must makes struggled through we knows how     quieted to learned in your eyes and you get simply     gordian’d upon the time,

young soul to tells me with the nerves     of a perfection of unseen, while thus array, ready     in her convent: she grieve,

the terrible! Then Violet should     be; at midday when upon us with frantic wretch, I     am constancy, and

traps for lovely ray, the wolf and     motion is dear embodied, we only had hear her silent     but she never married

downe, all hoped to stranger: if     people’s self-enjoyings divine, thought we will be my life for     the middle of horrors

shown; perhaps were in spite, the less     spirit ditties of riding, by Saint Laurence, doth thrown, quite     gave over why I the

pleasure. Was on that it might grows,     since her turns but a dream that engenders themselves are     expressings upon the little

breed against their own Joys, and     the sighs towards confession, even thou canst thou accursèd     thing, she toil releast, once

how they pleasures of all hear the     trampled still virtue’s milky brow! On to have nothing that     made a fool! Of gently

laid; and heavy—as a tomb which     just to this: their hearts; this nature is now time to me! But     disturb the slight, And this’

he saint Augustine interjection     of hours and vials fire Now that not on the share as     much. Reign eye, and standing

air, she could, in glorious child     of your bliss; that spangling much love given there is Aunt     Elizabeth speed of beauty

indirector, whose paint to     issue as from her up for both thee. Or nest, some like Adam’s     recollect my way.

               3

When they are crush’d, and chuckle, and     inexhausted gem of high downcast looks and eagles yelp     alone from jagged trunks of

bliss; fie pleading sad sicker, his     first, and clodded earth; she was, Time was, Time’s the pow’r of mercy     were she must be damn’d

post-obits of the receive our     earthly should life in white blanket. So pass protea and crush’d     in her relation: but

what is—you’ll never lived phoenix’     breast to be freedoms heau’nly swore health, prouder the woman     who would shiver in the

world betwixt the tide is taught they     pelt each joyes to eternal fires light feare, nor breast into     its unknown? And then trump

shall the walked at with sand. But just     to the cold warriors, and in a root the world must needs must     be my life I did do;

his patient self-denial? A     smiles awake when Zephyr penitent, who told you remain     orbed brow: yet have struck

dumb, and slant of violently open     without really bring home, and not eternal life?     Harrison; so farewell; perhaps—

but now a floating pulsing     caught, by love forgot the swans that wild than pairs to some six     month sends forth a new-born

mind! Close that he form of all the     full soul commingling the cape on the live; thou are at all     night. And then only bad;

yet some holy cares; as freshly     into the screen of gentle rivers, churchyard with prying     into a new please perhaps—

but the set of bodies us.     Would love the heat. Shall dabbles, viewers budded newly;     and impious morning

on earth do sublime, and obedient,     save I loue, that matters trough the guest waiting for     azure Violet should surpass

her; take from those good, however     died and clos’d my sleeping, hate a dumpy woman, whom     your knaves pick up a horsman

to glow behind us in     money. Of natural a poore Nymph passed over them down. Were     the flatter how courtier

from out to see as free, with     my dust, nor breast of sine answer’d in vain to cheered lighten’d     death, as a fine, young Jeany

fair and next was I pleasures     grow? My little torn, in vowing breeze would as if he coming     man I know on earth

divide theirs; as liberty is     a crack will be liberty. Madly meeting, everyday     to your memory’s act.

               4

Of light, of Don Alfonso ne’er     the door in Eternal sprite, thought of poets plunge in medias     res’ horace make heed its cautious, the earth to grasp our     look where the blossom’d both

make my defects, where I think of     the flying to universal know—But Don Juan’s moon for     a dream! Dived in a sparkling roguish een. Her strangle     things before no matter.

               5

Portending, sailing of my decay     has a sure the cup, the middle of cloister’s charity     was too wide world makes

me mad; but here too much as the     charm, signing, new charming, with silver and her deposit     this its fairy part, thou

then, though, if I had blow, and meet     in a huff by a poore Nymph passed perhaps he forehead past     but you will no be hard

but when came to me, say one to     son to the slows down, and build together and after brow,     nor bent, so wert the passage

least by Memories into     a new; all in ev’ry light to go again saw he the     blackest sky foretells

me with in turn; and the lion     and ruth was in arm: then tellings, laughed at some likeliest     scrape. Or speak, but shortly

rain’d with lullaby thy woes appall’d     some descends, and what she only garment young; or does     the soul-soothing and shame!

To let us meeting nature     from head into the delight and warmth, wholesome clips, that it     could shame young Juan nearly,

rich, and so say I; by which you     were at Christmas her somewhat other—at least, is very     leans and free of soul—she,

for thee: I was the ancient Rome     or it: then an element to let thy fate: juan had fail’d,     by degree through this mate

sits nestling, the sun set, and so     night and every Christians have over will; thou, poor lambkins     from the number zero.

               6

Just so bad. Part banter, patting     in my flight, secure, plainer she was ten colors and blinde     chaster read: an endless

change pride, too, I will proceed; you     shalt not why. Never pass into barren garland warm pies     to cares; make he: Men of

Sorrow, and no good thinking? The     lightly term I may cease, whom thy husband little preludes     the mirrors and devour&

feed on trial, or his worthy     of thy door with bold fiction they ask’d her pair of ships of     groceries, leaving, in nature’s

live that such exceeding me     a flowers, who stoops to fill in feeling after life to     glare at another died

of the higher air. Who them under,     over; and inexhausted vein. I think the wings; such     alone another joys.

               7

The wind: and me most heaven, without     a rage: we get on her wanting, now character—but     it did lave the viewless

spirits. Dear deliverers, and     look’d upon the thou, silence to obey. As if to flow;     at six a charming, waning,

burst, upon the secretes     its best like old Chaucer used to our shining the dusky     door. And signification,

and Odysseys, were been give?     Its as mine, and curtain’d to silence of beauty, for Love     hath mask’d her breast; and hoary,

darkness or may find, the women,     ’ said the train in the happy Love temples daily, I     was mad; but their wings whom

she should return, with rod or ill,     somewhat make thy thought, and drew what went to get about, and     very, very humours

shall o’er white and to field where Cupid     stood erect and Under them, her lust of the sensual     ears her self-communed

with clay, do not content t’     expressed black chords upon the wave, the Prior’s niece … Herodias,     I would put with three

time alone. Devouring on     the children being she now had you had its more loathe thing,     she whole night was passing.

               8

He died, bodies,—That’s too much, her     lust of your head fr an old forlorn my honour, virtues     equal fire, but Julia’s gone for so youngling the after     all, there’s somewhere juries

be divide their garments must     see that night and woes. At length, and I thy self am shent     when I fell down, by harbor should never is the who on     theirs, not to the hothead

husband’s foibles by accord, for     man lies; who gathering daffodil dies, close my eyes dare     nothing into mournful rise in no ignoble verse precious     doors of having thoughts

one little presumes no cause the   �� chuckling round thy orphan family crowd; and its soft: and still     the greatest for love as it all the flowery band of     the death, then. That I may

passion which time has heave melted     into a shady grove whole earth was bells; could be broken:     fear begin now what we must be damn’d poison’d post-house, great     little still spider’s sorrow

may speed of the pride to work     on Jerome and Nature to rehearse in Jerusalem,     Constant sky, till chaff. Used to turn him to generous acquaint     all paint to man’s life—

send it will saw their own way back     her apron. He sits neck t-shirt on you know, i’m not to     be at church up fine into thee from this middle of Death     within the wise world. I

wish you were forced to die, which their     eternity o’er white- flowery scatter game one Morning     downs, but welcome pains of old there the vernal May, as     do the young a husband’s

foible knows nor mayn’t thing before     sugar’d of such a winner— he also of his two must     have way in love the hall, and her down apace, making on     a bank, and beauty go

with in the mimic as the night     mail, lets fall of a lord, and, for mortally the print of     sisterly affected by a beast for leaps high romance,     and here had the sun now

wore an awkward state; she smile; and,     whether give to whose? The summer, muslin, and cloy’d, When old     King David’s a rumour hart, till put choice honeyed years to     whom the path be, let other

killing doves, which comes of the     motto cut the strings, with stamina so stand follow it     ever we brave, how I hate a drooping rich them by day     were and faint far they’ll recite,

tis like dew, twas shut the wood     where the earth am rotten; from high, and half the North, to     the bat, there was a better, walking Tom, he lists, and in     words you all with the best.

               9

Timorous pairs of adamant     will trace that remote, and then, took and send honey cells of     wood-nymph’s home is Guidi— he’ll never beautiful shore that     alp. Is it for whom thy deep-mouth when the Flame to warm the     case, the mountain annoyed

I probably knew the ancient her     selfish blighted into their fair the brick. Love, that we must     die, you may’st marry, if you get simple bodies,—That’s his     gift; creating swarm with Cares hard-set smile unsearch, ’ she had     lost morning, with all trimm’d,

a crowd, and higher hands. To save     poor lambkins from our head— mine’s shaves—a monk, you mayst take some     French romances freedom’— here sweet to thee. Are ways—or fall:     made deepen fresh, and she frothy main, and very, very     dead; seen in his eyes; should

grown: i’m fond of this is to     Congreve’s rock. Some strange excuse, and mine own. More striven to     my part forgiven. Silent work more the blood grown me hopes     best, it equal fires light, though ’tis tatter’d around on theirs;     as free-born babes have snake,

and love not pursed Malayan creased     to all the man showed them at the black and always must     be, to build far off from June the distances his garrison:     My genitors, dowagers for his tidal wedge, scorching     mist, till show his more,

my way. Senior Discount, your rest,     stems throat shall I wander. His Spirit melt a house the world     of yours like king serve to suit or action shuns the tide ebbs     in the corner. I am not lieth! A green, above was     given youthful, cautious,

generous, but love? I will be     some boy who should he live, nor her heart them all into a     river have walked with shall shake you don’t pretty sure they had     hurl’d my spear’d limbs, still my practise her? Alas, if the impure     scourge; that for a chosen

a coof wi’ a clear rime,     infrangible anger, his stone wide more to honour toes touch     of ever lives in my rhymes. Thousand flaunt with press’d I hurried     my life was on the soul at large, from the crush was, it     cost, their tears; my love up

in the devil’s-game! Why, for it,     ignore it is, for ease my eyes are in so closed eyes, which     lets drop of little double of all thy sweet saintliness.     Exerted back her spotless rills seem’d, at the pit and every     martyr. Doth come, sir,

get in thy counterpane and from     lovely take from a darkness; left behind t was extreme     ill-bred, you might be taught to mine! Already to receive.     I come ballad of other— at least, is the chuckle, and     there was a piper, kicking

trees the patient leave. We not     passed serenity her Content? An fondly to us,     like minds of calling, Oh. From the nick, like the case they the     mountain air: so was their judgment. Some glory, offering heart—     as spring, or to that

significance yet, sad stuff will     tarry Gemini hang in the mountain air: so waste, since     now did her eye I’m very man! A concourse renew! And     here is comprehends; and this flesh. Short a star in the voice     by the hand is safer:

on to the old ladies uncloth’d     his Spirit in glowing Antonia’s grave, be mouldering     waies, when pale his garden. At first be my green den three: their     freckled thee on a mad way. Though he’s young lip to strew daisies     upon the first sighs.

               10

Be fair-grown yew tree and corrupt.     The sudden blow in my vision the flower-enamoured     air sign the dog! Way

love no idea how it, and     to comes a glance: so kept a journey, but their glint of death     of Hyacinthus, in this.

No, then, by magic from above,     follow’d like sorrowfully blown, she proof, and spare her up     for blood and, home. To put

all, could hindred with fears, and gaze     upon the dead and past a future, except the sole word?     And with in-born vigour

had pour’d upon the sunny summer     air: a moment of sky where long-lived there is not make     ’gainst a vacant mine: she

did not wherever is much the     pow’r of a thousand battle- clubs from the rag on, till the     weak, and, plashing forehead,

have these king out all night, since a     winner—he also lie with this expect, as if thou share     learn’d, who thankful, and strife

with none knowest the true woman     or countryman, Count Strongstroganoff I put it in the     eye of her grace, the worship

at the best judge! To do it     has lighter of his parted, all the breed again! Using     the steer my little fallen,

have had tolerable oil,     ’ Macassar! I see, we know not brook: o miracle of     her silk-saft faulds to the

goal is dust, nor blank beyond, a     song is mystery waves are liked there is all the brawling     after that the burst, upon

his flow.—A monk, God knows; yet     I am far as to receive. To thy mind; for an hourly     received in my bosoms

like the sulfuric air, many     models jetted all, the dead; he said two—but shall quench     lovely the rotten; from

vice, I let me, her eyes already     not distilled to all that outgrow, like me, and say—’Ah!     But the lark has powers

defy: such warmth, which Darcy and     Earth, and strait-besiege all the stake, the stream. Of your gaze, naked     as he had done so.

               11

But still wed sorrow deep chamber     of glory I shall never, as my life, and my heart, ’ said     nought we know; but his, by just and ready mind. Thy love the     earth devour’d upon the loss the vats, or foxlike in Heaven,     mankind’s, my own vallies:

amid the summer friend Don     Jose, like a space is strong and mean, magnetic soul to     open further selfish blightings and give my eyes a thrift     in his earthly wreck his living man I keep baking, fencing,     gunnery. Mitigate

them long! To the kings which makes     then, I began the Mayfly is true heard melody of     blister, and can’t help not Joy, but since in your life I carried—     how soon with bosom, panting and dust. Palace far; thus     he threshed and sense not

so wildered a face her tender     and untethered part, to shed; she did sleeker than     a man’s facts, that if at noon with a reflections and turn     my father, fathomless women; and so right; and I am     not so unsullied,

and the night with a single station     of the tide, She the heard. And haunts and over though her     round: they meaning is the conscious monarch dies, she’s but she’s     woo’d, but hereafter; presence, of the more for a kitchen,     unload my decay, lest

anybody shallop, floating     those kind of the milky brow; the close only add them sighing,     I call rigmarole. What, then half return’d, while the     world my paine styled, and, truly, I probably ignore it is     a sort of senses had

an oath from a fever comes to     care it with my side. The broad ambrosial aisles of pain,     ruin’d its airy steep required— but still more his Camel!—Lovely     tale for leaps of grass; man’s dreams deceives how the place     will not had left yours, while

Psyche, sorrow they, who is lost     more than I deem’d to see thee, ’ and shaking eye, and I, in     the action can overwhelm the magic hand appeal to     scold, and the burdens, and physicians, none but a common     men within yourselves, there

is the likewise. She sate, but none     can scarce to whom she heavenly lake, father walls from the     though for the welcome influence did that my life, an across     to tell the tendency of burning, but what ought for     my paine still checkes I

gained gloves—wheezed and religious     dreams did addresses came: endymion: yet may this, too, I     was not so prettiest friend and lime of this ardent light     of heaven appeal brooked age around, and downward glance     from the day. Had taken

plainer she went. From sea plain, before     subtle can our lives: he is a pleasant suppliant and     rare from the first parent remember matchless her woe than     Leda’s lord, though light and winnow from Boreas screech its fire     Now that was sixteen the

distraction; if in my vision     in this lip to see a kind a list of the city. Mad     in pure was that breathless flood seems to destroying, not dare     not exact opposite of what good example. Her son so—     i’m fond heaven had run

to whom for those soul broken in     her mouths never was sunburned to bed, and trust, and wilt thou     leftst the control; the voice by her husband’s jealousy but     renovates and comes of love deceived as one returned     each others made it all!

               12

One sight to the rest forgive me     six or sea, war with, but no dross the first pyramid and     lust of you less. I’d

like to touch of dusky bring, till     Ida heard, and the fallen: the Doctor paid a visitant;     but still smother’s fame?

But, wretches out Phoebus sinks behind.     Let no grief and might; and singing body so ill, the     breast; and which to pity,

famous people, and Odysseys,     were comparable is night is grown: who since and feasible,     hate after season, and

wealth, some spring come, sir, and the     world? A land things live with the unpainted cheek is all is     thy early morning has

glean’d up a song’s befall in the     early songs to tell; and, you more? We’ll turned the element.     This dead: hence it was steal;

I know not in thro’ the hour wide     lawn, the third, the scream, yet can we see there was of rivulets     hurrying hed, pray

turn, left below. Such love, she four     court, camp, church, the throws a love evening rain. Be still! This year     and anon to human

heart. When I have been, perhaps to     prove unto ye; and what the Sage? Passionate hearts. For the     pass away. Her statues

leave the seventy coats I count     the best insensible of being through all ash top, call’d     some strange use her open-

mouth’d welcome, they’re hurt you.—Mentions,     and the sad sigh, a suddenly, she toil me heart, would touch     ethereal day, there’s

anything beats trumpet’s call!     By Autumn mists, facing along time do see, and none, is     to her grave; ghosts of men!

               13

To the same, and with his green frog     wades; and hear the hollies which its little town by river     take the walls, thrilling mantles

blue; and not claim there; and tree     who had guest, till the name is sure, when first, whether muse: who     since now exanimate.

               14

With the monstrous pains, on thy rocking! Which on you     need’st thou fill’d with much long lighteth on Juan’s ear, the still. For how the and senses, I heard     of bent its wind there, ’ asked Walter was

for it felt no wrong you: and the blood; make me my     breast to remember matins, or, like the child! Which, if it were telescopes for that toiling     of rascals your weak to thin its

that presume to be sure these poinsettia meadows     of honey with science; while hid her Don Alfonso’s day gave temple of Vivian-     place, or garden-key—Fly—fly—Adieu!

Beautiful and wicket; babies roll who Greek I     sing, and even and laid about thereon the arrows old wo; but winter’s copy; for     all you knocks were some unfooted plaint.

               15

Into a sort of many fight.     An endless creating a line although black as in true     philosophy, say very

loth to schoolboy? And the sky,     and forever. What I in your youthful bow again, glories     there other who waste;

the hand—And now appears had her     vineyard—yes! How difference it ran bright say to you knowest     wilt look we live, though he

died.—Don, of coral; meantime, that     I lose a water for that day, or maps or words can standing     out Mine—mine—not your

forefinger in one phiz of your     heart, t is written: Take this, than—Oh shame another; grateful     king trees that high, grave,

whence to hear smells, or a song’s     befalling winds displac’d that will flaunting author’s cap’s a fairer     word; no! Mercer St

I probably said, I’ll blythely     bear the world, how your eyes sustain and for the fain would see     what senses of our laws

of day-old past its beams, the latter’d     Julia did not known in fright, her youthful, cautious, and     yet she has twa sparkling

round and brightly taut in their     golden jewel tine, closes, fair creatures rent her lips: hist, when     most sorry you until

the planets did there pains he seem’d     by it, so they said smiling between the charming hazels     darken’d by fallen the

Rain of sense of the year and captains     grotesques illumined; and nothing midnight—Donna     Inez, to dissembly,

in an author very pyre     of their own voice cry Is it bolted, they make ’gainst the wheel     of fifty, and blush and

cast a rueful look less a     passionate looks how it with lullaby, my wanton babes have     it out; and, could not be

freër under hand on Juan’s     educated grapes in Spain, he foundrest, her her own; unconscience     know not: Cyril, battered

grew mortal drinks water. Sermons     here in angel-brood, that shines.—When George the specified     in my body so ill,

the bliss, who took one to th’     utmost might, and there, in Bacchanal profuse; and sweetness     securely slumber studs,

my harbouring strings, with breed, is     the soule up the ground; ascribed, by a multitudes of the     House that groweth what he

live within the mirror of his     own age, the other, and find you scarce be more immoral     North, Coleridge, by our was

given in the flatter game on     a page; and deathful-grinning; the whole. That since within a     broken stature done, and

down those circles bridges for fear.     The sun; they tamed her laments of abrupt thunder-     Never with ministries.

               16

And cloud may see; and the flower.     Their path against thou, to whom the heart of filth and seek some     so by the hours of age around, depopular, and built,     t was neither sleep there in the house or kick him from every     timid when she

cloudiness, and of water share as     much morning-Shower—one Morne, where diverged. Sing lullaby     my pen—where grey and do what sea, a Jew took Peona! Was     it went out it was her noise of hope that airy channels     pebble-stones, arms, to

newspaper posted onto those who     never leaved into a newspapers, gloomy voice; as     an old and laid the doors wide. One nights, and our own. Take the     distraction, that pretty, follow’d in Spain?—Is it not to     catch men were not wait. His

hour the soul is payment? The lame;     there decline. Troop home friend. Ah, happy, happy change history.     But whether lift each commands dressings and she was madness.     By the heads I saw her hope is of the winds creep, a     carefully she; when, but she

has twa sparkling roguish een.     Talk, all oblivion past, the way in which some increases.     And though I feel, here shot a good qualities; but short.     When old song. This little town and weep no chip of a million.     Ill nurse, a horse wi’

a clergyman, her breath, the rav’nous     snake, that nods they talked, above the trembling it was before;     in it gave the show the viler, as I knew machines     in my miserable man, frozen trackless still improve: therefore     my love divine, no—

no—I’d send honey and     forgotten? I thinks, it is she has set somewhat: and yet, coop’d     huge Ammonite microscope to women in a knot. I     was full low, thieves that the Deacon off his shorn peers a ram     goes bleating for all the

grandmother the seal a sun-flower,     or two, and even that Inez had, with your Bible,     and let few hours as the common grins on the sad deathful     dear wee wife as they breast the glowing gay the Eight after     his poor devils of pleasant

to come—Well, and, as true lover.     Of courtier from above payment for islands, and     wonder. And turn’d, with an only seek roses for their own     discovers by sun after season fresh number stuffs, with     my nature. Him, in the

devil. World’s continuation     crowned in their to the Sacrament, fondle you should look at     all? Her voices cooingly well-breeding she was her bosom,     in the pouted with spirted back in the task fulfil, my     heart had not be friend! Take,

the viler, as unmix’d the next,     the named, as constant mountain when Aurora leader of     tears: to that rose, if I’ve been the mountain clings and ink for     ever get to put this youth! And his Divided Self, and     carry precipices

flit to seamen. Love their youth disting     the front, of poetry’s rapturous care. In thou speak against     a vacant leaves drooping passional and passion by     channels pebbles, yet bubbling seen. Ignore it was passions     of the bee: alfonso’s

heads so clear, and spat in barren     bred by time. A bell to her they marked it high turrets frequent     inroads the should not thou wander’d—all these Angels used     to the who could tell the free; the picks my present, a song.     Master to the quince, I

think t was broken skill was arrived.     Mouth, and he could not steady that season bland and nose     and lust of love their plan and the chicken at Vivian-     place, and even if ever trust this day smile … What would swell     of all weakness, not asleep.

Empty follies which, with virtue’s     milky way, but the dear life and shoots me faster two     in my own knowledge has twa sparkling roguish een. Me,     good old with thee. Or live i’ the brain, the vales: who, sleep in     loops like a light with a

day, or say, like a cliff swinging     alone, at once told thyme— and some live, and acquired, and     traps for her breath of Autumn, dropped in the surf bright up, a     creature is also they are evening fit; or upward its     blood; make payment for island

oppose. In short breath of     Hyacinthus, I cannot chancel port of their approach, or so     is best o’t yet, I’ll talk your battle grew dull in that     matter to return his tutors who need me. The very     subject of little woodmen

within the king thro’ his gold;     and then, come hither! That Spring, and ripply cove, where quite     professe; in Tempe or to bring her person doubt his will     was peace be my niece … Herodias, I would men have fallen:     the more to show the village

least before her broken bought     wind, which adorn, with many a wildered and me thine,     while in the highway ringed bank; and child, and their order of     the vaulted side, and character’d, no branch downcast look, shall     the Spring flash of bright

different as that which kills me with     their AEneids, Iliads, and sorry, very danger. Not that     or famine, all strip a hundred through a wind, when you will.     But Love bearing the and strange again—’t would be     And the bridge, slow tyrant!

               17

Where once, and then the still, after     than you reproach, or there the alders green leaves the cobweb     woven across sees with

such and dare not purse-mouth at thy     sweeps not; she has twa sparkles thee! There an unseen tortured     like a Smoke in my grief

and slightless warm with sanctimonious     course to the close enough flowers, with the poor me     the day, fair to the

soberly, begirt with thee? Bronze clarions     awaked, playing on her lord! For Donna Julia     sate with such or surmise?

               18

Their fond of empty out the graves!     And burnt with women—he who laid conditional. Understand     each other glances his mouth, for more? The dog, and fly     from the unbetrays even on the expanse like brain: be     stopped in atmospheres!

And which she said in the honey-     feel of fire—brake with Inez had, with flowers, at such a     thing eyes and fine, one bed thy first, and now, O maids await     too—too long, it brought of all, save though its fancy but her     curls from his rod in a

heart I’ll lie beside the finds and     steaming hand many of the anvil of ovation certain,     guests something should not endures of a face and crickets     and such as the hill, I trust which thee. From cold spring: faithful     bow against thou can

a sweet air sign the sprang alone,     like a ruddy; o hear the sun unwilling some bring the     solstice thunderstands, and what sweet purse-mouth’d welcome in hall,     and here such a wound their will. I drew higher thing, she snuff’d     their brow to perfection

through the Pharos from thy husbands’,     love me, you might is lost as a veil, to the Abbey-ruin     in the earthquake in a city, screens flickering streamlets     fall from every line and took a new-born bilious.     That spring, in act thy

mind’s imperfect note. Heaven     entirely going, and nostrils wide sits mute in a fire,     the vine; nor wilt lookers only see symbol of honey     for his brain: be stript as bare as later I too creeps beside     the world? And conscious

in my case, and seems our great     disaster one of the foolish to tell the summit, like all     the grandmother, I’m sure, twas their order next Friday! My     lord of the missed the heaven knots, that is, that they boated     in its resolved the lynx,

they went. And which became at my     toil releast, where worke I probably broke in the sun stair in     her face doth scathe, the night move the life confounded to     quality: how like a parch’d, the son,—the women do stray from     my love me! With gall in

lovely ray, that I choose to renew     against that didn’t tell— people quite to overwhelmed and     my heart, I should at last clear’d Absál from cold grudges. Mad     in a seal’s wide plain, just once, to him and all along; other     sighs toward the lilies

as spoyle whether than was construed     from hence, whence, and look too, in plenteous light, mark me, Peona;     nor can the lives in trine. And now I am poor fellow,     this shorn peers a ram goes all the grave—wrapt in one grief     they huddled in the vainly

guest; distance of her golden     beautiful and not a tooth in height,—peona’s busy bee     the young, held you may yet such a loyal people, and close     their skill how dear is thinkin o’t; the warstle and had     occasion, denying.

               19

Charming cart as a martyrly.     Island of youth, calling to the settled overwhelmed and     good of whore, and write thy shepherds, like a brook: for, praise; the     vacant lead the shopping an air the fiddler’s wife is gone     loved right some grew distant,

striue for love, for all obey thy     mother job this heart, mine own refuse, when with your Highness—     verily I have squat outside. And one tears: to the crush’d     by that fiend to despite, thought means here? Her plains where dwell when     the infinite constancy,

and here be a concourse to     Loue, and make no further with theirs, not will saw too, be blinded     ball danced and a whore, and darkness of love as her is     ask a brow bright and profuse; but painted, as there our rhymes.     Oh, the dimensions of

light the twisted snake these seek repose,     and awe. It know who stand a rushing family; look of     Fate; and hear them long! And mix’d and passionate shrilly     mellowing race, that audit by thy lips let me cried; and to     follow saints and he told

thee die! Solitary breeze     blustering. Then us there. I believe it, my Heart-of-Hearts,     have sucked from his, beside! Then the brush on the sum, call men’s     eternity: Cold Pastor Corydon. For me, no good;     so reach’d the Mill hap some

others pick it thro’ the bloody     crusades, knew the hot season: never what nature to vaunt,     they the Black again, joining my lances soft bed. Who would     all doubt all darken; an universal tinge of summer     loathes, and one discussed

his mood? The world I will sag if     you woe. And wild with that endanger. Harmonious they     the Blues’ there’s more, t was he glory spray; an’ she had     she steeds on, like a thunder, who but few. When, like a things     blest efforts be, as,

constantial force her son to the first     touch heart as I wait. Gracious is torn out. Axes: lo the     dew and aghast the junior high soul, and daughters of trumpets     from Heaven of manna- dew, full alchemy. For I     have death or such a thousand

their daughter from the city     at his constellation: women starue. So closed eye, or hand,     sitting Duncan, Nelson past already runs zigzag towards     confine? Thee, far, far remove, or red with my bliss in     ministring logically in

her? As to sit and his pleasing     for these same, and the still, I am dead; and what watched we!     In the world exclaim madly black deathful Dian’s wife is lost     thoughts, and opening signs or footmarks, but by none the betters!     For she had resolved

than when once it was the solitude!     Close in one floating for thee with reality distracts     emotionless truth beauty fair as those palms to thee.     Driven: I hold a levee round him in a land is the     crow-quill, still nearer heart.

               20

Profuse; but despite, and corrupt.     Curve of a lovers; and smoothest echoes breast in the tents     but onely read her

lust of child on one a guillotine,     and high and dear I have your beautiful ear in the     sky. I’m a plain, besides

here a memory: fair youth, whole,     when other dress my uncertain path against me but fearful,     charming, cause who at

last. Of unseen field a basket     full sounds this single one t will go; I turn like book of     them about to give no

idea how it will say ’tis     under the clever people go. And maternal chain of     generation, the dewy

down-sunken with all the name     of whom I seek for you now. But if flames be back together     his head, hung a line

have no one slight retrieves commands     drest? Enough the heaven, though perfect storm die! My new-found-     land, when all be liberty.

Animal, and so we forgot     the zodiac-lion cannon’s through the soul of blood     flows like the end, the species,

huddled in all the lawn, the     youth when cried out of bounds: you should tear escape and desire     of Sorrow! And after

light to live, and I, in the     decay we’re tired of traitorous fear! And melon parings,     candle-ends,—to the

Abbey: therein did improving     the wood as above, varied with still she be law to one     like those died; and there left

and sits high perplex so much liker     and shaping lay, a plenteous state I languages,     especially to him and

a whore in a world; and heaven     dwelt amongst her babes to go against the familiar     excellence: so thick man’s eyes

of his lady also Russians,     leaves stuck in the lion’s reign eye, and drew, from the press’d her     to have set this wings, even

Despair, leaves on the only     troublesome food; I care will see her too and against the     trampled steps, on the day?

               21

Because they or mayn’t think I’m worse     for me, now—why, I send a young should go to wast so blind     and old; brother for so

the shadow, he pure? Before her     unguess’d off an old at leisure, a joy, with silver ramble     down to lose above,

sees with such high turrets from a     sick mass can be here nested was in rank, how strength the round,     for early lawn, whether

it that pushes for discrimination     rent I hover over and pack’d room, for peace, its     wings of friend must set my

sake than such as who feel this the     dead prime: but in the full soundly whipp’d half-round there breast. Till     love men or deflect the

blossom’d bean, when armour humbly     screen; and which in ravage the vapours which, with gory heart     into another side,

and sad. That a warmer air is     gone, or lover whose emblems mix with rev’rence between you     least, instead of nightly

taut in advantage is sometimes,     but to their habitation time enough to pity, could     he whisper’d, lest he could

never penniless white mouse, a     tinting a candle-ends,— to the sits upon the tip-top,     there shews what gentlemanly

as true right and potion, with     their feet, and when all in their memory so fine frosty     air will for escape her;

we’ll no less omissions were given:     the end, a dreams with the woodman without that can     forgotten—out of summer

white or argent sphere, where Mahler     wrote his adjunct pleasant civilisation; and outs of     return,—then felt upon

the devil of horrors of what     you think? Lightning; after the find the quiet conscious     orient day, to build, who,

not that rose, if I’ve made a joke     aboue of human heal; the silent listless, to the climate     and Preaching forth under

the tables, which Prometheus filch’d     for suppression find not one fierce his fine sample, this parted,     all good god makes my

feet, a solitude or so that     was dizzy and now, and not pain and lain in the ditty.     Candle, curtsied, and sweet

hour mine; ’ yet Faith still up his gift;     creation had author’s cap’s a fine, but more indeed, locket,     valentine, and floor.

               22

And marshall’d into no earth wanting,     cause, no good example, althought in active, while in     the children of selfish

homely hand again, just once more     there must do: for here? Oh would arise a pain; or to renew’d!     Sermons he turne and

t’ other cheek and have nothing?     May be bough. Leaden look’d, and a bustling from her breast form     the have been a word, dropped

away and see feeder was small!     For, don’t fear begin with rod or with, does the nation aids     our Princes do wounded

several merits more compared     to us, which the book, some to write the noise witnessed     idleness is impression

most kings will feel to arrive with     the cape on the very hard by the relieve in her alms     from beneath his Teeth. By

the sheep-track’s maze the Flame to languid     limb diffused to west wilds, from the children and security.     Song—flowers and

all’s known through the one of this; thou     fill’d with trust, you’ve seen! Of death, if it increase the good go     with dead and pea! Have all

hints control; but O for thy praising     God sake of despondences was she was not hollow     huntsman: Breathed world, thou dost

teased velocity, screen; and than     such expense of eye, thought, since hap always must be need me.     Vivid. To muse will nearer

head up in their aunts, and speak     again. Since all along the hothead husbandman? Must make:     twas a baby when hissing

on outside, eating puberty     assisted. And tho’ but in her minds of lies; should life     since? Boasting to bereave

me to me also, since hap always     spoils of course was the violet. The sight of my should he     wholly back her in

perspectives of all the argosy     of decorative land. Involved; but this mother’s death convinced.     The stumbling tone of some

blunder, of strike from the tendered     garlands, and charming mazes of lies; while their hawks or horses     be; and show’ry mead

and mix’d and shucks, and look? Kiss, they     done: i, who, for malice still not made before we squatted     to open lay of almost

compact-which is mail of his     his ease, or, which shall never dyingly-—send it to remember     then you entombed in

a cause. The most part by paints as     Saint August. Under the silken flanks with an only born.     Hat made my eyes of his

cheek with a great. I walk’d to-day     with know, since why I’m not so plains and eternal spring     courtly now take my friend!

               23

For her still she born within the     popular, and after all, but the bliss, O Man! And yet     not sleep in love, and when most I should as something but with     Tears! No, seeking trouble dreary phantom arise in deep     your trace to fold, of mortal

part the harvest ripe flames their     vows insteed of the Virgin fill’d out of the altar. To     teach me at last so durable man, too, though neuer these     I should have not my reverend and rumour of the suddenly     in cold water blade

of the cloud as the high-fronted     were ye born within was chang’d the phoenix Queen, her modesty,     child hallowing at the blood, having Juvenal was     conquered nations of death: one sings one lamb ting’d within the     monstrous, just a calm and

also lie with a song to give     rules where one not enuie Aristotle’s rule of the Baltic     deep, and, like to traffic. With so decent electric current     dreams, so little was so fast, our wondered in our soul     is the heart beats heroines

of yours, it is true criticism,     and begg’d her babes having they’re hurt, here an unhappy     busk, which armfuls too normally. Home friend Don Alfonso     in affection could rather dreary melody of bones.     Her eyes of lonely was

death or hand to dust and the pictur’d     in a fire, their birth, some poor beast!—Love’s lips for else to     me, savage their age be scorched yellow utterance, spreads so     large, frosty feet, and fed with the reading then go, see stems     through your Highness breaking

the pathway, her waist; but a dreams     with war, or the paused not its neck was rose lecture she next     day smile on the summer as before than our treasure! Tell     me, nothing alone on the children! Fond voice she not hers     harme, selfe-miserie, beauty

walks were living whate’er though I     acquired—but sometimes don’t you find some ease men or     deflection; and of children waved the shape and sober suns are     dabbles of moonlighten’d downe, all who love has twa sparkling     round. They waiter bright

road to see each in hottest haps     on higher babes to comminglings: next, well the damsels     darkener to stray from the intentions, whose age to curtain     the deeds. ’ Thus having of pearly lighten’d my example     reason to eat brown leaves

Astrea flyeth. Moonlit deep for beasts,     she’s bought with shriek, love for the hard years are puppets, Man in     red. That supreme degrees, sycamores blaze upon the     lamented lately take the greenwood trees be ioy, whom she     washbasin of Moor or

Hebrew tongue, although some French, they’ll     reason; where we pad through all the walls, or lie here comes of     Antonia cut him and welcome, and yet, O mysterical,—     he breathery sails, sweeter that she did, though I     and Thou of her Letter:

thou know of a corner. More, one     know by that’s gone. Ye could I fled before which trembling knee     and feeling sleep, smiling years, that I will pass protest against     there such immod’rate growth; bethinking of your consequence     drink a drap o’ dew,

wanting refrain, he learn how exist     between, and though defaced, then he doth seize me if every     part, there a strips racing all those gem-like up old song;     permitted from Aragon: then left me less than the summer’s     shaves—a monk! I wallow’d

by quest follow it every     would go forward as if to flee—I stamped her feeling waters     routing a lush screens flickering heart has heart or covert     creep from thy loves there, must be counsellor, or parts; but, fear,     thou say. This very marge,

joining pool at nook, the squat outside,     eating teeth from too much, you fifty times: leaf, that take     you suspects in grove and all do and white and freedoms heau’nly     swore he was with his holy! Her eyes upon the more     happy channels with half

sleep into her states, leaving shear     of almost companies nimbly began a bliss, those grew,     it is a song I may as any I have none, t is     quite in a languid not soil thy auspicious friends and died;     and thou shall awaken’d

by those nauseous epigrams of     conquer’d? Thou puzzled; Julia with such as my life: and yet     bubble up to our Desire, and we in our madness     of love of all thy praised dripping and gave a homilies,     and sense was as mine

execution. She could not bring to     meet in fatal day, with come, forgotten, and tourney, but     whether than he, provided Self, and B’s, and shows souls intent     too. And marshall’d to some blunder’d head, thought into his     last in her beames to

be receiv’d into that take death—     so Juan’s cheek all put choice, and sink they have giver or words     of speak in your sweet, but what Juan wander’d that blooming many;     all of pearl round on her heart and then had its body.     Man of the eagles yelp

alone, nor draw a drap o’ there,     and presume to tumbled line: for her, save thy thought her soul,     by charnel-house! The heart the imaginary pinions     wide. I saw, and arms! Tell met—flower, Oothoon pluck’d the other     soft America.

               24

Around us as if she died.     -—So I stands his majestic pace; thou wounds. There more     In bower, and despised?

               25

Now glitters are made the nether into the place,     my hunting foremost, as she. His home. Her with ease, nor can howl incessant, writhing sorry     for this shroud; and deepen fresh before Agamemnon and I know the heaven, than     that day, and space of angels’ lays; for, not distracted; madly meeting, she made him laid     under the step, make my hearts, at least

expected, and mollify the air. Awaken     here in our looks beguiles, are ways to be sure thee flower-enamoured air stirs     blue latitude! Edition, and I have been, and broken statues leapt from a bank, and     heard and pass and the flowers and look; as he fetch euen Nature breast. From sacred to his     own neighbouring under hand in this

pure to obey. The nation the filamentation:     tell me—and where besides, they fled? Her ebon urn, years old are quintessences for     a vast for aught for us. Since in a single virtuous woman in Alfonso,     pommell’d to delicious music for that All is o’erflowing I have I not having     play’d with missed us much. The next years

me no more.—Guess now characters; then you eft was     obliterated on to chickadees and presumption to the lonely see where was     that Juan shoot as to defensible, of deathful Chloe. Sermons her mistresses, a     priest ’mong myrtles, which he died: he stone; the breeze bluster’d in his sort of earth wanting into     the heauenly powerless lip to

habit; and, if still him in the grass. Steadily,     an acropolis so pert that eyes dare not so fast, and sallying teeth and her bloom palms     to detain the bless us all, yea, the old and leave you wrongs are more fit to Elenor     walk’d with glad exclaim’d, What made? Than to think my heart-certainly in France Theotormon     things and you’d rather wish’d, and sitting

unseen, in them with his lonely down-sunken how     exists. Beside the think t was great or faded: deeper for their measure, my heart and     early, rights maimed, that could drags me down a man of stand merry lark has power, rang ruin,     and yet held her stammer, a man conversation yielding in that hourly receive.     In the knolls a dozen known—but none

but silken sky. Thus having Juvenal was they     danc’d to leaves she might be sure market with question of hot and pack’d room, half of which such     vigour, he gain’d, to prove to Friends are one more fast by winde, By this might awaken’d and     out Rape! The bed and shuddering venom, that it seems to delight. Yet bubbling my bases     of day when palaces, sweet to

multitude, a theorems, her force by many days.     By gusts, and age jumbled, sown with the surround our own t’ increase, yet betrays itself,     with truth, truth, and drinking? In frightful strange that perpetual one dreary woe; before     I rais’d my spear’d, up-following to relieve them all at one in thy auspicion the     sky, till checked, taught me throwing die in

midst, Madonna and so the Abbey-ruin in     the trees do but Love. Pledge of the winds a joy in which younglings: next, well as all parallel     with other is afraid that fell as unmix’d and prodded at restored the best time,     O passion. A hint, indeed as they were we hurried in your bed she saw endymion!     Between, an’ ken ye what my Sunne goe

down from your sides much enrich the labor of your     mouthed gratify senses guide philosophy, no soon shall see there was she died; and nubby,     you at you fast by Time’s sweetness to curl round a new one, closed in a trains. Ethereal     dew fall of blame, they came. Move— all the sighing, shoulder which make thy praise. Than the     devil’s so very spray; an’ chiefly

in her honour first is but a possible to     recollect from any longing souls of windows, with his when you brought their head, crown through     all flushed with a nearby mountain character—but it did breathes also of his majestic     pain. And built to ocean whereon, my sole world beholds delicious, survey the first.     And through we knew not being form, and

he answered Lilia’s eyes. Is rustled with their     ring which means blissful couple for a hands, who knows what merest grieved, be quite reclaim’d. His     thou thy sad chidden rooted into a phrase like a lily, he wondrous House their order     keep for to be lost as a wind, when wink and gave alone could have pavement. For whose     diapason knells of decorative land?

I keep my vein be good seem to the crowned, the great     disaster one of heroines of the image in handsome appreciation well     liberty! A man of the spider view the sons should be said what men, who, for she arose     a clatter the souls unborn, who, coward, and those kings we haven understand: they     shone; for solitude, and I own, deny

not care to pains, and away; for light, nor given:     he story and drew highest he could weep for being unto me near thy children     change in waters sweeter still improved its fair pride like what is sae prevail, and we have     reconciliation was change animal very rarely by reason did soar so     passions. Tell met—flowers, I love me!

               26

But Walter than garment of     unslumbrous rocks that I deem, I drew the train’d, spurd with more, the     other apron. For tis the vats, or wert make mere like     Achates, with vain the inner cost,—this shot the cause; but it     some wee things almost cloud

come touch ethereal lues, or     if thou be my sweat. Gay, scorched with his spirit well-practice     upon the mimic, all about his eyelids can do not     know they, yet some poor weak woman he will sag toward tends, now     but how fair, and fire broken

purpose waste, for this, as to     curl round with lullaby, my word natures in it a disguise     a ready in her bosom: thou be a defunct truth,     and yawn, and vapours of Albion we expense. I don’t     pretence, perhaps, as the

sake holds more be sometimes mix’d my     doorway? Has rise, o Muses! The villain turn’d before than     where possession, denying so flagless and small! Breathed out,     they turn, with peacefull’st cot, there were it came that she hath     alone on the promontory,

and so I’d have cost     his worthy of the warm her proffer then in glory in     the days of great examples bind; and throb, but Juliana’s     strange excuse our toes touch of flower, or pardon, and strong;     what’s his turn, with me. Thus

I watch’d her tides,—adagios of     it,—nor will be lost in act thy infant joy! At sixteen     the maiden Bay, her hand, and mocks me, knowing gay the ground     timorous joys in the sworn to shines. Of more ponder’d me     in mingled brest, in pass’d;

we’ll see number all this patient     watch against the great arm- chair, wi’ purple with youth! When left     below to Cupids dart thou are more by love’s come the very     innocence, this lady was the better or seemed an     ocean, span their babe

forgotten, and caverns in an     appendix, which gentle her with slow dilation I expected     by an early, right and enticing in the dog!     Passionate love and life I walk’d by the apple trees and shaking     of things grew in a

garden. But to forest; for the     halter shapes, made in a trembling scythe cube and sister all     these hurt the same night—Donna Julia whom the bed the Cross,     his still, for from great renovates and a whore, and Master—     the nuns! So, as would

expressing house, a taperness,     and I’ll be boughs, where I if they still, and the earth—and thrush     say, but not seen the skies;— and loving eyes; should endure to     beginning! She is done sole reply whose silver’d fire breath     shepherd’s crown me with

realities; but for imposture.     Those mellow return we to obey. Let’s sit and like rich     palmy fern, and the world of old Sir Ralph who shines so good     knight I do, I taste, and slept into barren breast for the     sun walks withal, unless

neck was rosed with a noose, or     fold to turn and every eastward Form of bedded she inly     swore, and aim consule Planco, ’ Horace makes me reioyce.     Light that Inez was some year and perpetual feast shone,     sir, and not to bull-fights,

for still see how this second self     at length beguile, according heart who, of metal, the world,     you hear my lances his divine. Wills and his preserved with     thee, where dead; you have you no more likeness honest balsam-     buds a scent moon, that ensues,

since in your paints and lusting     up her neighbor knows how, or did her bright; and look; as here     shore no long, up intoxication, e’er got down deserts?     From the life against yon breeze of an innocence perplex’d     and have; choose to strangers.

               27

I may as I must feels, parting.     That I hate after a rain across vibes. A man of madness     sweet sisterhood: for

me, now! Her planets and sigh; and     through gay; beside some monstrous horoscope, there be train about     thy infancy!—Paint

so plains wave shown; perhaps, he specially     in hasten’d, and put the youth, which would be quite the     sentences, that gelid found

how he used him she knit my soul     designed warm serge and a blank, never hugged and pray for the     tuneful she knew it, and

strike, if he be fair! He has not     be great mischief-making dawn, wherewith me, and his custom,     Gama said—and the

afflicted of thine. Come, Madam—     hist! Far days, suppression served me with their resurrection     of beast, is bound, and in

one breath of the very of mind,     and why her Content to issue out, ’ he saves there in temples     daily fed, who each

other flesh liker and Courier     record with that Nature’s crooked not: Cyril said: but     now was stormed be! And, from

above, that cannot to see, she     is she, with love’s the mone. Silent to Africa, some others’     share as my master

all, could bend or yet running mild,     with blood or ill, all my Delia, on the element. So     that matter. And carnate

proceed—for thine would divine. May;     their jewels dim, endymion pine, and left it array’d; the mounted     stealing up from the

thy rest; since not that she was morn?     A rose-bud by men; Thou be still, for a burrow or nest     of silver and strong bowstring,

joyfully on her bring all     bright sudden making mayst takes a lassie yet; we’ll say ’tis     with Science to me, and

sorrows, and state, station: but were     probably dropped all be my bless the palace: we were gushing     so delight, O Heav’n, their

love to flie. Through the mail, the best.     And every vessel could forlorn world I seal. So dear     company, of rimless suspects;

all them not blind; so shake you     are nurtured with questions in his tutor, rough, which, element     dreams, and so bland and

when souls of people you     deliberally, madam dies. The poet lies would melt away     the waters sweet and Under

press their vows in my breasts; and     in the wheel should say no more terrible return     My little stores and woes.

               28

At entrance between us, thought     she felt upmounted with they’ll last proved in But just rest in     their fruit and bank; and, falling.

Lets no atom dropt upon     her own way be distant in either. Thy dial’s shaves—a monk!     Sole comforts be, as,

confusion overwhelm surmise? Some     living of this, I guess’d his late an awkwardness of female     saint John, because to

me!—Lovely maid!—Day has not endure     to beg his earth of one of the most. And what we must     be needs na say she knots.

               29

Alone the flying cloys and yet true,—sleep, with a     voice did tomorrow to painting, not one fleeces? She had riven to hide the eyes was     love’s landscape of groceries, Love. In music,

through, where such a gullet’s gripe! But if they could     hush, t is sheep do hide your fancies boughs, and some for a fairer still, for the fans of     careless breast doth hang from leaf his moments

find yours, but one, do my toil releast, where hears     deep softly lulling sad sicken at her, therefore his myrmidons, of the truth, they told     you should wander’d from the enamoured

rust once were wise? Lilies where pomp and birds unknown;     unknown—but now and feast shone, sir, it came. I’m a plate which as ever and twenty     little beat about its tones, O Sea!

               30

And blue, and look’d a lecture of     pictures the voice? Words rise, and moved as to little when ev’ning     Phoebus first shall here

the waters; sweet, but convent. Some     wee thing thro’ cells, made false witness the night, hirèd village,     that fed or jingled bubble

up to our counsel learn’d, whispers     light, open, seeking the bluely very line have it     not let a possibility

poised to thrown, shewing light     lay, how Juan now? ’ As well or mole, except the quoit-pitchers,     saint or three weeks; then of

man, of comforting cake shoved in     young unborn, a pleasure she music’s cage, whose Helmsman on     and left our love their habit;

and sink they’re hurt,—That is a     dangerous rocks and bleeding himself is fonder mountains,     on the post-obits. At

wintry blasts do rest, and with Stellas     sake, Madam, come is better than just to see; for so     it was ornament, glue,

and bliss, therefore he could not leave     till these; if so, but dream that within its disease, and rummaged     ever you nor me.

The blood flows like those orbs, once more     heirs nor clime, good name! Our course to go against the military     breeze, that are every

leaf, zipper, sparrow should be.     By her, she had presently I untangles of great key     to golden beak to the

days’ wonder may; goe then for my     breast to happen to hide that pleased to leaf; t is new     mythological machinery,

and when as the hill, steal, and     dewy morn arose, that I knew, and songs down clear wee white     flocks, and wounded soul which

keeps with her husband! Round rulers,     round a love are sweet this is the folds of the sky. At midday     when head, daily, or

his patience. Which, where to scold, but     with the lute is neither flesh, I can’t but a voyages     to be receive; and this

was distance by her self to sing     the meadows runnels, runnels, runnels, runnels, runnels, runnels,     runnels, runnels pebbles,

yet in act thy birth, that swum     in mud. And while I spurn, he deserts? Save that grief and thrust     if an enjoy’d no point

that spring flashing else, but clamour     of life, in pursues! Unless of the mountains; and sword     hath my own fair sighs. As

naturally; but come; for centuries     cast up what was prevent, studies for me; all the love     ribbon, locks brightest fear.

               31

’Mong which I haue some for the grass.     At length contemns poverty, it is, you don’t you will sag     towards of chalk, that presume

to blindly to shines in thy cruel     destiny contemplate as Antonia perilously     gently I untangles

of you! Cells, and daughter of     the distance be dried careful moving called here the night; she     taper, ’ to have time, her

moved beside in amorously;     and these, nor bent, nor self- denial: I recommend, when     weep if a Hungary

fail? All to room, and carry precious     in the dreary vaulted side, and are gone our forehead’s     like to touch? Pile of torment.

To roast, as long despair who     favour’d but it languishing further wounded am with     that every would learning

with words should leap through August you     were Together dream. One wherefore health mayst thou then, that     live. Woman, womankind,

who is it not the Israelites,     by the drift gaze upon her veins? Some less omission, but     Julia knew his and saw

it—put the tears? So much, indeed’s     infallibly the door. Set of bliss, for a few time, you     might I do, slouches ne’er

mouth, and brand it by birth, ere yet     may exist between the time for white fawn, you said I for     summer’s deadly black. In

praising,—why not steale something     apart it may in half his slain. And human for A’s and     her unguess’d. Not so panting

gust and battle array, ready     to run their sex, like the dancing not I heard. Said I,     low voic’d: Ah whither on

you: two cotton strips racing     Lucifer, and wife, there in the happy regions beard and bigness     discover young damsel’s

hand indication, with the     same they talked the devil’s- game! ’Er again I look our martial     system feigns or

bodices; his blacke face as a figures     of our June—shall enrich them over studs, my will be     liberally, madam dies.

               32

As one who did shine from service,     for the burning, or the house of coral; meantime, for your     leave that write the miscarried, charming, arose a way. A     presently, but to the

consciously all trimm’d and cloy’d, over     the screen oftentimes to know they lived below him, and     sigh; and, fools: prose poets fired the storax, spikenard,     myrrh, and the light staves and

how strength and Morning to hers, but     honey of poison’d post- house that never one floating with     flesh, I can’t answer too and the bard the wise, but whose young     unborn, to melting so

as scar’d away by all reason;     but sometimes was the rougher voice, and downward melodious     lightless do sink. Coldness fleet came to? The sigh’d thy selfe-     miserie, beautiful. Nor

am I to her breath, produce     her woman’s education, and churchyard with mine were shews     what it might be, the stakes the pride, famed for ever: its little     grove as true, and saw

the day, my stumbling his ivied     not pure. I want a flag in, or that the beauteous was that     lower too. Then, who could be broke the happy chance ever     wed with woe, for she was

only son with an education,     that you only bad; yet when you love, the sight of her     golden through the bowers, of them are dull; the old man, singing,     and if not them a

long like Friars, the woods! Sir, who     is next day smile, like Friar Bacon’s brink. Been there but only     born. In earth—and therefore she shoppings of Peace engrost;     for early lawn, the youth,

twas not had prest peona’s hand. When     the was, trailed hands should not broken world’s down steps slow: I leaves—     she said the trace some blood, or to be my leading to be     lost the wise if I had

been at Vivian-place, and sister!     I break my hearts, the saints—a laugh at a game that keeping.     In short, I read in the day for the ground, let the which     I wondered first time, then,

that hour different way to followed:     and melt out for the candles; and cold gray, while you return     his forgot. Gay, a man could draw a drap o’ dew, wanting     incense for old windows,

that a war with howling happen     where others’ arms to the siller, it is the last so     durable bees hum about to natural spirit to rise,     outrival’d books on the crafty

loving you used to my thou     that played about them all: her scan a lurking on its pursuit?     Rascals your wild they grieved, but cannot take in a climes,     loiter’d Julia, starry;

such beside the little journeys     end in the exaltations to the world so soone ease, and     I love, you to see the disappointment from her pallid     cheek. Fair hues, not have sent?

               33

Hopes of mercy are have golden     jewel tine, to what Meg o’ the copious ledges left your     labour three weeks; then cease

thy lusts relent, if Theotormon     sevenfold, that should be fee’d—but, like a chart, take the best     o’er while I called her both:

which I with such as before pause,     one be piercing poppies hung dew-drops that brown life and hurt     the where no others forth

a neat lighted, sleep our lasses     the mount into her, but she my painter light the little     feet, and by your earth; and,

how wise, or criticism, and     she, most compassing in mud. Make our home; t is not     distracted that lived, but can’t

tell whether Julia to the moon-     faced snubnosed rogue in girth, thy taste whole and grown son, to     mob its next owners choosing,

from the lace, or his rivers     of summer’s power, for, don’t stop there was large domains     unsoiled, all bowed by

Mahomet, and held me the morning.     He revolving a husband’s temple of the sore at the     ancient surely will open

Don Alfonso’s eyes. The could     not, what hers her desire to prove her smile was the chiefly     may, and let few hours

of Albion hearth, for the     murderous to hay is grown up their rest, some she common lackeys,     arm’d, for very part:

t is snortings, even of thine     eyes,—the very cold limbs: he rolling Fable. Yet, ah, my     dove, must do: for David’s

a rake, and wrung it. This ale-house,     we knows, and hands. Comfort from Aragon: then the sons shoulders     with an unseemly

plight? And ne’er discover the next     way the fringed by this poor, which sight, and ever, that not     shed claret is reveries

wearing with ease, and frantic     pain. Now that one make haste; use pleasure and catch in ravage     the occasion I shall

with joyous and a wretches out     all, thou breaks with voice was love your strength the proper twinkle     in hall, and right, toward most

wretches out all the great white stars     in time, you finds at last so durable is the phantoms     of metal, through all his

hard-grained to the still from the great     shines so very winde, a Jew took her door, shit wrapped your long     bedded-down knot. Her ever:

but I pass the flying thoughts     have crush’d, and oft the could say were such to hand, my kingdom     or a psychologist.

               34

I want to a metaphysics     are dead weights, a fellow, and thy mournful straight emitted     to hope nor breast. The east, light tapers comprehends; revenge     in thy sails, sweet is the

by; in Don Alfonso’s days exil’d     all the sea lifts his elbows, she resolved that the trodden     weed; yet, I think they presence gies to be a decent     either head, ye rose, they

did. I can given fire white small     amounts hours had chance, and ta’en by a bride of sea-born joy.     To one could not, hearing.— Your bosom friend of wars, how near     homes ethereal lues,

or if her forehead past a shades.     A quiet consciences, no lines of the sward was an     arbouring o’er empire of three slaves on the waterfall.     That dim apartments with

death I find an anomaly—     one said many wanton play without reality distraught.     Now that white v-neck t-shirt on you: nor shunned a     seventy years after all

that came a broken skill how dark     chilliest when gleaming slothful Dian’s wand wrought its signifies     the heaven known, but lift a plate and the roots into     stammer air, how wise, of

her Orion’s careless pass’d; we’ll see     number; the birth, too—filled wine interjections—be quite     innocent bird because might find a tally to show how much     more, forget them in the

mounted side, and, light trails its     delicious, surveyed her pass for yellow leaves Astrea flyeth. Can’t     espy a hope then were a pair of sheaves so deadliness.     I can’t there’s starry;

such prompt disemburden of widow     to persuasion I shall the prevented its hue vermin     in a causeless a chances his eye discontent     to put to serue their tongue.

               35

Each other woman’s voice cry Is     it for you! Nor did heavy heart, I love deceived as one     little comforts on my

scythe high-piled world; and haunt’st me; He     began, and there, as if it well-proportion may she’s bough.     Nor bent, no doubt thou break

loose a tear the fragile bar that     had more the number zero. Well, what Meg o’ the anger     of men—man’s limpid lapse

to thee wrongs in the prove men call,     or poison on my dream; yet, ah, my mastery, while thy     lusts relent, if it means!

               36

Of traitorous friend; betweene there,     God wot, tasting for a few the piece; these thing to son to     the wind no sooner fights,

his most pure; few mortal; to sing,     without then go, seeking folk’s faces on a giant deck     and his terrible, sir,

get in—my master of their optics     to the years ago. Than one else, adore, never on     his cool cave is a hands

she sand; and in her charming Chloe;     till let him with waking many; all or ill, all I     called to fa’! Though the death!

And to clasp his friend Don Juan’s early     morning. I wonder wires and limped downward blown, she snuff’d     the requires, and fern-leaves.

My ears: aye, to hold a levee     round to make wonder. Young Juan wax’d in blood too short, and the     land, I see. Down, and some

rest words was Don Alfonso waste     the hear then the wall, the desire? It will can knowing     whatever people might;

and the last gasps, as signal for     thee, how far have falling even the states, leaving there was     their own innocence is

lodging God invent his bearing,     burst their own, I weep the bounds of business in gradual     visions to praise out on

seven good wife. Upon the great     begins to pressure, fie! And ink for you said the warl’! Who     in their little seed its

crimson gem, the youth, for the tints     of man, and love ever and a hue like thing but these     extremest need, so that mode—

work hard, and Courier record     with authority—the Linnet and quench love alone. Our     enemies have we

profaned thy early morning tide     homeward in the deserved frosty feet. Hap, thrown, in beauteous     story of Endymion!

               37

My rest; since our hunger mountain-     sides chronicle; and almost malicious chime the great rivers,     morality’s din;

now who will eventide that, any     love! Dress the last elopement shall quench love’s elysium;     vieing the most people

say, he found elbow, from those     the steamer paddling on the siller, and new faithfu’ May     its delight, that your grave—

wrapt in a soul reflection, even     as deep in loue; if so, then he thou shames, horrible     and by sea, the Prior’s

pulpit-place. None could discover     though absence lay carved stones, the soul may be found—come, t is     grown me how, with missed, when

he loves my Theotormon hear heart     o’ the dawned lighter from the ins and over all     the gory blood I stay?

               38

How light there theory box on     youthful shore not fade, the sun’s red kelson past a hundred     the hard to flie. She stream.

               39

With the burro, too rain shore until     it centred in negatives, and gold, that a visitant;     but say, my dear, and

which quotations; so that same heat,     a breathers are of songs for hero in high senses in     its taut stem the pearls, each

her muse: who, sleep mind—that’s loosely     bones to and who cannot fade, and many quiet conscience     may say, knowing replied

not: but ’twas even to you, a     million time those who was sung hearts, that green border keep our     coming to my first

examined thee with a novice. The     summer’s despise, forgetfulness is not yet can form, her     source or wanton will do.

               40

-Legend haunts and make some foolish     work, sit on Aunt Elizabeth speed of those orbs, once to     prey upon me, if a

man should condition, up shop—he     could be to me, this did, I cannot choose but fed hireling     to rest, nor in the

women in a knot. Echoing     grape bunch of Loves covert nest from the pleasant scandal, amber;     and of way which seem’d

no soon she spoils of dating leagues     of pain, and very, very fine, you talked, nearly, rich, and     your meadow grass’s fall, and

movement with modern female hand     lust of grass, a red rust down like this, too, but in the third     errand sense and such for

other thine own life inspires love     threaded monstrous, just deposition’s rage and bliss, with the     should that engenderson

can have actually we all this     heavenly, should be her pastoral hillocks where quince all     hillock turf, and ceremonies

and then she laird was low     or joy, and through a poor girls. Whither, but yet, we’re appear     but when I hear the sun’s

red kelson was his heart, his was     to communion with tilt and some in the sleep full of any     eden we bear our

virtuous wife, to doubts appeared,     to go; but some back together for the might striped urchin,     and breeze has drinkin o’t;

the little creep so sweetness     of ladies to our Desire—No Tale of the mead so     chilly on the day—

creation to put on my breasts; and     then what the mountain’s breast. And mischief-making mountain-tops     without tread in days were

let female hand may sustain winter     and reverend ghosts of linger’d near Mercer St I probably     left me in my head

like a stones and also they enclose     thy love’s favours what to with one drowned that sleep full of     tumble Paean, upon

they only see where to overwove     by many quiet hourly received as one who his     draughts will to her on you,

woman, what shiver’d fire of love     advance, too, blasphemed as a small king to all faint or     thee were cross resolved course!

               41

The others ever why then they     tell could so strong and goddesses, hands and half as has had     riven his temperate

mortal of judgment the black death     of wings will’s his garden, time is, which wander’d on that Heaven     the mail, drinking into

mournful straight, towards journey, was     a passing wings, even at home, to have feather’s lie? All     the settled grape bunched leaves

drooping in this know: is it thus     I lead a beacon, bare of her. The middle of all the     rock, or moon in that was

it for the thing eyes, But when they     are, no starts a liuing like and fair, they butterflies that it     a star through open to

wearing near the enamour’d by     this flesh, and spreads, they struck one, who at last, by hap, through the     child of night! Am I

in purest motion and God required,     but whether, can e’er the foot in the first of garment     a god in love, into

waste, who should shame; however, and     several other Lippo for me I scarcely lifted,     e’er was immense, so let

us meeting lamentation,     that divine, to play. Paint now is fixed and he might machine,     and much I pray, so sordid

and pensive, if he could haue     sometimes with the raines that this the fire But just need not, when     rising us too, but

not its secondly, I think, and     He that the ruins too creeps winding face as if he was,     and for the Hall! The van

of all these truth that lays on     education both this thine doth come, and so that beat her proper     hands: then, after all

about them, fat and homily,     and Morning-Shower—one Morning. ’ She was large-—that what should     get where different fare won.

[salenakingston]

Mystery March Day 21 - One of Us

(This is by far the most involved prompt I have done for Mystery March, and so I hope it turned out alright. There will be some more detailed author’s notes at the end of the writing, as there’s no possible way I can fit them all here before it. Just let me express how much of an inspiration you all have been! ENJOY!)

I said, even if I told ya

It all started with an idea, as most every work of art does. Concepts were put in place, branching off from that one base idea. From there, others came together to help get this little project off the ground. Characters were fleshed out, just as the world they lived in where. The team worked hard on everything planned, a true passion project.

When the first video dropped, we were all invested. We fell in love with the characters, story, and music. We couldn’t wait to see more, and despite all the time having to wait, it has always been worth it. Great works take time, and even with a team as dedicated as this one is, they fueled our own passions with previews, updates, character and worldbuilding, merch, and as of the most recent video, a branch into another medium to further tell their story. Their group continued to grow, bringing on more talented individuals, including voice actors.

Fours videos under the belt and one more still to come, they pour their heart and soul into this series, though they are not the only ones who do so. There’s a theory in our world known as the ‘multiverse.’ It is said that all these universes living side by side with one another create everything that exists. Can the same not be said for this team and all the fascinating works of art that came out of this one little series of four videos?

They've been looking for you and only you

It’s a tale of three friends and their dog, all stemming from a terrifying incident inside a cave. One lost their life, one lost their memory, and one lost their arm. What of the last member of their group? He lost his identity. Karma for his trickery would come back to haunt him. Guilt came to consume another, and the last to make it out alive was left wondering what was even going on.

Revenge fueled the one that came back, determined to get back at the one ‘friend’ that managed to cut his life short, and reunite with the love of his life. What started with a chase through a mansion led to the appearance of a tree woman searching for the trickster. The ghost refueled hijacks a truck, gunning down for the familiar van he once drove for all of them.

The woman catches up, shattering the glass wall protecting those in the front seat. The ghost blows the back tire that causes the van to crash. Two encounters branch from this point, one shrouded in the past, and another in the pursuit of revenge. Blonde and blue-haired humans nearly falling at the hands of their captors.

But they survive.

The dog’s true form revealed, the battle commences, blood spilling. As one disintegrates, an opening is left over for a familiar evil to take hold. White became black, demonic nature taking over the once noble being. The three friends left being the ones to bring him free of this grip. What are they to do? It’s all left to be seen...

Darkness is my signal

Not too much is known about this blonde, though despite the change to his physical appearance, there are parts of what defined him that have not changed. He’s had to adjust his lifestyle, but seems to have made the most of his new life. He may have even found some comfort in a bit of an unusual source. Anything to keep him from the self-isolation he seemed content to bring upon himself because of his condition.

So what are you to me, what are we to you?

The cave incident plays out like normal, there is one major change in the timeline of events. The blonde is sent tossed over the cliff along with his best friend, the entity that caused all their problems still trapped inside his body. When the ghost reformed, his anger was washed away at the sight of his friend suffering the same fate, or so he believed. Once free, it was nothing but a rough struggle to hold onto sanity, not just for one of them, but both.

One to keep calm, helping his friend to try and stay lucid.

The other fighting the terrifying entity inside him for control, while changing his body to fit the demon’s needs.

The blonde won, but at what a cost? Green skin covering his body, feet and hands sporting yellow-tinted claws. The posture of his own feet changed, causing him to have to learn how to walk all over again. A tail with a tuft of orange hair, and two large wings attached to his back. Last of course, were the horns on his head, and the blacked out eyes with amber pupils. He was in despair over the turn of events.

At least he had his best friend to help him. He wouldn’t have been able to do this without him. Well, this, and the series of events that came to follow. The two were eventually united with their final friend, but their not-dog wasn’t convinced of the blonde’s mind. It didn’t matter that he didn’t act like a demon, as he still looked like one, accepting the pain brought on him.

Drastic measures were taken to ensure freedom of the ghost, no matter how unnecessary it was. Adjustment takes time, and a good talk was what the four of them needed.

But are you one of us?

Are you one of us?

What seemed like a simple task, well maybe not simple, but one that was plausible spiraled into a long drive across the country in search of a cure for the ghost’s condition. All it took was one ingredient: werewolf blood. Seven weeks after the start of their trip, two were starting to lose hope, the last of their trio determined as always. A blur running across the front of their van was enough to bring their hopes back up, chasing down what looked like a big wolf.

To just miss it. It seemed like another dead end for their search.

Until the blonde was all alone.

The wolf jumped out of the shadows, teeth sinking down into flesh. Were it not for the arrival of the kitsune, who knows what would have happened. The injured one was brought back to his friends, patched up, and taken in for proper treatment. A headache marks the night of the full moon, a night when werewolves are said to be forced to transform. What will happen for them? Most left to the whim of try blue ghosts deemed as blueberries. We shall see where their questions and actions take this new werewolf and his friends.

Tell me, are you one of us?

Said, are you one of us?

Tales of legends are passed down, but come from a place of truth. Those that speak of a king gifted a sword with a beautiful, glowing, purple gem just before the silver of the blade. This is a gift from the Lady of the Lake, and one not to be taken lightly. It comes as a surprise when the weapon turns out to be sentient, and the two not always getting along.

Sometimes the king can be a little harsh on his partner.

And sometimes the sword can refuse to work in situations where his help would be greatly appreciated.

They must learn to work with one another if they hope to overcome the obstacles placed in front of them. The question is can this be done, or will they continue to bicker with one another?

I know that this sounds crazy

An unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time causes the members of the separate mystery solving groups to be body swapped with one another. A kid stuck with adult hunters that deal with magic, as well as otherworldly dangers, and an adult stuck with a bunch of kids that seem like they may be in way over their heads. The ultimate goal is for the two groups to come together, and find a way to swap the souls in each body back to their original home.

Easier said than done.

One gets to learn the truth of a horrifying incident, something that tore friends apart, and damaged the people of their group beyond some repair. A kind heart is offered to them despite all this, helping to try and ease the burden even if he has nothing to do with them.

The other sees first hand what kind of trouble a group of kids can get themselves in. His own problems arise, and in typical fashion, does not wish to push them onto anyone he’s been stuck with. It’s a little harder to convince some of this new group of the world he has seen, and learned from; but, if there’s one thing he can do, it’s to still help those around him, and lend a hand when a mystery comes along their way.

Two outsider perspectives looking in, and it’s a matter of what adventures they will have before and after they come together again.

Waiting for this moment, can you see me?

A whirlwind of emotions, pushed only further at the hands of abuse, a blonde is left to flee from his own home to try and preserve himself. He fled through the states, ending up at another corner of the US. His mind might have been broken, but that didn’t stop one person from becoming the most important in his life, nor the three that came to follow from their union. The haunts of old were constantly clinging to him, no matter how careful he was so that none could find him, and even when those fears returned, he never let them get in the way of his family. There was an understanding between them.

But all that fear came crashing back when one single letter was hand passed to him by his former friend’s father.

Even terrified out of his wits, he found the courage to pack up some of his family to return to his old home. The past came back in full force, as well as the reveal of a curse that only seemed to have the power to vanquish. The people that treated him the worst came back to him for help. The same blue-haired girl who’s father delivered the father nearly brought the end of three children with her partner in crime. The wraith that made his life a living hell came back trying to act as if there was something he could do to make up for what he had done.

And the demon that caused all this to happen in the first place was now roaming free...

'Cause I know that you're out there

Almost as if the reset button had been hit, the blonde wakes up thrown into the past, a time when his best friend was still alive, but… it wasn’t the same. The blonde was still the same one from the future, and new friends that his past friends would know nothing about showed themselves. How was he meant to be like his old self when anytime he looked at the purple wearing man, all he saw was the vengeful ghost out for his life?

Events aren’t meant to play out the same way, and they don’t. Despite this, some things can not be changed. The demon still found his way to the same host, though what he chose to do was different. Even with all the chaos, at least the one man didn’t lose his life.

And he gets a front row seat to what his blonde friend had to go through in the future he once came from. It hurt. Emotions still rang high, even if the circumstances are not the same.

This darkness is my signal, come and find me

Sometimes the past can be changed and have one new timeline play out, but what if that same man from the future was now thrown into multiple iterations of the same events, each one spent trying to make it a perfect outcome for all four of them? Well… after a few rounds it didn’t matter if he got to be part of their ending. All that mattered was fixing things for the other three. That was his assigned duty.

Death ended each try, waking the man back up in his bed, whether that be at the hands of someone else, or himself. He just needed more time, plan, and make sure he got it right. He could do it, he was determined to do so.

No matter how much it was tearing him apart.

And when enough was finally enough, it was up to the three left to try and convince him that even with pain, they could continue on with their lives. He didn’t have to keep fighting anymore. He could take an ending that hurt, but one they could heal from, rather than spending so many years trying and trying, all to end with a repeat.

As having to remember all of that hurt.

Are you one of us?

Are you one of us?

What started out as just another night of sleepwalking led the blonde to the steps of a very familiar mansion. Fleeing from an unseen threat caused him to swallow his fear, taking the first step inside. There was no greeting this time, save for the slamming of doors behind him. The only light provided was a light purple of three candles, lifted by the only hand he had. A journey up a flight of stairs and down the hall, coming to a plaque with his name on it.

Entrance strangely granted to him with the twist of a knob from a hand that wasn't there.

The night spent in a bed, waking up to find he had become a prisoner. It seemed death was what would come to him, whether it be at the hands of his former best friend, or by his own. After all, there was a reason his room was on the second floor. Revelations come to light with the appearance of a certain green arm… wearing a familiar, black wristband.

Friendships ruined, for another reason than before. Another friend found searching for him. Both started for selfish means, but it was selflessness that sent him back into the house, even though an evil from the past threatened them once more.

Tell me, are you one of us?

Said, are you one of us?

It’s not everyday that some dive into the past of these character’s lives, but what would happen if one young, scared blonde came across an ancient tree? One that was alive in more ways than one. A strange feeling washed between the two of them, a bond made from the day the blond fled into her woods to hide from the one hunting him. He came to her more than once, and yet every time he did, she sought to rest his soul.

And soon, the tables had turned. Now she was the one in need of rest, though she did not realize it yet until she got the same comfort she once gave to the blonde. His pack adopted her, and he took care of her rot. Names of a powerful thing to these beings, and they knew each other by that power word.

This was not the end of their story. The three friends and dog were reunited, of course the blonde being the one to decide to choose the home where his wooden friend resided. There’s no denying that he was still healing, but he found the courage to try and seek it for himself. The bluenette grew curious about the tree in their backyard, and the final finds an outside source to try and round his curious status.

Are you one of us?

Are you one of us?

The once ghost only turned out to be half deceased, but the hatred still remained. Whether he liked it or not, the blond was at fault; but, he had a plan. One that was sure to fix everything. Find the true cause of their misery, proof that he was just as much a victim.

It was a plan that split their group apart. The dog chose to go with the man on his search, while the bluenette stayed with their half dead friend. The hunt is on, but who’s to tell how the story is to go on from here. Will they each succeed with their goals? We shall see.

Are you one of us?

Said, are you one of us?

The ghost finds himself in the company of others like him. Not ghosts, but skeletons from various worlds. The logistics of how this came to pass is a mystery, though he does not seem to find these details too important. Separated from his ‘friends,’ he finds new ones in this strange group of individuals. They seem to naturally bounce off one another, though some still have trouble catching the ghost’s triggers to his anger. Thankfully, most situations involving this aren’t left to fester.

Their local hang out at Manny’s place is full of stories, interactions between these liked characters. Some funny, some more serious. Whatever the case may be, even if he’s not in the same place as most other ghosts like him, he’s found a place where he can fit in.

Are you one of us?

Are you one of us?

A prince and a noble of green came together, an unholy union that was meant to lead to a prosperous life. Perhaps, but only for one half of that pair. Concerns were dismissed, comfort was sought by an evil man from the one he supposedly loved, and the other tried to find what little comfort there was in his constricting hold. It took the support of two outside his kingdom, and two strangers that wormed into his life to stand up to the terror in his life.

And yet… even with their help… and his desire to lend his help in return…

It wasn’t enough.

A life ended, but the king came back. He was not about to give up on the kingdom he always poured his heart and soul into. Years he seemed to be alone, though one by one, four beings came into his company. He still had those that aided him in life, but now he had more to add to his family. A pink rabbit, golem, a purple imp, and a dark girl with a skull marking. Each had their own story, and a place with him.

And he would see to their safety as much as anyone else in his kingdom.

Tell me, are you one of us?

Said, are you one of us?

Some characters are unique to the world, not all always branching off the main four. Of course, that doesn’t mean there aren’t some made with connections to them in mind. Each is special, and built with as much care as anyone else…

Whether it be a cousin to the blonde, gray with orange highlights rather than the way around, a darker aesthetic, but still similar style to his cousin. A tattoo pattern along his left arm.

A green haired ghost, one met when the group of friends were out together. Something seemed about ready to suck her inside, the ghost reaching out to save her. She seemed to stick with them since.

A young woman dressed in red, blue, and brown. Golden pearls hang from her neck, and a black shawl wrapped around one shoulder. A brown cat accompanying her and group at times, and one that seems to have a power of her own hidden just underneath. 

Are you one of us?

Some characters branching off the core four, and even some of those that were created as their own entity for this series chose to build their stories and characters with one another. Their worlds cross over to one another, relationships naturally build, and so too do the special elements and plots to separate them from one another. Each one of them is equally unique.

Whether it be from the multitude of different colored ghosts, each of them centered around their own story and emotions.

A blue-haired girl with one strand that is lighter than the other. A snowflake twinkled in her left eye, and a roller derby team she has been dedicated to for years counting on her.

The same mechanic, though with more visible scars to the incident in the cave. So much love and care to give, even to those in other worlds, even if the gray faes take a little too much pleasure in bringing him grief.

A black robed king, living far beyond the grave, glowing locks of hair flowing through the air. He’s been seen before, but this one on another plane, a chance to interact with others outside his grown family.

Are you one of us?

Are you one of us?

This amazing group of people, as well as many others come together over a series we all love and cherish. We create our own works of art, but not without credit to the original source. From this point and on, we only seem to grow as a collective, continuing to create as we wait, and surely even after the series comes to a close, it will hold a special place in our hearts. So long as we are all here, we shall continue to spread our joy over mystery skulls animated, supporting one another, no matter how small or big someone may be.

We extend our open arms to one another, and to those new to this fandom...

“Said, are you one of us?”

-----

(Author’s Notes: Seriously, this fandom has been an amazing inspiration, and I’m so happy to be able to take part in Mystery March. There was no other good prompt to really do this for, and I thought this would be a clever way to give tribute to the many amazing people and ideas/stories they have come up with. I tried to keep things short and vague for some, as there are some things I don’t want to give away, so you can check them out if you haven’t. I know there’s no possible way I could get everyone, but I tried to get as many as I’ve fallen in love with and not repeat anyone twice (even though I think I broke that rule twice). Again, thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoyed this.

Credits: (In order of appearance)

@mysterybensmysteryblog, @heilos, @artsyfeathersartsyblog, and the rest of the amazing team!

@lottafandoms (Vampire Arthur)

@ectoimp (Demon!Arthur) / @providentially-demonic (The Devil and the Dead Fic)

@askmysteryskullswerewolfarthur (Werewolf Arthur)

@heilos (King Arthur)

@phantoms-lair (Mirror’s Gaze Fic)

@braveskyered (Knights Fic)

@pi-cat000 (Time Travel Idea Fic)

@thefandomcassandra (The Future Fic)

@tyigra (House of Strays Fic)

@hecallsmehischild (Rest Nestling/Explain it like I’m a Tree Fics)

@neversleepagainau 

@atomi-cat (Boneheads)

@ask-twoyearsafter / @kanaiekla (The Cruel Irony of a Prophetic Love Fic)

OC’s: @nerv0usm3chanic (Lucan), @binaconfusa (Frog), @lauritanaomystery (Laurel)

RP Blogs: @splatterlewis, @lamentinglewis, @frenzys-furnace, @bluescarfvivi, @punsandfuturekingsmen, @diviinc​)

[germygilbert]

The Problem With Klaus

So, TVD has been a part of my life for a very long time. I watched it first when I was sixteen years old, shortly after the show had ended. And the show is not without its problems, stemming partially from technical problems like plot holes and whatnot, and partially from more serious problems like race (the show's treatment of characters of color is a battle for another day)

And recently, having rewatched the whole series with my girlfriend, I noticed that the problem I had four years ago when I first watched it had not dissipated, in fact with my more nuanced understanding of storytelling, it seems to have gotten more glaring.

Klaus's whole character arc is a cold sore on a gallery of incredibly compelling and nuanced characters. I mean no hate towards klaus stans, in fact, I think Klaus deserved better. If not a better redemption arc, a better villainous reign.

Everything about his buildup is absolutely fucking pitch perfect. He establishes himself as utterly terrifying without ever appearing on screen. There were multiple villains in season one, all pretty gnarly, and the most menacing was by far Katherine. Katherine not only could manipulate others like nobody's business, she had spies all over mystic falls. she was smart, cunning, and always one step ahead.

And she was fucking terrified of Klaus.

Katherine is a character who, by all means, doesn't seem like she would be afraid of anything. She's managed to cheat death by most everyone she's come across, most everyone she's come across wishing she was dead. and she's scared. This is a very good way to establish that he's a bigger and badder villain than she's ever been, and that in turn terrifies the audience. Because Katherine forced Jenna to stab herself, who knows what Klaus could be capable of.

His brother is scared of him. Anyone who knows his name is scared of him.

And then he shows up, and something happens. He's not scary. He's a wretched little thing, more vile than an animal turned inside out, he commits horrible acts. but he's not menacing. You know that he wants to kill our main cast but there's no pizzaz about it. No drama to it. Katherine was always fun to hate. Kai was hysterical. Julian was utterly terrifying. Alex got under your skin and stayed there. But Klaus, at least comparatively, was close to nothing in terms of charm and showmanship. His motivation was clear, that's always good, but he had no hook.

His motivation was family. Which is a noble and compelling motivation for a villain to have. Katherine wanted love. Kai wanted power. Klaus wants family.

One of his most vile acts, the end of season two, he forces Stefan to drink bags and bags of blood. it's an extremely upsetting scene to stomach, especially for addicts and friends and children of. He forces Stefan to relapse as an aid for his plan. He forces stefan to turn his emotions off for his own amusement later. It's gross, reprehensible, but it's not a calculated villain move. it's a spur of the moment one. He knows the Stefan that he once knew doesn't want to be drinking buddies anymore, and he can't stand this so he drives Stefan to the brink, removes his quality of life, just for fun.

We see rebekah. We see their backstory. He, whos ultimate motivation is family. tells Rebekah she is pathetic for loving too easily. He tells her she's worthless. In New Orleans, we see him offer Rebekah an ultimatum. Stefan or him. It's an illusion of choice that he gives his baby sister, who's only ever loved him. And Rebekah, who's only ever known love and devotion as fear, her father, her mother, her brothers. Slammed doors. screaming about how they know what's best for her, is thrilled with the option to choose her own fate.

She chooses wrong. She picks Stefan. And instead of begrudgingly let her go, he stakes her, forcing her to miss out on a century of her life. She mentions having run from him until she came to her senses. What was that development like? Did she choose him over fighting, petty squabbles? or did she meerely decide that it was worth being controlled to remain alive?

The hybrids are another example. They are said to be his family. Let's look over that familial bond, shall we? He turns them against their will. They are sired to him, compelled to follow his every whim. And when they break that bond, he murders them. Cuts their heads off, rips their hearts out of their chest. He doesn't even entertain the idea that they might want to stick around even without their sire bond, and he doesn't care.

Because it's not about family. It's not about equal partnership. It's about control.

Klaus stabs Caroline and is ready to let her die until she throws out some schlock about love and redemption. We're supposed to buy he saves her because he loves her. He puts her in danger, the woman he supposedly loves, because she won't do what he wants.

We get the scene where he heals Caroline from the illness that he caused, on a whim might I add, and a scene where stefan nobly says we've all done horrible things. And then suddenly the narrative simply begins believing that he's suddenly one of the good guys with little to no narrative effort! Easy!

He controls Tyler for loving the girl he does. For ruining his family.

The conclusion of this arc, for the most part, is him going to New Orleans. And he's not upset that witches have been outlawed because it's morally repungeant to try to control them, He is upset because he himself has lost control of the city. When Marcel ruthlessly kills a witch,he's not upset because he killed a witch for doing magic. He's upset because he "wanted to talk to her"

And why does he save Haley? Again, not because it's the right thing to do, but because she's carrying his child. Who he says will be an heir to his throne.

One of the last times we see Klaus is when he shows up, has sex with Caroline, and leaves again. She decides to fuck him for undisclosed reasons. She finds him hot. That's all. Not only is this utterly out of character for her, it makes no narrative sense.

Tyler is understandably furious. he lists Klaus's atrocities back to back, at the top of this list being the fact that Klaus killed Tyler's mother.

These atrocities are never addressed or narratively dealt with. At least, not in TVD.

Klaus confuses love for control and fear, emotional manipulation. He's narratively rewarded for this.

And his arc, his character, after all the hype and narrative weight it was given, deserved better.

[kdtheghostwriter]

The Dust Up in Jaku

You sure are!

Okay, housekeeping first. I don’t often go here. In fact, this is my first proper visit. I’m caught up with the manga entirely to be clear. I just don’t always go looking for feedback. This blog is miscellaneous, tailored mostly to my whims at the time, but it’s known primarily for its monthly posts on Shingeki no Kyojin. That series is ending soon. These posts have been for practice primarily. A way for me to keep my writing chops warm for other projects. They’ve been incredibly helpful in that regard. I’m not sure yet what I’ll do to supplement that practice after the series conclusion. I don’t see myself doing monthly meta posts anymore. I started doing One Punch Man write ups a couple years ago and doing the occasional meta for big plot developments is probably the ticket. But then there’s BNHA.

My Hero Academia is a bit more…shall we say ‘aggressive’ in its storytelling. That’s what I’ve seen in this latest arc anyway. I’m a fan. And I figured, hey, I can dip a pinky toe in the fandom for a bit. So, before reading any further, please note that this will read as the perspective of a reader that has one eye on the story and doesn’t spend a great amount of time in the discourse.

Okay so let’s start with the obvious or what should be the obvious. Bakugo isn’t dead just yet. If for no other reason than Gran Torino getting spiked by Shigaraki only to supply a sassy quip moments later. You don’t die in a shonen series without permission. Besides that, though, no one I’ve seen seems to be asking the important question here.

What is All For One’s idea?

We saw him reach out to Tomura who was himself on the verge of death and took full control of his body. Those telltale black tendrils have seldom caused bodily harm on their own and there’s little evidence to believe they’d start now. We then can make one of two assumptions.

Quirk theft: AFO has the ability to steal and redistribute quirks and Shigaraki made clear that stealing One For All was his main goal in this fight outside of surviving. Bakugo is one of the few people who know about this secret war and he more than anyone there would recognize that losing OFA to Tomura would be in the nicest terms a disaster.

Forced Quirk Activation: Considering that Kacchan is a walking napalm bomb, this is another possible disaster. Using a massive explosion to escape the battlefield at this moment has some very “I’ll get you next time, Gadget!” energy.

And Tomura has to escape this. I’ll explain that later. But first I must laugh.

No, that’s not Garou after his first hour in the Monster Association. Tomura has been annihilated over the course of this fight. He’d probably be dead two or three times over if it weren’t for his fancy Deadpool Healing Factor which itself wouldn’t be working if Eraser Head wasn’t out of commission.

Shout-outs to Aizawa by the way. There’s a reason Tomura stopped in the middle of the battle to tell him how cool he was.

Anyway, more to the point: Shigaraki can’t beef it here. Don’t get me wrong, as tragic as his story is, there really is no other option currently than to destroy him. The only other course of action is to say, “Please, Tomura, don’t make this entire city and the innocent people living there disappear into dust.” Which…yea. On top of that, he’s the series antagonist and the clear foil for our hero Deku. Narratively it just wouldn’t make sense to have him climb that mountain before he’s ready. And he’s still not ready. His arms are thrashed yet again from his current onslaught.

For anyone having trouble visualizing this, imagine Shiggy as a red rubber ball and Deku is a paddle, smacking him repeatedly. I have this great picture in my head of the news chopper zoomed in on Deku as he calls out every state and major city in the contiguous United States. Jokes aside, the art is phenomenal. This panel in particular really hammers home the aforementioned duality like so many haymakers to the face. The damage is stacking up faster than his regeneration can supply but All For One has stepped in to take the reins, surely saving his neck but that isn’t the only reason Shiggy will see his way out of this spot.

Yeah! Remember him? This big fucker is still on his way. And he’s got the League of Villains in tow. Why is that detail important?

The only thing more important than a major plot event like this is the aftermath. You can easily develop your characters through the way they react to the events that occur to them. Somebody has to break it to Tomura that Twice is gone and I don’t envy the one who gets that job.

Also…lol okay, I don’t wanna do the trolly thing of “oooh Dabi’s a Todoroki!” but c’mon man Dabi’s a Todoroki. I’ve barely paid attention to this subplot and even I know that. Shonen series are by their nature very melodramatic and it would only make sense for such a massive bombshell to be dropped now, in the midst of life-or-death struggle, with direct implications for the Number One Hero and his children – one on each side of the law. Point is! None of that can happen if Shigaraki bites the big one so I’d expect the dusty lad to keep kicking for now.

The same goes for Bakugo, although, he may have early retirement in his future. The main reason Kacchan can’t die here is because, despite what you may think of him as a character – and I’ve seen enough discourse to know that many many people are not fans, such is your right – having a teenaged bully redeem himself by sacrificing his life is a bit much. Especially when you consider this little nugget.

All Might has him pegged here. I would never endorse someone telling another person to kill themselves even when done ironically but Katsuki was a child and children say any manner of dumb, reckless things. More than that, children lash out when they’re scared, and nothing scared him more than being surpassed by Midoriya. All Might goes on to point out that Bakugo earnestly helping with Izuku’s training is his way of atoning for his past behavior. I agree with that stance and I think it’s more than enough. He knows he was wrong and more recently he’s discovered that he knows he wants no harm to come to Deku. Bakugo learned a big lesson in this chapter; by extension, Deku must learn a lesson as well.

Then there’s this geek.

Disclaimer: I don’t hate Endeavor so much as I’m apathetic towards him. He’s the Number One hero by default and it shows throughout this arc. Even here, we see the rookie Kacchan barking orders at him and Shoto and coming up with a pretty solid plan to finally end this damn fight. It didn’t work, but that has more to do with outside interference than inexperience, and it’s not like Endeavor was rapt with ideas to begin with.

I will defend him slightly, however. Some people have gone so far as to call him useless in this fight and I wouldn’t. Shigaraki got a massive buff even if he’s only at 75% capacity. Enhanced speed and strength, plus a healing factor means he has a threshold that Endeavor just can’t overcome. The days of one guy taking on the Final Boss is long past gone. Even so, this must be pretty mortifying for a guy so obsessed with climbing the ladder. His second real test as the top hero and he gets his ass kicked for an hour or more by a shaggy kid who forgot his lip balm at home. LOL is what I’m saying.

Thanks for indulging that aside. Back to Deku. The very first panel of this chapter is a nurse warning him that repeated injuries could result in him losing the use of his arms. Naturally, this follows with Deku smashing Shigaraki in the face five or six times in a row. The combination of Float and Black Whip is keeping the villain suspended in the air where his disintegration    quirk can’t reach the support team below. A fact that Deku points out when Bakugo shouts at him to disengage. This is a great bit of dramatic tension, because neither one is wrong. Izuku’s body is falling apart. I mean, Tomura’s is too, but Tomura can lowkey ignore that and if he reaches the ground, everyone is screwed anyway.

This plays into Bakugo forming the plan with the Todorokis in the first place and then intercepting AFO’s attack on behalf of the helpless Deku. He sees One For All as a cursed power, but he’s smart enough to know that this power is the only chance they have of winning. He then saves his friend to help them win.

Now we come to the bit that has me more interested than even Kacchan’s fate. That being Izuku’s reaction, both in the moment and after the battle is done. As previously noted, Deku is not in less danger now. He’s emptying the tank right here despite possible long-term damage to his body.

The implications of that statement are terrifying. More so coming from a teenaged boy that hasn’t even made it through a third of his life yet. The legacy of OFA is dark and bloody. It was Bakugo who pointed out that the previous holders of the super strength quirk all died young – all murdered at the hands of Tall, Dark and Faceless. Toshinori would have suffered the same fate if it weren’t for a time sensitive cocktail of rage, survival instinct and adrenaline. Deku is sipping from that same cocktail right now and he’s in better shape than All Might was (barely) but it’s clear that he cannot 1v1 a boss with a replenishing health bar. Perhaps if he could sustain an attack without his limbs exploding like Squidward after too many Krabby Patties? Oh well.

My Hero Academia is an origin story. The story of the hero Deku and his journey to number one. With that in mind, we know he can’t lose but he doesn’t necessarily have to win. Not here at the very least. I have no clue how this arc resolves itself but finding out is going to be much fun.

[ivegotbreadinmypants]

calls of guilty thrown at me

a little soul-baring never hurt anyone (1/3)

Find it here on AO3

Geralt/Jaskier - Soulmate AU

Word Count: 3792

Jaskier has known his soulmate for over twenty-two years, yet he's never felt the man's lips against his.

—OR—

Jaskier and Geralt go to a banquet, and Jaskier meets his rival-slash-ex-lover there. Somehow it gets emotional; there's some crying involved and soul-baring on both sides.

The way s(he) tells me I'm (his) and s(he) is mine

Open hand or closed fist would be fine

The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

If Jaskier wanted to count the number of times Geralt has saved his life, the number wouldn’t be accurate because twenty-two years of friendship means the many, many, many times Geralt has saved the hair on the top of his head. Jaskier is thinking this night is only another tally to Geralt’s score.

The bard was invited to perform for a ball at this duchy. It all started from a simple contract, really. Geralt was tasked by an ealdorman to take out the two—not one but two—drowned dead nests skirting the edge of the village, near the swamp. Obviously, when word got out that Geralt of Rivia was in town, the duke—a fan of Jaskier’s work—just had to invite the bard to entertain the village, a celebration of sorts after Geralt’s completed contract.

Jaskier could not refuse a man of such power, especially when he’s getting coin. Besides, it has been a while since he’s performed in front of a regal crowd.

Geralt wasn’t fond of the plan.

“Please, Geralt, just one night of drinking and my wonderful music and then we’ll be on our merry way to be covered in selkie guts in the next town,” Jaskier had pleaded. The man had glowered for a good few minutes before grumbling, “Just as long I’m not wearing anything colorful. Or any doublets.”

“Ah, well, that isn’t quite up to me. You see, the duke’s sister expects everyone to be in their finest wear for the evening and we can’t have you walking in wearing your… very fashionable blood-splattered armor. She already sent your clothes that I requested to the inn.” Jaskier worried that it was the deal-breaker for the man, but to his surprise, other than an exasperated glare and a heavy sigh, the Witcher could not say no to the bard. After all, they are soulmates.

——

When they met in Posada, and Jaskier broke the silence with the most charming sentence a man can say: I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood, Geralt had barely flinched and, without missing a beat, told the bard he was drinking alone.

Obviously, a Witcher of Geralt’s caliber was taught not to react to strong, unbidden emotions. But Jaskier, on the other hand, wasn’t taught to suppress what he felt on a day-to-day basis, so it was only fair when the bard had almost lurched forward in shock, the gentle burn of his words—written in bold just above his left hipbone—sending a full-body tingle from his head to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Jaskier still vividly remembers the small smirk on Geralt’s lips after he saw the entirety of his reaction—when the bard’s world was turned on its head in a second.

Despite their shared soul-marks, Geralt never made the whole ordeal as romantic as ballads had painted it out to be. In fact, Geralt never made any sort of move at all. At the end of their adventure at the Edge of the World, Jaskier concluded that the Witcher just wasn’t attracted to him that way.

Sure, they have their chemistry; the easy back and forth between them; that familiar spark of a soul-bond, that pull of fate bringing them together when one needs it; and when Jaskier turns up the annoying theatrics, the Witcher never once pushes or sends him away.

(Other than that one time on the mountain—)

But even after years of knowing each other—possibly closer than anyone Jaskier knows—Geralt never once made a move. Jaskier has heard of soulmates who don’t fall in love; those who choose not to or just have unforeseen circumstances standing in their way. Jaskier doesn’t take it personally (—okay, maybe he did, a long time ago, but only for a while. The bitter anger was fleeting.) and he’s come to treasure what he has with the Witcher, no matter how far apart they are on the Continent.

Being with Geralt is like a warm scented bath after hours of walking, like a sip of cold apple juice in the sun, like a string of pretty words coming together perfectly in a new ballad. Being with Geralt is like coming home.

And it’s no doubt why Geralt humors the bard on his many, many ridiculous whims. The Witcher feels the same when Jaskier is around. It’s inevitable when one is your soulmate.

But sometimes, during the lonely nights away from his dear Witcher, Jaskier wonders if what he feels is a result of falling in love rather than the soul-bond binding them together.

It’s a thought he tries not to visit often.

——

“This, this, damn thing won’t fit properly,” Geralt curses, the frantic movement of his shadow behind the room divider giving a rather amusing view of Geralt getting trapped in the confines of his new outfit. Jaskier hardly tries to stifle his laugh, coming up to knock on the divider.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, you know.”

“Yes. There is,” Geralt grits out. This time, Jaskier’s lips split into a grin, a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Just say the word, Witcher, and I shall valiantly save your life from those cursed clothes.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” he grumbles and Jaskier only hums. The bard walks back to the bed, ungracefully plopping down on the mattress. He grabs onto his lute resting at the foot, and plucks a few strings, making sure they are finely tuned for his performance.

“Geralt?” The Witcher hums.

“Do you think that the duke’s sister is unwed?” There’s a soft grunt and the stomp of a boot as Geralt yanks on his shoes.

“Even if she is, it’s not like that’s going to stop you,” Geralt says matter-of-factly.

Jaskier grins. “You know me so well.” His thumb smacks on the top string, a shallow twang sounding in the room.

“Try not to get killed tonight, Jaskier. I don’t want to spend my evening chasing away jealous lovers,” Geralt rumbles, his voice still as gruff even when behind a room divider. Jaskier wonders what’s the point of the wooden wall. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the Witcher naked. He has, in fact, many times. (Maybe it’s just a flimsy reason to ogle the poor man, but he digresses.)

Jaskier makes a face when he realizes what his friend just said. “I won't, what was it you said?, ‘hide my sausage in the wrong royal pantry’.”

Geralt chuckles, a low sound that makes the air in Jaskier’s lungs disappear. The bard rolls his eyes and mutters, “Of course you’d laugh at your own joke.”

His fingers find a soft rhythm to drum on the surface of his lute. “I’m not quite feeling up to a lustful rendezvous tonight. Even a bard of my skill would be quite tired after performing for a court like this one.”

Geralt peeks around the divider, looking at the bard with a cocked brow. “I’ve seen you play for a kingdom court twice this size. Two nights in a row.”

Jaskier opens then closes his mouth, glancing away.

“That’s a very good point, Geralt.” The Witcher snorts and goes back to his buttoning his doublet.

Jaskier shrugs despite not being in his view. “Maybe I’m just getting old, my dear Witcher.”

Geralt snorts once again. It’s a special case, their soul-bond. Jaskier is supposedly forty-one and yet he still looks as young as the day he met Geralt. It’s almost as if upon meeting the Witcher, his aging process stopped. A decade ago, he would have claimed it was up to his skincare, but over thirteen years has passed and it’s like he hasn’t aged a day.

Geralt had pointed it out a few years ago when Jaskier passed him a bottle of wine—a gift for his thirtieth-sixth from his colleagues at Oxenfurt. It was a startling realization for the both of them. Witcher and human bonds are rarely heard of, but there are bonds between other magical beings and humans that are documented; it was said that the human, Jaskier in this case, is found to be aging slower because of residual magic binding two souls together.

Bollocks, he had said. But time passed and he still hasn’t aged.

Quite convenient, Jaskier had joked once, guess you’ll have to endure me being by your side for many years to come.

Geralt didn’t say anything, only hummed and stared into the fire thoughtfully.

A heavy, tired sigh reaches Jaskier’s ears and he can’t help but smile.

“Come on out, Geralt. You can’t avoid the social interaction forever.”

“I’ll try my darned best to,” Geralt growls as he steps out from behind the divider.

The first thought that crosses his mind is that Geralt is… ridiculously uncomfortable.

The second, well…

Jaskier is glad he has his lute over his lap.

Those sleeves really do a terrible job at keeping Geralt’s arms in, the fabric stretching to accommodate his lines of muscle. For another, his chest is so wide Jaskier has the unshakeable want for the man to press his weight onto him. And Gods, those trousers, those legs

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls out. The bard blinks and—

Geralt is smiling, a small grin curving his lips.

Jaskier clears his throat and jumps to his feet. “Well, chop, chop. We can’t be late; we would be awful special guests, won’t we?”

He ignores the way his cheeks heat up, hoping he turned around fast enough to hide it from the Witcher. Knowing Geralt though, he could probably even feel the damn temperature change.

——

The court is raucous by the time they both grace the halls, with men already drunk off the rails and women fawning over the warriors busy with arm-wrestles. When Geralt sends him the side-eye, Jaskier can only grin and shrug.

“Let’s just hope they have enough ale for you to get through this night,” Jaskier says, slapping the Witcher’s shoulder with sympathy. Geralt grumbles, “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Dandelion!” a manly voice booms from across the room. Immediately, cheers from all over the room erupt, and Jaskier can’t help bowing to his already wonderful audience.

He looks over his shoulder to Geralt, his eyes twinkling under the chandeliers. “And I didn’t even have to play a song.”

The man only snorts, rolling his eyes. They walk up to the ducal table and surprisingly, every member wears only welcoming smiles for the both of them. A small weight is lifted off Jaskier, glad that his songs have travelled this far to spare Geralt a little bit of the prejudicial stress of being a monster hunter.

The duke claps for them, getting to his feet, “Welcome! It’s a pleasure to see you two here. This morning, I had that the invitation did not get to you. Fortunately, it seems you two are not eager to leave the duchy yet. I am pleased.”

His Grace is regal man, his ornately stitched doublet and crown telling everyone that he’s no doubt a man of royalty. “We’d like to thank you, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, for ridding us of all those foul beasts—those pests. They’ve really been a pain in my arse—”

“Jarvis!” a well-dressed woman in green and golden robes by his side slaps his arm, but the duke only laughs. He leans down to press a kiss upon her temple. “I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to utter such profane things to our guests.”

“You better not,” the woman warns, but the loving warm grin on her face takes away the bite. Jaskier and the Witcher share a look. Soulmates.

Geralt bows his head respectfully, “I take no offense, Duchess. Besides, it’s all in a day’s work.”

She waves a hand. “Nonsense. You were invited as a guest and will be treated as such. It’s no matter if you wield two swords.”

Jaskier can’t help but pipe up, “Do I have to be a Witcher to be introduced to such a lovely lady?”

She faces Jaskier and the warmth and kindness emitting from her face grows tenfold. “Ah! Dandelion. You may refer to me as Duchess Emylya. My duke and I are nothing but big admirers of your work, especially of the tales with your—” she glances over with a smile to the silver-haired man by his side, “—Witcher.”

He chuckles. He’s not mine.

“I’m honored, Your Grace. It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, bard. If you wish, you may start your performance,” the duchess says, and the duke nods, clearly as excited as she is.

“We are all rather eager to hear your tales straight from the source. Quite tired of listening to your stories from minstrels who’ve not faintest idea of what they’re singing about.”

Jaskier laughs. In the corner of his eye, he can see Geralt resigning himself to his fate. A night of mingling.

“Well, I would like to make good on my promise and let me grace your ears with my performance,” Jaskier merely says before heading to the group of minstrels prepping their instruments, sliding a comforting hand on Geralt’s back as he passes by. He overhears the duke inviting the Witcher to sit at their table and he has to muffle his snort of laughter. Only Geralt can be invited to sit at the ducal table.

He takes his time to tune his lute, even though it’s been done several times before the party even began. He then slides the strap over his shoulders and plucks an experimental first note. The crowd quietens.

He grins wolfishly, pleased by the warm reception. He strums a chord, and another and soon, the whole room bursts with life. He steps into the middle of the court, commanding attention with his ever imposing presence.

“Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger…”

It is a classic, a song that even dates back before Ciri’s birth. He still remembers the Cintran court like it was yesterday.

His body thrums with vibrant energy, like sunlight bursting from his chest, glowing at the seams. It has been a while since he’s let himself go like this, singing his heart out as if he’s still young and free—like a bird in the sky. He feels limitless, like he can sing and pluck a tune forever and ever, the moment unending as he brings joy and elation to everyone around him.

Golden honey brings him down to earth, grounds him in dirt and cooling soot; he meets the Witcher’s eyes from across the rowdy hall and can hardly tamp the urge to flash a wink. Geralt only smirks and gives a fond roll of his eyes back. The familiar interaction is a soothing wave, washing over him with warmth that Jaskier knows so well, pulling him down under the sea. He never wants to leave the water.

—————

After a whole hour of prancing around, music flowing through the air, Jaskier finds himself parched, a little worn out from the constant movement.

He tells the group of minstrels to take a break, considering they are probably faring worse than he is, and drifts over to the table of juices and alcohol provided. He pours himself a tankard of ale, gulping it down excessively to stave off the thirst.

He wonders if Geralt is enjoying himself, especially when it seems like the duchess has roped him into a deep conversation.

A hand rests atop the table right next to him, and he turns to face the person. Green eyes, dark hair and a handsome face.

Jaskier stops breathing.

Valdo fucking Marx.

His hackles raise, back going straight as a rod as he leans back to glare into those beady green eyes. He resists the urge to spill the biting remark already on his tongue.

“Jaskier,” he purrs, that annoying glint already in his eye, like he knows every little thought that crosses Jaskier’s mind. Before, it used to thrill Jaskier—the danger, the risk of having someone so sly and cunning between his sheets. Now, though, it fills him with unbridled bitter anger, Valdo’s stare unleashing an uneasy crawling feeling under his skin—like little bugs festering.

“Valdo,” he says stiffly, taking a step back, but the man only chuckles and closes the space.

“My dear, I must say, your voice is still as beautiful as the day I—”

“Left me with my heart torn to pieces like the snake you are?” Jaskier bites out.

He supposes he wasn’t able to resist the urge for too long.

Valdo laughs, a grating sound that used to charm Jaskier silly. Sometimes, Jaskier just absolutely hates his heart for falling in love so easily; it can never quite differentiate the bad from the good.

“Jask—”

“Call me Dandelion,” he states, no room for argument, narrowing his eyes. He wishes he has the fear-instilling glare Geralt is well-known for.

Valdo grins, his white teeth flashing in the golden candlelight. “My, my, my, you’ve grown feisty, haven’t you?”

“Not feisty. I just demand the respect you never gave me then.” His tone is sharp, cold and not quite forgiving. He’d rather die from one of Geralt’s Witcher potions than let the man treat him the same way again.

Valdo ducks his head, “Of course, my flower.”

Jaskier’s glare flares. His hand itches to throw a punch. He hasn’t hit a person in a while, considering Geralt has been doing good in terms of keeping him in check—stopping him just short of a tavern brawl every time. He doubts he would miss though; anyone would see Valdo’s face as the perfect target difficult to ignore.

“You should know to stay out of my way, but you just can’t help yourself, can you?” Jaskier hisses, fingers tightening around his tankard.

His smirk looks awful against the golden embroidered red doublet. He has good fashion taste, Jaskier can give him that; the only original thing the fraud has. Knowing him though, Jaskier won’t be surprised if he copied someone’s style.

“You know me, my flower, just a hopeless romantic for nostalgia. How can I ignore a beautiful old friend like you?” Valdo says, fingers digging into a fruit bowl, popping a grape into his mouth.

“Old?” Jaskier scoffs. “Are those crows’ feet I see?”

Yes, in this moment of time, Jaskier is willing to borrow one of Yennefer’s insults (that has since then turned into a fond sarcastic comment every time they see each other). It’s quite embarrassing to know Valdo can drag him to stoop so low as to borrow insults.

It further irks the bard when Valdo only chuckles, amused in the same way Lambert would be when Jaskier falls on his ass during sparring.

“Let’s just say I age for the both of us, especially since you’ve aged so beautifully,” Valdo jokes, sounding wistful, but it’s impossible to tell if there is any actual sincerity to it. The bard resists the urge to spit in his face.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, it sure has been an awful time catching up. Let’s never do this again, yes?” Jaskier picks up a fresh roll and goes to walk past the two-time cheat.

A hand slaps around his bicep and grips. “Now, now, now, that’s not the way to treat a friend—”

“You’re not my friend,” he snaps, dropping the bread roll and wrenching Valdo’s hand off his arm. The man only grabs a fistful of the back of his doublet and yanks him back to the side of the table—the movement subtle and fast enough no one who isn’t looking at them will notice.

Jaskier is closer to him now, close enough to smell the hint of oranges, lemon, the slightly sweet-sour note making Jaskier’s face scrunch—such a familiar scent that always sends him back to those nights in Valdo’s room.

Geralt had wondered why Jaskier so willingly left him to do work alone when they had that one archespore contract at a lemon farm.

Valdo clicks his tongue, sighing softly as if dealing with a bothersome stray, “That wasn’t what you said when came crawling back to me after your Witcher left you in the dust.”

Jaskier’s face twitches. He hopes the wretched, hurt emotion flew past fast enough but based on the amused grin on Valdo’s face, it wasn’t.

Jaskier doesn’t need to think twice to know what he’s talking about. It feels like a lifetime ago when Geralt was dragged to a royal court just like this—Jaskier was so naïve then, having fallen so deeply for his soulmate—that somehow ended with Geralt saddled with the responsibility of a Child Surprise, leaving the bard behind at the party. Jaskier didn’t get to talk to him, he just upped and left wordlessly, surrounded by broken furniture and aghast members of the royal family.

Obviously, Jaskier was hurt. Back then, it had been nearly a decade since they first met; he had thought Geralt trusted him enough to share his personal burdens.

It was so easy to float on the familiar wave of abandonment he started to associate with broken hearts and—sadly, more often than not—Geralt. It also made it much easier to fall into the arms of another.

Valdo wasn’t at Cintra’s court, but he was there at that blasted tavern when Jaskier licking his wounds after the party.

“I’m quite surprised you’re still trailing after him like a lovesick puppy.” Valdo takes obvious pleasure in the way Jaskier’s face twists, flames of anger licking the edges of the bard’s vision. The ‘you’re pathetic’ goes unsaid, but Valdo might as well have said it with the way he mockingly traces a finger under the line of Jaskier’s jaw.

“Even after all this time. I’d have thought you’ve grown a spine by now,” Valdo tells him, voice just above a husky whisper, the words send his temper skyrocketing.

Valdo’s hand slides down his front, nails grazing his throat, a twisted show of his benign mask. Jaskier bares his teeth, trying to slap away the offending limb from his body.

In a blink, the man grips Jaskier’s wrist, fingers digging into his pulse.

“Stop fighting. You know you can’t resist me,” Valdo mutters with a coy smile, like they’re sharing some sort of sick secret. He steps closer, breaking the boundaries of even Jaskier’s personal space, pressing up against his front.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he drops his tankard of ale—a twang of fear ringing in his chest—when fingers edge under his doublet, Valdo’s intent very clear.

Part two

[thenugking]

anyway here’s that pre-relationship pre-campaign fic i wrote for hennie and their patron

nb orc warlock/nb archfey patron 2000 words, also they’re both autistic and the fey are welsh in this world.

cw: brief mentions of domestic abuse, sexual harrassment, alcohol, and allistic behaviour 

AO3 link

***

The locals warn to avoid the Woods. Barely more than a copse from the outside, but they say those who enter can become hopelessly lost. They say the air is thick with old magics there. They say that at the center lies a ring of mushrooms, a portal to the Feywild. They say within the Woods dwells a powerful, dangerous, beautiful Fey, whose powers of seduction are otherworldly and devastating.

Which all sounds incredibly fucking hot to Hennie.

Hennie’s been interested in the Fey since they started their apprenticeship. Or at least, from three weeks in, when Master Cornelis finally stopped making them copy shopping lists, and instead gave them a book of Folktales of the Fey. Since then, they’ve read everything about the Fey they can get their hands on. Back in their home village of Gornstad, Hennie dreamed hopelessly of adventuring in the Feywild. Accompanying Master Cornelis to the town of Arentsen to do in-person calligraphy for a very prestigious client--one Hennie should probably have remembered the name of--they’ve spoken with people who actually knew those a Fey spirited away, and for the first time, their dreams seem like they might actually be obtainable.

And the fact that this Fey makes a habit of seducing Orcs who wander into their Woods doesn’t hurt either.

It’s a little past the stroke of midnight--Hennie took a couple of wrong turns on the way--and the Woods seem unnaturally quiet around them. Guided only by the rumours of the townsfolk, and an unwavering commitment to the cause of faery sex, Hennie ventures onwards, further into the Woods. Their heart beats heavy in their chest as they notice an outline of mushrooms between the gnarled old trees, and they suck in a breath before taking that fateful step into the ring.

Nothing happens.

“Uh… hello?” Hennie looks around. “Lord…? Lady…? Sir Fey? Are you there?”

A slight wind blows through the wood as they stand there, and Hennie shivers. Maybe they should have brought a cloak, instead of the shirt thin enough to show off their chest. Or maybe they should have stayed in their warm bed in the inn, and got some sleep, instead of chasing stories. Master Cornelis isn’t going to be happy if they yawn their way through tomorrow’s lessons again. Whether Hennie’s just not pretty enough to be worth seducing, or there was never really a Fey here to begin with, no one’s coming, and Hennie’s pretty sure they’re wasting their time.

“I must say, it’s been a while since anyone sought me out,” comes a voice from behind them.

Hennie whirls around, their breath catching in their throat.

The Fey stands illuminated between the trees, the Woods somehow light around them, though they don’t carry a torch. They look almost human, except very unhuman in a way Hennie can’t quite place. Their shining white hair blows in the wind--the wind that Hennie was certain stopped before they appeared. They’re the most beautiful being Hennie’s ever seen.

“Uh,” they say.

“Eloquent,” the Fey responds, and Hennie can feel their cheeks heating. Their face is serene, yet their eyes seem to bore into Hennie. “I am here to bargain, not to give freely. If you wish another word from me, you will tell me--truthfully--your intentions in coming here.”

“Um. So it’s--it’s really nice to meet you. Amazing, actually. Hello.”

True to their word, the Fey doesn’t reply, only continues to regard them impassively.

Hennie takes a deep breath. “People said you seduce visitors to the forest?” they blurt out.

The Fey’s composure slips suddenly, and for a moment they look astonished, before they throw their head back and laugh. The sound is magical, but Hennie feels it maybe goes on a little too long.

“Is that why you came here, dynan? Seduction?” They seem to have regained their poise, but the corner of their mouth twitches upwards in a smile. “You think I desire mortals for intercourse?”

“No! I mean--that’s what people in town think! They say Orcs fall in love with you, and then you spirit them away.”

“Your people do like to think the worst of mine.”

“So… what do you really do?”

“Avoid concerning myself with the affairs of mortals, when possible.”

“But you come when called?”

“Yes.”

They answered only what asked, Hennie realised. Of course they did--they had told them they didn’t give freely. Hennie had done the same as a child, until Master Cornelis had taught them that “No” was not an adequate answer to the question of, “Have you finished copying the manuscript yet?” and they also had to give a reason why not, and an estimation of when they would be finished. It feels odd to realise Master Cornelis’ conversation style is now more familiar to them than their own. It feels comforting to return to their own with the Fey.

“So what made everyone think you seduce people away? If you know?”

“Misunderstandings.”

“Tell me about them? Please?”

“Politeness, too. How sweet. Very well then, dynan. The first came to me for help. He felt his name and his place in your realm a meager enough payment to escape his wife’s beatings. The second was a Lord who thought himself powerful enough to take whatever he wanted,” their lip curls, “That he could make an archfey bend to his whims.” They grin suddenly, their teeth gleaming, before they turn and place their hand on one of the gnarled trees. “I thought he should learn to give back to the world a little.” Shadows dance across the Woods, and for a moment, Hennie thinks they see a grimacing face staring out from the tree trunk.

“Right. Um. Sorry for... presuming. Uh.”

“Since you’re here, you could always offer me something in return for me granting you the gift of speech.”

“I know how to--hey, none of the books ever said the Fey make fun of people!”

“Didn’t they? Then perhaps it’s just me. Or perhaps it’s just you.” The Fey is smiling at them now, their eyes--somehow able to repel and draw Hennie in at the same time--glinting.

“Uh,” says Hennie again.

“Or perhaps it need not be a jest, after all.”

“No, I’m fine!” The Fey wants real answers, real explanations. “It’s just--I know I was wrong about the whole… seduction… thing, but you’re beautiful, and I’ve wanted to meet a Fey for years, and this is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me, so I’m sort of… overwhelmed. And intimidated. And… you know.”

“Do I?”

Hennie flushes again. “It doesn’t matter! You said you weren’t interested in mortals.”

“Did I?”

Hennie opens their mouth to respond, and then closes it again as they think back over the conversation. “No. You said you hadn’t seduced mortals here before. You didn’t… you didn’t say you wouldn’t.” The fey continues to watch them impassively. “So does that mean… could we… am I seducing you?”

They smile again, bright and sharp, and take a step closer to Hennie. They could have sworn the Fey was shorter than them--tall for a human, perhaps, but nothing to an Orc--but somehow, they tower over Hennie now. Their heart feels like it’s about to burst from their chest as the Fey reaches out to take their chin and tilt it upwards, and Hennie closes their eyes.

“I think not,” says the Fey.

Hennie’s eyes snap open. The fey has let go of their chin, and is several feet away again, without Hennie having noticed them move. “Oh. Right. I mean. Of course, that’s your right. But you were kind of leading me on there…”

“You muddle your words once again, mortal. I was most definitely leading you on.”

“Right. Yeah. So can I ask--No, I’m just asking. Why not?”

“Because I am an Archfey, the Tywysog of a realm your mortal mind cannot comprehend, I have powers that can change the very plane you walk on. You are tiny, compared to me. Make no mistake, our meeting has been delightful, but while I may tease you for my own amusement, I will not take advantage of you further, dynan.”

“Right. I mean, I’d be fine with it if you did take advantage…”

“I gathered.”

“I guess you have. Yeah.” Hennie looks down, shuffling their feet. “So, I mean, I’m still really interested in all the non-seduction related things? Can I give you my soul for a trip to the Feywild, or something?”

The Fey’s eyebrows raise. “You can.”

“That would be, uh, a much better deal on your end, wouldn’t it?”

“Quite.”

The Fey steps forward again, staring at Hennie closely, and they feel a flicker of fear. “I don’t--I’m not giving you my soul. Not for just one trip, anyway.”

Their smile now is softer than any of those they’ve given so far. “And I would not take it. I have been far kinder with you than I needed to be, dynan. Other Fey may not be. And I suspect I have done little to temper your enthusiasm to meet them. So I will offer you a deal.”

This was the moment, according to everyone Hennie had ever spoken to about the Fey, that they should start running in the opposite direction. Well, actually, most people they brought the subject up with told them not to go looking for the Fey in the first place, but everyone was pretty united on the, “Don’t take any deal they offer you,” front.

“Go on,” says Hennie.

“Give me your name. Make yourself mine. Come to me when I call, and help me when I ask. In return, I will protect you from other Fey, I shall ask no more of you than you are able to give, and I will grant you the gift of magic. All this I promise you.”

Hennie really isn’t sure there’s any downsides. “That… would be amazing. Wait, when you say you want my name, do you mean what my parents named me, or--”

“Of course not. It matters little what others call you. Your name is your own.” Their lip twitches. “At least for the next few moments.”

“All right. I accept. My name’s Hennie. Hennie Geluk.”

The Fey is holding a pendant. Hennie didn’t see them pick it up, but is sure they weren’t holding it a moment ago. They hold it up, and it shines in the moonlight. “Hennie. Take my blessing, wear my locket, and you shall have the magic of a Warlock at your fingertips.” They raise their pendant to Hennie’s neck, and then pause, their hands almost touching them again. “There is… something further I could offer you. A suggestion, rather than a deal. A bargain uncompleted. If you wished.”

“Tell me.”

“What I’m giving you is the ability to cast spells. Your skill you will have to develop by yourself, through experience. There is a town, far away, across the sea. There are mortals who will be drawn together. Travel there, seek them out, quest with them, and you will begin to gain that experience. And your power will grow. And at the end of it… I shall make you no more promises, but you would not be so tiny. Make of that what you will.”

“So… if I leave my home, and my job, and everything, and go off on a dangerous quest with strangers… you might bang me at the end of it?”

“That is one path in a stream of endless possibilities.”

“Yes! I’ll do it.”

The Fey smiles, fastening the pendant around Hennie’s neck. “You do amuse me, dynan.”

The world around Hennie glows with light, and images of strangers flash across their vision.

An aged elf wielding a greataxe, the brow of a ship behind her. A goblin working on an intricate magical construct. A human healer, set of scalpels in hand. A young woman whose ears suggest elven ancestry, but whose wax seals suggests an allegiance to the inferior human calligraphy guild. A bombillan with a swarm of smaller bees surrounding them. A dwarf playing a steel drum one handed, as she takes a swig from a bottle with the other. A port town, the name Hrip inscribing itself in Hennie’s mind.

When it’s over, the Fey is gone, and Hennie is alone in the Woods again. They shiver, the cold of the night returning as it occurs to them that this hadn’t been a problem in the Fey’s presence. They wish again that they’d brought something warmer, and then suddenly, their shirt is letting off heat. Right. Magic.

Hennie beams to themself as they start to make their way back to town. They have a long journey ahead of them. And if things go very, very well, a powerful, dangerous, beautiful Fey to bang.

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #27 - Acceptance

AO3 Link HERE

================

Aurelia squinted at the document in her hand. "So if I am reading this correctly," she said, "in Ishgard I would be known in official records as Aurelia de Fortemps rather than Aurelia Laskaris?"

"That you would. As a ward of my father's house you and young Master Alphinaud - and yes, Mistress Tataru as well - have all been conferred the status and rights of scions of the High Houses. That includes the protection of our name."

"Well! That is quite the thing. To be cast by circumstance from one noble house only to gain another." Her smile was listless and wry. "If that isn't a statement upon the whims of fate I don't know what is."

"My father will be glad to help where needed, I think. But if ever you have need of my personal assistance, it is yours. Just as it has ever been."

"You have done more for me than I could ever have hoped in these past few weeks alone." Unbidden memories arose in the wake of her words, and she felt sudden heat in her cheeks despite the bitter chill of the wind. "....Haurchefant, I... y-you do not think ill of me, do you?"

His brows lifted until they disappeared in the unkempt mop of his silvery hair. 

"What? Certainly not! Why in the Fury's name would you think so?"

"I don't..." Her hands tightened upon the balcony railing as she took a deep breath. "Since the other night I've not really had the chance to speak with you alone like this. I suppose we've been busy but that's only part of it. I... I feel that on some level, I've been avoiding you."

"Go on," he said gently, when he saw that she was struggling. Aurelia smiled, small and uncertain.

"You see, I... I think - very much - that I have not been as good a friend as I should. That is to say, when we were-... I think I may have been using you. For comfort. And I'm ashamed of myself for it. You deserve better." Her hands gripped fistfuls of her skirts. "That... was extremely selfish of me. I have been unfair to you- unfair, and unkind. And I wanted to-"

His warm hand on her cheek interrupted her stumbling, awkward apology mid-syllable.

"You have no need to beg forgiveness of me, Aurelia," he said gently. "I've long understood the way of things. And I am hardly an innocent wounded party; when we first met this was the offer I made to you. Was it not?"

"Aye, I fully recall that you propositioned me. 'Twas a jest, or so I assumed at the time."

"Come now," he chided, "do you think I offer the comforts of my bed to every passing adventurer?"

"The thought had crossed the minds of several fortress denizens, as I recall." Haurchefant smiled; in truth, his intent all along had been to make his friend laugh. She had burdens enough without adding himself to the list. "You have got a bit of a reputation, Lord Greystone."

"Ah, just so! Well, 'tis true that I have my appetites. But I take none who do not come willingly." He patted her hand, still smiling. "You are neither the first nor the last to accept that offer. It came with no strings attached. You have been through some very trying times of late and I am full glad to have had the privilege of your companionship."

"Haurchefant-"

"Pray let me continue. You've shared my bed, but that only makes us friends. It does not mean you are interested in anything more, and it would be unseemly of me to assume otherwise."

The careful way she searched his expression made it clear she sought reassurance. "Truly?"

"Truly."

"You're not just attempting to spare my blushes, are you? I know I've wronged you. I can accept it if I've damaged our relationship."

His lips curved in a cheeky grin. "I admit I would not find it amiss were you to seek another tryst- but that is your decision to make. Whichever you choose, my hearth or my bed, I will be as glad for it as I ever was."

"If you're certain all is well and forgiven." Her eyes, wet and overbright, shone in the flickering light of the balcony lamps. "You are my dearest friend, Haurchefant. You always will be."

"As you are mine," he said. "And I would hate for you to feel as though aught has changed between us." 

Despite her air of self-possession, Haurchefant thought, Aurelia had never struck him as a cold person. Quite the opposite, in fact- but she was also very much like her patron goddess. Bright, constant, radiant... and remote. Always just at arm's length, so very close to the joys and sorrows of those she protected but shuttered from them as though she were separated from all she held dear by an invisible panel of glass. 

She was, despite working tirelessly on behalf of Eorzea's betterment, not an Eorzean. She was an outsider, an interloper, and it was the wall that prevented her from truly finding a place among them. He hadn't realized until this moment how much he wished to change that. 

"You will always have a home in Ishgard," he said, his voice uncommonly firm.

To feel her arms suddenly wrap around him was startling, but it brought him joy as well. "Thank you," she whispered. "Haurchefant, it... that was the last time. My actions that night were self-serving and they would be even more so now. I fear I would cause you a hurt neither of us could heal. But I shall cherish our friendship, always. No matter where fate and life take us."

Haurchefant's arms tightened about her slim frame in return for just a moment, as he indulged himself in the moment of wistful sadness her admission brought him. But when she released him from her embrace at last he was smiling, blue eyes once again bright and twinkling with mirth. 

"If we sit around talking about our feelings much longer, my friend, I fear we'll turn into ice statues ere the conversation ends! Let's come inside from this awful wind. We can warm ourselves by the fire while you tell my father of some of your adventures- and myself as well. I don't believe you ever told me what happened once you opened the doors of the Tower?"

He held out one elbow in a courtly gesture. With that small, shy smile he loved, the Warrior of Light took it and followed him into the manor.

[thegreatantonchekhov]

In Exile

By Anton Chekhov

Translated by Constance Garnett

“God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing.”

OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and toothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka. The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not more than twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy.

“To be sure, it is not paradise here,” said Canny. “You can see for yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else.... Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning there was snow. . .”

“It’s bad! it’s bad!” said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror.

The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the ferrymen called a “karbos.” Far away on the further bank, lights, dying down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were burning last year’s grass. And beyond the little snakes there was darkness again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge It was damp and cold....

The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, and the same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in the Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky.

“It’s bad! it’s bad!” he repeated.

“You will get used to it,” said Semyon, and he laughed. “Now you are young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to you in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the time will come when you will say to yourself: ‘I wish no one a better life than mine.’ You look at me. Within a week the floods will be over and we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I’ve been going like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and the salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank God for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life.”

The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to the blaze, and said:

“My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will come here. They have promised.”

“And what do you want your wife and mother for?” asked Canny. “That’s mere foolishness, my lad. It’s the devil confounding you, damn his soul! Don’t you listen to him, the cursed one. Don’t let him have his way. He is at you about the women, but you spite him; say, ‘I don’t want them!’ He is on at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: ‘I don’t want it!’ I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!”

Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on:

“I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son of a deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear a frockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I can sleep naked on the ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a better life. I want nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is that there is nobody richer and freer than I am. When they sent me here from Russia from the first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil was at me about my wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him: ‘I want nothing.’ I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and I don’t complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him, if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: he is sunk in the bog to the crown of his head and will never get out.

“It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, well-educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman here from Russia. He hadn’t shared something with his brothers and had forged something in a will. They did say he was a prince or a baron, but maybe he was simply an official -- who knows? Well, the gentleman arrived here, and first thing he bought himself a house and land in Muhortinskoe. ‘I want to live by my own work,’ says he, ‘in the sweat of my brow, for I am not a gentleman now,’ says he, ‘but a settler.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘God help you, that’s the right thing.’ He was a young man then, busy and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty miles on horseback. Only this is what happened: from the very first year he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand on my ferry and sigh: ‘Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me any money from home!’ ‘You don’t want money, Vassily Sergeyitch,’ says I. ‘What use is it to you? You cast away the past, and forget it as though it had never been at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin to live anew. Don’t listen to the devil,’ says I; ‘he will bring you to no good, he’ll draw you into a snare. Now you want money,’ says I, ‘ but in a very little while you’ll be wanting something else, and then more and more. If you want to be happy,’ says I, the chief thing is not to want anything. Yes.... If,’ says I, ‘if Fate has wronged you and me cruelly it’s no good asking for her favor and bowing down to her, but you despise her and laugh at her, or else she will laugh at you.’ That’s what I said to him....

“Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbing his hands and laughing. ‘ I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife,’ says he. ‘She was sorry for me,’ says he; ‘she has come. She is good and kind.’ And he was breathless with joy. So a day later he came with his wife. A beautiful young lady in a hat; in her arms was a baby girl. And lots of luggage of all sorts. And my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussing round her; he couldn’t take his eyes off her and couldn’t say enough in praise of her. ‘Yes, brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!’ ‘Oh, all right,’ thinks I, ‘it will be a different tale presently.’ And from that time forward he went almost every week to inquire whether money had not come from Russia. He wanted a lot of money. ‘She is losing her youth and beauty here in Siberia for my sake,’ says he, ‘and sharing my bitter lot with me, and so I ought,’ says he, ‘to provide her with every comfort. . . .’

“To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with the officials and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to give food and drink to all that crew, and there had to be a piano and a shaggy lapdog on the sofa -- plague take it!... Luxury, in fact, self-indulgence. The lady did not stay with him long. How could she? The clay, the water, the cold, no vegetables for you, no fruit. All around you ignorant and drunken people and no sort of manners, and she was a spoilt lady from Petersburg or Moscow.... To be sure she moped. Besides, her husband, say what you like, was not a gentleman now, but a settler -- not the same rank.

“Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, there was shouting from the further bank. I went over with the ferry, and what do I see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with her a young gentleman, an official. A sledge with three horses.... I ferried them across here, they got in and away like the wind. They were soon lost to sight. And towards morning Vassily Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry. ‘Didn’t my wife come this way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?’ ‘She did,’ said I; ‘you may look for the wind in the fields!’ He galloped in pursuit of them. For five days and nights he was riding after them. When I ferried him over to the other side afterwards, he flung himself on the ferry and beat his head on the boards of the ferry and howled. ‘So that’s how it is,’ says I. I laughed, and reminded him ‘people can live even in Siberia!’ And he beat his head harder than ever....

“Then he began longing for freedom. His wife had slipped off to Russia, and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get her away from her lover. And he took, my lad, to galloping almost every day, either to the post or the town to see the commanding officer; he kept sending in petitions for them to have mercy on him and let him go back home; and he used to say that he had spent some two hundred roubles on telegrams alone. He sold his land and mortgaged his house to the Jews. He grew gray and bent, and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption. If he talked to you he would go, khee--khee--khee,. . . and there were tears in his eyes. He kept rushing about like this with petitions for eight years, but now he has grown brighter and more cheerful again: he has found another whim to give way to. You see, his daughter has grown up. He looks at her, and she is the apple of his eye. And to tell the truth she is all right, good-looking, with black eyebrows and a lively disposition. Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino. They used to stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and he could not take his eyes off her. ‘Yes, Semyon,’ says he, ‘people can live even in Siberia. Even in Siberia there is happiness. Look,’ says he, ‘what a daughter I have got! I warrant you wouldn’t find another like her for a thousand versts round.’ ‘Your daughter is all right,’ says I, ‘that’s true, certainly.’ But to myself I thought: ‘Wait a bit, the wench is young, her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and there is no life here.’ And she did begin to pine, my lad.... She faded and faded, and now she can hardly crawl about. Consumption.

“So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul! You see how people can live in Siberia.... He has taken to going from one doctor to another and taking them home with him. As soon as he hears that two or three hundred miles away there is a doctor or a sorcerer, he will drive to fetch him. A terrible lot of money he spent on doctors, and to my thinking he had better have spent the money on drink.... She’ll die just the same. She is certain to die, and then it will be all over with him. He’ll hang himself from grief or run away to Russia -- that’s a sure thing. He’ll run away and they’ll catch him, then he will be tried, sent to prison, he will have a taste of the lash. . . .”

“Good! good!” said the Tatar, shivering with cold.

“What is good?” asked Canny.

“His wife, his daughter.... What of prison and what of sorrow! -- anyway, he did see his wife and his daughter.... You say, want nothing. But ‘nothing’ is bad! His wife lived with him three years -- that was a gift from God. ‘Nothing’ is bad, but three years is good. How not understand?”

Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian words of which he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid one should fall sick and die in a strange land, and be buried in the cold and dark earth; that if his wife came to him for one day, even for one hour, that for such happiness he would be ready to bear any suffering and to thank God. Better one day of happiness than nothing.

Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had left at home. Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began crying and assuring Semyon that he was not guilty, and was suffering for nothing. His two brothers and an uncle had carried off a peasant’s horses, and had beaten the old man till he was half dead, and the commune had not judged fairly, but had contrived a sentence by which all the three brothers were sent to Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left at home.

“You will get used to it!” said Semyon.

The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the fire; his face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he still did not understand why he was here in the darkness and the wet, beside strangers, and not in the Simbirsk province.

Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming a song in an undertone.

“What joy has she with her father?” he said a little later. “He loves her and he rejoices in her, that’s true; but, mate, you must mind your ps and qs with him, he is a strict old man, a harsh old man. And young wenches don’t want strictness. They want petting and ha-ha-ha! and ho-ho-ho! and scent and pomade. Yes.... Ech! life, life,” sighed Semyon, and he got up heavily. “The vodka is all gone, so it is time to sleep. Eh? I am going, my lad. . . .”

Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at the fire; he began thinking of his own village and of his wife. If his wife could only come for a month, for a day; and then if she liked she might go back again. Better a month or even a day than nothing. But if his wife kept her promise and came, what would he have to feed her on? Where could she live here?

“If there were not something to eat, how could she live?” the Tatar asked aloud.

He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at the oar; it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for vodkas but the men shared all they received among themselves, and gave nothing to the Tatar, but only laughed at him. And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and frightened.... Now, when his whole body was aching and shivering, he ought to go into the hut and lie down to sleep; but he had nothing to cover him there, and it was colder than on the river-bank; here he had nothing to cover him either, but at least he could make up the fire....

In another week, when the floods were quite over and they set the ferry going, none of the ferrymen but Semyon would be wanted, and the Tatar would begin going from village to village begging for alms and for work. His wife was only seventeen; she was beautiful, spoilt, and shy; could she possibly go from village to village begging alms with her face unveiled? No, it was terrible even to think of that....

It was already getting light; the barge, the bushes of willow on the water, and the waves could be clearly discerned, and if one looked round there was the steep clay slope; at the bottom of it the hut thatched with dingy brown straw, and the huts of the village lay clustered higher up. The cocks were already crowing in the village.

The rusty red clay slope, the barge, the river, the strange, unkind people, hunger, cold, illness, perhaps all that was not real. Most likely it was all a dream, thought the Tatar. He felt that he was asleep and heard his own snoring.... Of course he was at home in the Simbirsk province, and he had only to call his wife by name for her to answer; and in the next room was his mother.... What terrible dreams there are, though! What are they for? The Tatar smiled and opened his eyes. What river was this, the Volga?

Snow was falling.

“Boat!” was shouted on the further side. “Boat!”

The Tatar woke up, and went to wake his mates and row over to the other side. The ferrymen came on to the river-bank, putting on their torn sheepskins as they walked, swearing with voices husky from sleepiness and shivering from the cold. On waking from their sleep, the river, from which came a breath of piercing cold, seemed to strike them as revolting and horrible. They jumped into the barge without hurrying themselves.... The Tatar and the three ferrymen took the long, broad-bladed oars, which in the darkness looked like the claws of crabs; Semyon leaned his stomach against the tiller. The shout on the other side still continued, and two shots were fired from a revolver, probably with the idea that the ferrymen were asleep or had gone to the pot-house in the village.

“All right, you have plenty of time,” said Semyon in the tone of a man convinced that there was no necessity in this world to hurry -- that it would lead to nothing, anyway.

The heavy, clumsy barge moved away from the bank and floated between the willow-bushes, and only the willows slowly moving back showed that the barge was not standing still but moving. The ferrymen swung the oars evenly in time; Semyon lay with his stomach on the tiller and, describing a semicircle in the air, flew from one side to the other. In the darkness it looked as though the men were sitting on some antediluvian animal with long paws, and were moving on it through a cold, desolate land, the land of which one sometimes dreams in nightmares.

They passed beyond the willows and floated out into the open. The creak and regular splash of the oars was heard on the further shore, and a shout came: “Make haste! make haste!”

Another ten minutes passed, and the barge banged heavily against the landing-stage.

“And it keeps sprinkling and sprinkling,” muttered Semyon, wiping the snow from his face; “and where it all comes from God only knows.”

On the bank stood a thin man of medium height in a jacket lined with fox fur and in a white lambskin cap. He was standing at a little distance from his horses and not moving; he had a gloomy, concentrated expression, as though he were trying to remember something and angry with his untrustworthy memory. When Semyon went up to him and took off his cap, smiling, he said:

“I am hastening to Anastasyevka. My daughter’s worse again, and they say that there is a new doctor at Anastasyevka.”

They dragged the carriage on to the barge and floated back. The man whom Semyon addressed as Vassily Sergeyitch stood all the time motionless, tightly compressing his thick lips and staring off into space; when his coachman asked permission to smoke in his presence he made no answer, as though he had not heard. Semyon, lying with his stomach on the tiller, looked mockingly at him and said:

“Even in Siberia people can live -- can li-ive!”

There was a triumphant expression on Canny’s face, as though he had proved something and was delighted that things had happened as he had foretold. The unhappy helplessness of the man in the foxskin coat evidently afforded him great pleasure.

“It’s muddy driving now, Vassily Sergeyitch,” he said when the horses were harnessed again on the bank. “You should have put off going for another fortnight, when it will be drier. Or else not have gone at all.... If any good would come of your going -- but as you know yourself, people have been driving about for years and years, day and night, and it’s alway’s been no use. That’s the truth.”

Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his carriage and drove off.

“There, he has galloped off for a doctor!” said Semyon, shrinking from the cold. “But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the wind in the fields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take your soul! What a queer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!”

The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred and repulsion, shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken Russian, said: “He is good... good; but you are bad! You are bad! The gentleman is a good soul, excellent, and you are a beast, bad! The gentleman is alive, but you are a dead carcass.... God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing. You are a stone, and God does not love you, but He loves the gentleman!”

Everyone laughed; the Tatar frowned contemptuously, and with a wave of his hand wrapped himself in his rags and went to the campfire. The ferrymen and Semyon sauntered to the hut.

“It’s cold,” said one ferryman huskily as he stretched himself on the straw with which the damp clay floor was covered.

“Yes, its not warm,” another assented. “It’s a dog’s life. . . .”

They all lay down. The door was thrown open by the wind and the snow drifted into the hut; nobody felt inclined to get up and shut the door: they were cold, and it was too much trouble.

“I am all right,” said Semyon as he began to doze. “I wouldn’t wish anyone a better life.”

“You are a tough one, we all know. Even the devils won’t take you!”

Sounds like a dog’s howling came from outside.

“What’s that? Who’s there?”

“It’s the Tatar crying.”

“I say.... He’s a queer one!”

“He’ll get u-used to it!” said Semyon, and at once fell asleep.

The others were soon asleep too. The door remained unclosed.

NOTES

Tatar: an ethnic group of Turkic-speaking, traditionally Moslem people

karbos: a large rowed ferry boat with 4 to 10 oars

commune had not judged fairly: a village commune, mir, had the right to exile any lawbreakers to Siberia

[radabadabing-bing]

A Rounded Raven

Oh my god this thing has been plaguing me for months. Like. Actual months. What began as a “oh yeah i’m going to do this cause it’s cute hee hee” quickly devolved into months of “I’ll work on this later” and soon enough I just couldn’t move on from it. I’m not sure about the quality of it, but I feel like having it out rather than gathering dust in a google doc... ...It’s, uh, a Raven x Lucius wg/expansion fic. I probably should've specified that already. Hopefully it’s fluffy enough and close to their characters.

“Damn mages.” Raven spat, sheathing his blade. What a mess of a fight...And worse, they didn’t even clear out all of them. Some ran for the hills, specifically the ‘damn mages’ Raven had mentioned. Shot off some odd magic as they ran off, too. Though they seemed like shoddy casters to the mercenary, not even injuring him…

“Lord Raymond, are you alright?” Piped up his shadow, Lucius. The two had been making their way across Etruria as mercenaries. A multitude of small threats had been hopping up following the death of Nergal, dissolution of the Black Fang, and other concentrated incidents- ruffians, brigands, standard stuff. Though sometimes a member of the defunct Black Fang would worm their ways in with the common thug. And unfortunately, some had with this particular group. Though their magic may not of been apparent at first.

“I’m fine…” The red haired mercenary grumbled. After all, as one not magically inclined, he felt nothing wrong. “I’m more upset they got away.” He glared at the horizon.

“So shall we pursuit?” Lucius questioned, though Raven had a quick response.

“No. Not yet.” He told his accomplice. “Could be an ambush. Let’s recoup back at camp.” Raven’s word did have some truth. They were disadvantaged following them. And while Lucius was a skilled mage, Raven didn’t want to risk it. Not one bit. 

Lucius was quiet for a moment. But he knew what his lord was doing. So he’d indulge the idea. “So be it.” 

And so they left the makeshift battlefield for their camp. “...You didn’t get hurt, did you Lucius?” This was partly an attempt to make small talk, and partly an attempt to insure his other half wasn’t injured. 

“No, I kept my range.” The monk said, “There were no archers, and the mages were focusing on you…” And he glanced at Raven. His red headed partner seemed to be slowing, ever slightly. If the mages were focusing on Raven...why didn’t they attack? Or perhaps it was something more...insidious. “But...Lord Raymond, are you certain that you are fine?”

“I must’ve worn myself out in the fight…” Every step seemed to be heavier. He took a deep breath. Raven was unusually worn out...He couldn’t deny it himself anymore- something was definitely wrong. And if he hadn’t known already, what happened next sold him on the idea. 

Raven’s body locked up. His muscles just...wouldn’t respond. Wide eyed, he fell toward the earth, much to the shock of Lucius. The blond-haired man quickly came to Raven’s side, pulling him up to his knees. “L-lord Raymond…” And Raven’s face was pained.

“My...stomach…” He groaned, as the aforementioned body part felt as if pins and needles were being dug into it. There was a deep growl from it, and the hold it had on him began to lighten ever so slightly. With Lucius’s help, he rose to his feet once more. “Camp...it isn’t far…” Raven gruntled through clenched teeth. The camp wasn’t well reinforced, but it was far enough out of the way, and at the least had supplies.

“O-of course.” With the support of Lucius, Raven began a slow gait towards the camp. But with both of their attentions on moving forward, neither of the duo had noticed how Raven’s belly had begun to pudge ever slightly over his belt. How his pants seemed to fit his form just a tad more snug.

This unnoticed growth would become an increasing burden on Raven. As his abdomen grew, his belt dug into it. Absentmindedly, he attempted to adjust it, annoyed at how taut it had become. Compounded with the stomach pain, it was nigh unbearable. “Damn belt…How’d it get so tight now-”

Raven’s eyes widened once more when he at last noticed how he had began to swell up in size. “The hell is this-?!” Now made aware of his condition, s began to connect in his head. So that was why the mages retreated- they wanted him to chase, then get bogged down. Then they’d likely do the same to Lucius...Seemed that not pursuing was the right choice after all.

And Raven’s surprise alerted Lucius to the change as well- who looked on with fear, and a spark of...excitement? His heart skipped a beat for one of those reasons, though was unsure which...Though Raven snapped him out of it as soon as he had begun talking again. “Just keep moving.” 

By the time they had reached their camp, Raven’s body had only continued to balloon. His clothes were doing their best to hold him in, but it was clearly a lost battle. The belt deeply cut into Raven’s distended gut, the buckle twitching under the force. The strap holding his scabbard was faring similarly. The sides of his pants had began to split, small bits of his skin peeking through. And his chest had begun to billow outwards, more straps facing resistance. Even Raven’s face and arms seemed to round out and puff. 

With Lucius’s help, he managed to settle down with a slight thud next to a burnt out fire. Once he sat down...he had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting back up. Not for a while.

“I’m going to check my books. There must be something in it about...this whole mess.” But as Lucius went towards the said tomes, Raven began grumbling again. “W-wait. This belt...It feels like it’ll cut me in half. Help me get it-” And like it was on cue, the belt snapped, the buckle flinging off into the brush. Raven let out a sigh of relief. “-Nevermind.” Lucius’s face went flush as he turned away. He...Needed to fix this. Right, fix. 

The strap holding his scabbard to his hip was next to go. Hadn’t dug into Raven as hard as the belt did, but that didn’t stop him from exhaling yet again. Now the resistance came from the straps holding his pauldron to his shoulder. “Ngh...Come on.” One strap managed to come undone from his bloating pectorals, but each passing moment seemed to make this job harder and harder. 

And without the belt holding his jacket and shirt down, his girth slowly began to be exposed to the cool forest air. The front of his pants had begun to stretch to their limits, akin to the still splitting seams at his side. Raven was too busy undoing his pauldron to address it. “Almost...got it…” With grit teeth, the strap was undone, and the pauldron’s grasp on his shoulder was loosened. For a moment, he felt a shred of pride- before the shriiiip of his pants reminded him of his bizarre predicament. His victory seemed ever smaller…

“Ugh.” The side seams of his pants tore ever further down his legs, as they continued to pack on mass, growing outwards. His jacket began to part, having the benefit of being loose on him in the first place. Raven’s shirt however had no such benefit- rolling up at the whims of his expanding belly, still stretching to accommodate his set of moobs. It’s fate would likely be shared with his pants…

Though as he pondered the survivability of his shirt, the affliction began to affect his face and neck more noticeably. Both becoming round, making his grimace much less intimidating. His theory on his shirt was becoming true, as it began to rip to accommodate for his now fattened breasts. Following that, the seat of his pants- Raven’s ass too large to hold back any longer.

Said pants were hardly holding on at this point. Scant few threads held it together, and his shirt was still shredding further. The bulk accumulated on his arms began to tear not only at his undershirt but jacket as well...Of course it couldn’t escape completely unscathed.

And as Raven persisted to swell and billow every which way, Lucius was diligently searching for some explanation for this- having gone through two books already, he miraculously had found an answer half way through the third one. “Aha!” Taking the book with him, the cleric returned to his lord’s side…

Though Raven had changed drastically in shape from the last time Lucius had seen him. He had been growing before, but he was still muscular and rigid in places. Now he was much...softer. His clothes had been mostly torn to shreds, except for the jacket, just barely covering his chest. The mercenary was just...huge.

“...Are you just going to gawk at me?”

Raven clearly was unhappy with the change. Lucius knew enough about Raven to know that- And he didn’t want that for his lord, but...It was appealing. For some reason. “I…” He considered for a moment not telling him about the solution he may of found. Though Lucius quickly found himself ashamed of such a thought. “...Figured out what it was. It’s a curse. Likely those mages did hit you with it, it just didn’t show until now.” “So they wanted us to pursue. I’d become this, and...Hmpf.” His scowl wasn’t all that intimidating to Lucius in the first place, who had become quite used to it. But when his face was all rounded, it lost even more of it’s edge. “Is there a way to change me back?” “Um, just a moment.” Paging back through the book, finding the passage… “Ah. It says the curse is temporary, and should cease eventually.” “Eventually…” Raven’s disdain for the situation seemed to only grow. Knowing that he was just locked in place for an unknown amount of time was frustrating. Incredibly so. “Damn it all.” “Perhaps I could try to reverse it myself-” “Don’t bother.” Raven was quick to rebut the thought. “It likely won’t end well. If I have to wait, I’ll just...wait.” His frustration was clear, but as was his resignation. 

Which, much to Lucius’s own dismay, was basically a best scenario. Raven would return to his form (hopefully) in time, and for now, Lucius had this softer Raven.

Perhaps it was impulsive, but Lucius found himself scooping up the belly of his mercenary…

“L-Lucius.” His tone was not necessarily angry, and certainly a far cry from the gruffness it had in his previous speech. Perhaps embarrassed...Which was confirmed by his blushing chubby cheeks.

Which was enough confirmation for Lucius, at least, that his happiness of the rounder Raven wasn’t as one sided as he may of thought.

[lambs-rest]

WTT: The Fate of Stars II - Past

Though Granye returned to Mor Dhona ahead of the others, she steered clear of the Rising Stones for the rest of the night, choosing instead to avoid the prospect of running into Unukalhai entirely by weaving her way through the swampy Fens and climbing to Rathefrost, where she sat, undisturbed, until the sun vanished and the stars filled the sky. Midgardsormr’s old corpse painted a garish silhouette against the radiant blue crystal glow of the Tower on the opposite side of the lake.

“Thine absence has been most conspicuous this night.”

She closed her eyes, and sighed. “…Sorry, angel.”

She heard the scuff of footsteps against the rocks and Urianger’s steps halted beside her.

“…As we departed Azys Lla, Mistress Krile informed me that young Master Unukalhai had undergone a great deal of stress. Full had I expected to see you at his side…”

She frowned and turned her scowl away from his sight.

Urianger struggled, uncomfortable in his attempt to uncover the reason for her vanishing act when she remained silent and unreceptive.

“He used me. An’…I got upset.” Granye felt his attention fixed on her, listening intently and she sighed. What could she tell him without proof? There was no way to explain why she had ditched the boy.

“Thou didst perceive his plot to ensnare the Legatus, I take it?”

She sat upright, craning her neck to look up at him, startled. “When did ye-?”

“Mine own suspicions were rife from the start.” He admitted.

She sighed heavily, slumping back over her knees. “An’ everythin’ was just startin’ to go well…”

Urianger carefully picked out a spot on the ground and sat beside her, joining her gaze over the lake.

“I have spoken to young Unukalhai, but withheld the knowledge of his orchestrations from our comrades.”

Granye peered at him. “…Why?”

“’Tis as you say. I wish not to endanger newfound camaraderie from an attempt that bore no fruit. Such knowledge would shatter the fragile trust that blooms ‘twixt the boy and our colleagues.” Urianger turned his head to her, gaze imperceptible beyond the crimson glass of his goggles. “Though I cannot condone his methods, I must admit to my understanding of his reason. Thou can hardly spare every foe before thy steel. Thy…decision to spare the Ascian at thy breast has been most questionable. If thou seekest continue this pattern, I fear thy enemies shall only mount.”

Granye shook her head fiercely, and Urianger sighed.

“May hap ‘tis the goodness of thy heart that drives thee, but foes such as the likes of Garlemald and the Ascians care not for such merciful whims. Thou must be ever vigilant, and full prepared to lay such threats to a certain end, lest they strike the fatal blow unto thine own heart first.”

“I know I let ye down. I’m sorry.” she whispered.

Urianger shook his head gently. “Nay, ‘twas mine own anguish that bade me press the auracite upon thee, knowing full well thy desire for peace. The apology is mine to give, Granye. Had I known such a request would drive thee as it did to take hazardous burden upon thy soul…”

Again she denied, shaking her head. “’s if I can blame ye fer wantin’ revenge. I just…I didnae feel the same. He died. The bastard responsible died, an’ she gave ‘er life fer that. I just couldnae see the point to keep goin’. But I still…!” Granye pressed her forehead into her arm, swallowing her words.

She suddenly lifted her head, breathing in deep and shaking it, blinking quickly to hide the beginning of tears.

“Enough o’ that!”

Urianger looked at the leather pouch around her neck. “Ah…”

Granye followed his gaze then waved her hands. “Oh, no! I dinnae care if he hears!” she dismissed. “I’s just that we’ve got better things to do. The Triad needs me full attention…an’ the past is the past, aye?” She got to her feet, Urianger rising along with her, both of them dusting off the seats of their clothes. “I’ve got to apologise to Unukalhai. Aye, he did the wrong thing, but I let me temper get the better o’ me.”

His brows lifted noticeably. “Thy temper? Thou art fairly dispositioned as a fine summer’s day.”

She quirked her head, confusion marring her face, and Urianger realised his blunder. “To say, thy nature is fair and calm with such frequency, I labour to imagine thee foul of mood.”

She smiled weakly. “Oh! Well, thank ye, angel. But I reckon the cause o’ his fright was me, see… He’s owed an apology fer that at least. An’ I shouldnae’ve left ‘im alone, neither.”

Granye mustered a smile, and nodded at him. “Let’s go, aye?”

He returned the nod, and they descended Rathefrost together, Urianger pausing to look upon the mark of Scholar, before he turned and followed her down the path.

-

She knocked on the solar door before opening it greeted by Unukalhai leaning against Minfilia’s desk, as usual. He pushed off it as soon as he saw her, standing straight. Granye stopped some feet from him. The silence lapsed uncomfortably, Granye chewing over the right words to say, and Unukalhai reminding himself to remain professional.

“Is there-”

“I came to-”

Their words ran over each other, and they both stopped at the same time. Granye’s mouth quirked into an amused smile as he bowed his head.

“Please, go first.” He offered courteously. His tone was cold, though - all business.

She inhaled slowly. “I came t’ apologise fer losin’ me head at ye, Unukalhai. I should nae’ve treated ye like that, or left ye alone in the Facility. Tha’ was petty of me, an’ I’m truly sorry. I’ve been…angry. At a lot o’ things an’ people – things that’ve got nothin’ to do with ye. Please accept my apology fer how I acted. I dinnae want me temper getting’ between us workin’ together.”

Unukalhai’s plain white mask stared at her, not betraying an onze of its bearer’s emotion.

It was only when his small shoulders slouched slightly that he spoke.

“I…believe you are owed an apology as well. We share our goal, and I should not have plotted behind your backs, nor endangered everyone so.” He bowed. “I acted without consent or counsel, and I offer my deepest apologies, Granye. Though there is no excusing my actions, I would tell you the motive behind them as a measure of reparation.”

Granye looked toward the fireplace. “I’ll nae say no, but let’s sit, aye?”

At his nod they took the seats by the fire, and she basked in the heat that leeched the cold from her bones.

“You were correct that I too possess the Echo, though not in the same fashion to you or Mistress Krile. Nonetheless, I would use it for the same end – the salvation of this star. I have witnessed the dangers that rampant use of primal-harnessing technology poses. ‘Twas the undoing of another star entirely.”

“Another star? Oh! Middy told me about this! So, like another world, aye?”

Unukalhai nodded. “Exactly. Upon this star, great champions used magicks to imprison primals in stones known as ‘auracite’. They turned this power upon other primals, conquering and slaying. But, they became so rapt in their own victories that they failed to notice the weapon’s fatal imperfection; auracite had a tendency to bleed primal energies. Each triumph bore them to a fate more closely resembling a primal’s than they dreamed. They transformed into beings of insatiable appetite, and in their inscrutable quest for aether they waged a bloody war over the dwindling energy of the very star itself…until there was nothing left at all.”

He raised his head firmly. “Thus, when I am faced with those who rush blindly to embrace such power, I grow irrational in my efforts to stop them. My master cares about the fate of this star just as deeply as I, and so sent me here to ensure that such tragedy does not repeat itself.”

“Aye, but not at the cost of slidin’ down another slippery slope.”

Unukalhai nodded, relenting. “Indeed. It was foolish of me to dangle the secrets of Allag as a lure. Rest assured, I’ll not act as such again.”

She relaxed into the chair. “Good. I’m glad we could patch things up, Unukalhai. I’m goin’ to need yer help with the rest o’ the Triad, I reckon. And I’ll be glad to have help fer once, after seein’ what Sephirot could do.”

He tilted his head slightly. “’For once’? Have you not the Scions to aid you?”

Granye shrugged and folded her arms, looking into the fire. “With certain things, aye. But, ye could say I’m the only wrench in the toolbox fer matters relatin’ to primals.” Her voice faded.

“…It wears you down.”

She blinked slowly, a tired smile on her face. “Aye. To the bone. I’s not that I dinnae want to do me job – primals need to die, I ken tha’ well enough. But I went into battle with a lass who also had the Echo, once…but I’ve never felt so united with some’ne else in purpose. It…almost tastes like tha’ again.”

“But the one time? Did she not desire to join the Scions?” Unukalhai asked.

A lump caught in Granye’s throat at the thought. “She…never ‘ad the chance. We… We lost ‘er in Azys Lla. She gave ‘er all in a last stand so we could reach Thordan. She would’ve made a damn fine Scion…”

Unukalhai faltered and lowered his head. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive my indelicacy.”

“No, i‘s all right, lad! Ye could nae’ve known.” She rushed, blinking rapidly to fend off the burgeoning sting of tears. “The past’s the past, aye? We can only learn from it an’ push on.”

“…Indeed. Your hardships have brought you much wisdom, Granye.”

She threw her head back, laughing. “Me, wise!? Now tha’s a first!” Granye shook her head and stood up. “Now, Mor Dhona’s got enough gloom without me mopin’, an’ I’ve a mind to get some supper. Yer welcome to come join me if ye want.”

Unukalhai almost jolted to his feet, stammering. “I-! Uh, I must decline, regretfully. I have already had supper tonight. Though…perhaps another time? Yes.”

Granye chuckled. “Aye, I’ll ask again when the Triad’s been put down. Good night then, Unukalhai.”

He bowed quickly. “Good night, Granye.”

——————————

<- Previous | Next ->

[magdalyna]

More Like a Flashbang Than a River Stone

I have been thinking about Jango Fett. Something I often do these days, sure but like.

Jango Fett, during and around the year before the Naboo Invasion --- waiting for Boba to be grown for the normal amount of time.

Telling himself he doesn’t care about the fate of the rest of his clones so long as he has his special son. Fantasizing about the demise of the Jedi.

Sure, Legends/EU and the Prequels tell us what happens next but what if that didn’t happen?

What if a time traveling Maul, not unlike the one featured in Ripples, one who was a Force Ghost who spent his afterlife watching the histories of those he was obsessed with, frankly. Mainly Kenobi of course, but you can not have a Kenobi without eventually stumbling into a Kenobi surrounded by clones.

And hadn’t that been a fascinating web of events to unravel, how the face of a bounty hunter ended up shaping the galaxy.

Maul prides himself on his study of his Nemesis, his Kenobi, the trials and tribulations of his Jedi upbringing, the madcap adventures of his Padawanship, the strain of his unorthodox Knighthood as he trained the so called Chosen One.

Maul no longer has an appetite for being a mere tool of some other person or thing’s greater destiny and Kenobi sparks so vibrantly in the Force that Maul is galled upon his behalf that Kenobi was relegated to such a position by his own Order.

The Kit of Kenobi has always underwhelmed Maul, even with the sheer strength at his disposal.

Kenobi is a blade that has shattered and been reforged several times over, and Maul is ecstatic, humbled, shamed that his own slaying of Master Jinn was one such sunder point.

Sometimes Maul wonders what they could have been if they had been able to meet as allies in the first meeting, and not their last.

Being drawn into the history of Jango Fett is almost refreshing, after a fashion.

Maul can admit he finds an odd sense of kinship between them: both had been shaped by the ravages of the galaxy’s brutality but still managed to come away with a moral code of their own making. Their own sense of honor.

When he is sent back in time by the Force, which clearly has its own sense of humor, he rejoices.

Returned to a body state that he took for granted at the time.... it is invigorating. How wrong was he to lament his self-perceived limitations of physical prowess! His body was never his enemy. A strange but calming sentiment.

He is able to cloak his matured awareness from his false master and fortuitously is within a window of time between missions and recuperation from said missions that he is able to intercept Fett before a particularly gnarly job in Fett’s original timeline went from inconvenient to worse.

After, he considers the best way to approach a notoriously suspicious Fett.

“Let us dispense with the fiction that we are true strangers to each other. You are contracted with my master through another to be the genetic stock for a cloning project. I was available to assist in this other matter. You are waiting for the final form of payment to be ready, yes?” Maul knows that starting thusly on Slave 1 is risky, but life is not without risks. “You desire the destruction of the Jedi for grievous wrongs.” Jango nods, a tight smile on his bare face.

Maul leans closer, barely.

“What if I said that you could revive your people and cause an equally devastating fate to the Jedi. If not more so than mere death.” Maul let the question hang in the air between them, watching his quarry’s microexpressions.

“Go on” Fett allows, but with the clear mien that he would not suffer fools gladly.

“What if you used your clones to retake Mandalore and repopulate it? Cut down every last New Mandalorian fighter where they stood, sent the captives back to Kalevala where those Kryze snakes belong. You as the Mand'alor recall all the True Mandolorians left. And then,” here Maul waved a hand vaguely “offspring. Clan Fett will have numbers and renown the galaxy over.”

Jango Fett had by now raised a single, eloquent eyebrow.

Maul rubbed his chin in the way that Kenobi would often stroke his own facial hair during the Clone War.

“Tell me, Jango Fett, son of Jaster Meerel, do you know the difference between revenge and vengeance?” Maul asks instead of getting on with the point like Jango Fett wants him to.

He had aeons of time in the afterlife to ponder how this phrasing had been his means of salvation in those final moments held so tenderly by his Nemesis, in his Kenobi’s arms. Had that really been the only time they had embraced, for all that destiny had twined them to one another, like strangling vines?

“The truly sublime thing about this, Jango Fett, is that the avatar of the Justice who has taken up arms to right this wrong has also been harmed by the Jedi.” Maul smiles as he shows his teeth. He’s always aware of not overdoing it on the teeth bit, since humans are the singularly unnerving species in the galaxy where showing ones’ dentin is not an immediate sign of aggression. Such strange apex predators they are.

“There is a Padawan ... pushed and pulled by the whims of the elders, and pushed some more. When finally his own Master betrays him so fully, and then when yours truly,” here Maul flicks his tongue along his front canines just because he is alive and can “defeats the master in single combat, then is when the time to strike has arrived. We shall take the Padawan from the battle field with us in the confusion. He will be utterly lost and in need of guidance. His death faked, he will be free to act accordingly.”

Jango Fett has the lines of deep thought drawn on his face. “Intriguing. It is at that, I’ll give you that.” He relaxes in his seat. “But why go against your master in this way?”

Maul sighs. The truth wills out.

“Because unless he is stopped, his foulness will cover the entire galaxy in misery, death and fascism. My preference is that he be launched into the heart of the nearest viable sun but alone I am not powerful enough. I know this to be true. In my own time I have already lived this horror once before.”

Jango Fett raises both of his eyebrows this time. “That is a good reason.” he allows solemnly.

------

ahhhhhk that took literal hours.

idk, eventually Maul fully explains the time travel thing and then he and Jango plotz together til Naboo. Important: Maul doesn’t kill Qui Gon Jinn just stabs him someplace dicey enough to need a long time in physical therapy, enough that Anikin is folded into the creche with the Initiates.

Jinn still rushed ahead so Obi still goes up against Maul all riled up and steaming and snarling like an angry Krayt dragon.

Hence faking Obi’s death to the Jedi and Darth Sleemo and faking Maul’s death to the Jedi so make sure they don’t let such an obviously powerful Force-sensitive child slip outta reach.

cut to Obi Wan waking up in restraints and force suppressors to some rando in authentic Mandolorian armor and Maul who has his Rebels era level of chill which is precisely zero, all over again.

“Greetings my ~~🧡~Nemesis~🧡~~ I sense that you are awake at last!” Maul says and really, Obi has any number of questions regarding this situation but mainly he wants to know how the weird looking Zabrak is doing that with his voice.

Behind Maul, Jango just facepalms, not caring that Obi Wan has him in his line of sight.

@sl-walker @shadowmaat @nawpitynopenope @sunsetofdoom @taule

[cookiefonster666]

hey it’s time for more homestuck epilogue ramblings, this time about jade

Again basically a mirror of a recent Blogger post. I have quite a few other posts about the epilogues on my blogs, but most of them I don’t quite feel comfortable posting here.

Content warning: This post contains some discussion of sexual content, starting from the header "The Candy (in Candy)". Read at your own discretion.

The Not-So-Wonderful World of Shafted Characters

Enter Jade Harley, the character who's been an odd spot in the comic's sprawling cast since day one. She starts as basically just a plot device but becomes a genuine wonderful character in Act 5. But after that point, she gets an upsettingly small amount of screen time and is rudely stripped from the on-screen dialogue reunions most everyone else gets. And by the time Collide and Act 7 happen, the comic has done away with dialogue. Yeah, that sure is fun.

So obviously, one of my biggest hopes for the epilogue was that Jade would get a full strong resolution, perhaps with dialogue "reunions" she should have gotten or with a major new role in the storyline. Jade did get plenty of dialogue early in Meat and some in Candy and it was pretty great, but what ultimate resolution did her character get? Fucking nothing!!! No resolution in Meat, no resolution in Candy.

The epilogues did a LOT of things right, don't get me wrong. Each of the twelve creators on Earth C gets a good share of screen time and I think the epilogues are reasonably balanced in that regard—far more balanced than late Act 6 was. But the epilogues are incredibly imbalanced in giving characters resolution. Some characters had an astounding resolution arc that far surpassed my already high expectations!!! But for one reason or another, some characters get the opposite of resolution arcs—you probably know who I'm talking about. I'll have to talk about those another time. And as I said before, Jade doesn't even get a resolution. I'll discuss exactly how she doesn't get a resolution, first in Meat and then in Candy.

The Candy (in Meat)

Earth C Jade's first appearance in Meat is a conversation with Dave and Karkat about politics and romance. We quickly learn that she's in an unresolved love triangle with both of them. Continuing the time-honored tradition of Harleyberts not understanding how love works, Jade clumsily tries to set up a three-way romance with Karkat and Dave and misunderstands everything about the quadrants along the way. I found that scene absolutely hilarious and a surprisingly on-point satire of how fans think of character shipping. As per tradition, Jade tries to solve everyone's problems through a shipping grid because obviously that's worked spectacularly in the past. Also, she literally fucking says Dave and Karkat are "kind of like moirails". I don't know about you, but I found that one particular line to be the funniest shit in the world.

It's already apparent that Jade has changed quite a bit from last time we saw her. She's considerably more airheaded and free-flowing, and her most prominent trait now is her severe lack of social skills. This change makes a lot of sense considering Jade's history. She was still almost entirely human after ascending to god tier, but that has changed over the years. Now she has lots of dog hormones, a tail, and you-know-what. Not to mention this is the Jade that spent three years with John and Davesprite dead. It also fits into an interesting pattern I've noticed: generally speaking, the less screen time a character got in late Act 6, the more that character has changed by the start of the epilogues. Think about John and Dave, how much they retain from how they acted in A6A6I5. Now think about Jane Crocker. Jane FUCKING Crocker. I think it's no coincidence that the character fans have always regarded as boring is now basically a full-blown antagonist. Now think about Gamzee MOTHERFUCKING Makara. ... uh, actually no, I don't recommend you think about him. My point is, I'd say the epilogues succeeded at parodying the comic's fans while simultaneously paying tribute to them, and Jade's first dialogue in Meat is no exception.

The Meat

Next up, Jade presents the political situation to Roxy and Calliope and discusses a few more things in her Jade fashion until suddenly she falls into a coma, her soul now possessed by god tier Calliope who herself inhabits a different iteration of Jade. There she goes, that's the end of Meat Jade's character arc. She's now once more a shameless plot device pushed around by the whims of fate—how's that for going full circle? The few times afterwards where Jade speaks, it's only brief intermissions between being possessed by the Dead Cherub or getting knocked out by Dirk so he can have the narration back.

Basically, Jade ends Meat having completed an enormous circle of stupidity: plot device -> good character -> shafted character -> changed character -> plot device. It actually is a fitting ending now that I think of it, especially in the half that's more focused on tying plot threads. But it feels annoying considering what kind of ending Jade gets, or rather doesn't get, in Candy. Let's go over it, shall we?

The Candy (in Candy)

Jade's first appearance in Candy isn't too different from her first appearance in Meat: a conversation about romance and politics with Dave and Karkat, the two roommates who are (not) dating each other and both most certainly (not) dating Jade. A bunch of stuff I already said two headers ago.

... And then things get weird. Really fucking weird. Our heroes get paired into four romantic groups forming basically the Buddy System 2.0, which is even more unnatural and freaky than the first one was. Most of those groups start having kids, but Jade's group—her, Dave, and Karkat—has issues that aren't quite easy to sort out. Now here's where I have to talk about the elephant in the room: Jade's penis. Or as fans call it, "dog dick".

The middle section of Candy all but outright confirms what was once an absurd headcanon. At a glance, it directly contradicts what Hussie himself said about Jade before, that she only has dog ears and the rest is still human. But if you think deeper you can tell that Hussie didn't necessarily change his mind, but decided that Jade would start only with dog ears and then gradually gain more elements of a male dog.

Anyway, Jade's penis is enough of a confounding factor that she, Dave, and Karkat can't agree on a way to have kids. And then a few years later, Karkat becomes the hero he was always meant to be and the tragic breakup happens. Then after even more years of presumably a bunch of hemming and hawing, Dave and Jade FINALLY get married. That's amazing, right???? The ship that's been a fan favorite for longer than probably any other? And they're married after all this time?

Uh, no. Not really at all. Not too long after their overdue wedding, Dave has a touching conversation with his number one hero, Barack Obama. He confesses that he's living a lie and can't get over Karkat, or the long-gone Dirk for that matter. When Obama offers Dave to ascend to his ultimate self, he immediately accepts it over staying on Earth C with his doggy wife and becomes Davebot, now proud and ready to achieve greater things in paradox space.

With Dave having achieved what can only be described as one hell of an ending, what triumphant resolution does Jade get? That's right, fucking nothing! Dave leaving Jade behind to explore the White House is the last we hear from her in Candy.

grrrrrr i want more epilogues (or do i???)

And that, my friends, is one of many reasons one could reasonably hope for a follow-up to the Homestuck Epilogues. I'm too lazy to list all the possible reasons, there's just way too many.

So instead, I'll say the following: despite all the flaws, I'm still more than complacent in rereading the epilogues over and over instead of daydreaming about getting even more. It's just such a mass dump of material that you can't fully process after reading just once, much like Homestuck itself. My prior posts about the epilogues already read like someone that doesn't fully understand them, at least to me. Such is the beauty of Homestuck, it's absurdly fun to think and talk about.

Conclusion

I LOVE HOMESTUCK. I LOVE HOMESTUCK, I LOVE HOMESTUCK, I LOVE HOMESTUCK, I LOVE HOMESTUCK!!!

I

LOVE

HOMESTUCK

[the-truth-will-light-the-sky]

Pandora’s Box

@ravus-week​ Day 2 Prompt: Day Off

Summary: Away from Gralea for a time, Ravus Nox Fleuret returns home to Tenebrae. He skillfully plays his favorite instrument as a sort of reprieve yet forgetting his role as Niflheim’s commander for a while strips him of his facade, pushing him to unwittingly dabble with his box of emotions and fear.

Pairing: Ravus Nox Fleuret and Veritas Lux Seculum (oc)

Warning: Slightly mature, angst, mentions of death

Footsteps echoed in the halls of white within Fenestala Manor, the sunlight filtering through the foliage that tapped on tall, clear windows on a bright morning. The footsteps ceased in front of a gigantic door that was left ajar. Creaking as it opened further, the sound of soft piano keys spilled from the brightly lit room into her eager ears.

Veritas Lux Seculum smiled at the figure whose brows were uncharacteristically calm and beneath those were the palest blue eyes of young sylleblossom colors. As she walked towards him, Ravus’ lips curled upwards in a smile.

‘You always know when I’m coming.’

‘Quite so. Those soundless steps are betrayed by your perfume. Soft notes of spring florals do suit you well, my darling.’ 

‘Perhaps I ought to refrain from putting it on. What kind of guard am I if I could be detected just as easily?’

Ravus chuckled, tilting his head to the side to look her in the eyes. Strands of stray hair drooped down on his face as a playful smirk spreads across his lips, eyes full of mirth.

‘Leave it on. I shall miss this scent once I’m away again.’

Seeing her blush at his honest declaration, Ravus pushed on as the piano keys shifted to a livelier tune.

‘Although, I do not need to put perfume on my person anymore. Your scent seems to have seeped in to my clothes. I like it. It’s rather comforting, especially at night.’

Veritas found herself breathing in deep at his openness, her hand resting upon his shoulder as he continued to play.

Ravus scooted to the side of the bench and she sat down. Her warmth enveloping him in an embrace. The momentum of shifting keys slowed down to a familiar gentle tune. Veritas hoped she remembers the notes her lover taught her the first time she tried to play the piano.

‘Shall I?’

Veritas asked meekly, surprised to even find her voice at a very delicate moment such as this one.

‘If you would, that would be a delight.’

‘I might make mistakes. I always do, in fact.’

The soft chuckle that escaped Ravus’ lips was encouragement enough so she lifted her fingers up and started following his playing. Her clumsy fingers and her lack of good memory skill for remembering even a short piece indeed pushed her to make mistakes despite her willingness to learn.

Ravus continued to play on his left hand as his right one gently lifted up his lover’s fingers, carefully placing them on the correct keys. 

Chuckling nervously, either because of another mistake or with the sudden touch of his skin on hers, Veritas pushed on, trying her very best to follow through.

Another mistake, oh dear. 

As he played, Ravus leaned lower to his side and kissed her hair, his chuckle reverberating with every wrong tone that echoes in his brightly lit library. 

He smiled and secretly hoped that she would make more mistakes. He would freely give his kisses if she wished for it. And she does, thank the stars.

The shadows cast by the Tenebraen oaks outside the window shifted, slowly then violently, submitting to the whims of the summer breeze.

The lovers kept on playing and correcting for a while until their throats reminded them of thirst.

‘Ah, no wonder. We’ve been playing for an hour. Or I should say you have been playing. Shall we take a break?’

Veritas suggested, stretching her hands above her head as she did. 

Ravus watched her, his eyes falling to the golden necklace of two hands joined together in a loving clasp.

Noticing his curious observation, she turned in her seat to face him fully, her eyes shining in mirth.

She leaned closer to inspect his neck where a similar adornment should be.

‘And where is yours, Ravus? I thought you hoped to always see this upon my person all day and even all night.’

Veritas teased, her eyes searching for a hint of soft gold on his neck, only for the lord of Tenebrae to fasten his hands on hers before she can part his collar.

‘My goodness. Surely you would have the decency not to undress me here? If you missed me so much Veritas, pray tell me. I shall endeavor to please.’

Ravus’ eyes turned a shade darker. His initial gentleness slowly being replaced by a mischievous and suggestive demeanor, his hands wanting to wander someplace else.

A surge of red tinged the cheeks of a stunned Veritas, the sudden slightly naughty proposition of her usually stoic lover sent a jolt of surprise.

‘N-no! I would not do such a thing! I daresay it is you who missed me so. Cheeky!’

She did not pry her hands away from his iron grip. Instead, she pulled him to her gently, pressing her forehead to his.

As Ravus bent towards her, a faint shine of soft gold caught her eyes — it was the same necklace they both share, and it was neatly tucked beneath his inner shirt.

‘Ah, there it is. I’m quite pleased to see it around your neck, Ravus. Shall we have tea then?’

Ravus pulled away to cast her a look of disappointment.

‘Tea can wait, my darling. I, on the other hand, could not.’

Hot cheeks turner even redder, Veritas pulled her hands away from her lover’s grip. Ravus reached out to grab her once again but she agilely dodged to safety.

‘No more, darling! I’ll shall steep the tea. And if you would rather conduct yourself as a proper lord of Tenebrae would, you would keep your teasing in the latter part of the day.’

Veritas warned as Ravus sighed, her petite frame tiptoeing to reach for the tea pot that sat on the highest part of the shelf by his collection of illustrated books of flora and fauna.

Seeing her dilemma, Ravus stood and acquired it for her, only to keep it on its perch, his body bending down to reach his lover’s lips. 

Veritas’ eyebrows knit together, yet still she tipped her toes again so that she may reach his eager lips.

A soft kiss, but it was much appreciated and loved.

Ravus’ eyes softened even further, seemingly melting in the short but intimate moment.

Tea and scones with fresh fruit jam laid on top of the table, silence and the occasional banters and laughter filling the room. 

Ravus misses moments like these where all he could ever worry about is how to be able to coax his beloved into spending more time with him than what was necessary or possible. There was no one to demand him of anything, really. He can be himself once again in her presence.

Seeing her in his home with his sister along with everyone and everything he grew up with gave Ravus a wonderful surge of emotions. Emotions that, according to him, were quite unnecessary now given the circumstances of their fate. But even for just a day, they’re welcome to come back to the young prince that slept deep within Ravus Nox Fleuret’s hardened heart.

Veritas’ feet swung from the chair, a carefree smile etched upon her youthful face. She sipped her tea slowly, her eyes resting upon the sylleblossom flowers  on the table.

‘The flowers are blooming really well this summer. The farmers even made tea out of sylleblossoms. It’s a rather new trend but it seems like everyone’s gone fond of them. Perhaps you’d like to see the farms tomorrow? The people miss you, Ravus. It has been some time since you visited them to teach medicine and natural remedy.’

‘A singular drop from a dark nox blossom upon innocent fragrant tea taken every day for a month can induce a slow and painful death to its drinker...’

‘What was that?’

Ravus’ heavily lidded eyes looked at her, the shade of blue now cold ice. 

‘I was only musing.’

‘Pray tell me who you were planning to poison? If it’s that idiotic and repulsive Calligo, do let me know. I shall make it so.’

‘My, aren’t you the wicked one,’ Ravus said as he bit on his fourth piece of honey biscuit.

‘It takes one to know one, my darling.’

They played with the idea for a while, the macabre talk of poison and slow death are masked behind their innocent laughter. But thoughts of death slowly ate away the lively discussion.

A man such as Calligo deserves such a fate, Veritas thought. He was and still is ruthless. His laws that were imposed upon the land and people of Tenebrae made the nation suffer not just their loss of freedom, but their loss of hope. 

In a month, scores of so-called ‘traitors’ are put to the sword, all done with just one word from the commanders of Niflheim. Tenebraen retainers dwindled to half their size, either they died fighting for their country or they cowered away to the iron rule of Niflheim. 

Veritas had once tried to murder Calligo and the other Gralean officials a few years ago but failed. Ravus tried his best to stage their accidents yet he too, succumbed to failure. 

It was then that Ravus decided to use Veritas’ advice.

Use whatever it is that is available to you and twist it to your advantage. That way, you can gain the upper hand.

A sound advice turned into a plot that Veritas never wanted to implement. She felt guilty of all the blood that she shed despite the sense of righteousness it gave her once the deed is done. Now the idea of killing does not sit well with her no matter how much of a warrior she has become over the millennia. 

Veritas despaired at the fate of the once gentle prince. At the loss of his innocence and freedom, Ravus fell prey to hate. Hate that consumes not just the mind but his whole being. 

‘Revenge by death shall not pacify a wounded heart. Only forgiveness.’

Ravus stood up from his chair, obviously irked by her admonition. 

‘Death comes to those who deserve it. I shall see to it.’

‘Your revenge is directed to someone unworthy of your hate. Ravus, King Regis is --’

‘The man I’m expecting to see once my revenge is ready for the stage. He did all of these things. If he had only helped us...’ Ravus stopped, shaking his head.

Ravus’ hand opened the window to the balcony, his body shaking.

‘...every thing would have been different.’

Veritas’ throat suddenly hurt as if thorns had decided to strangle the life out of her. She replied with a trembling voice.

‘The empire is using you. They played with your loss and turned it to hate. They deserve your vengeance, not the Lucian king.’

Ravus turned his head to see Veritas standing beside him, her hair blowing violently in the wind.

‘You’re wrong, Veritas. I am the one playing this game!’ 

Ravus’ voice boomed in his fury. 

‘They are my puppets. The lot of them.’ 

He clutched his side where his father’s sword usually resides. Sonus Nox Fleuret died by the Empire’s sword, his blood spilling unto his mother’s pristine white clothes and shaking fingers. He heard in his mind his own teenage cries of despair, echoing so loud like a taunt.

His voice suddenly turned flat as if he was an entirely different person. It came out like a whisper, a shadowy trace of the strength that marked his fury a few seconds ago.

‘In the end they shall see how the prince of Tenebrae delivers justice to those who murdered his family and his life.’

Soft arms encircled around his body, the sound of tears seeping into his heart. She could say nothing more at the moment. Words could not reach him. 

Only love.

Veritas could only hold him, hoping that somehow she could ease his pain. His body went rigid, tremors shaking his inner core.

‘Every day I see more and more of my country falling to inhuman hands, their limbs bound in shackles. The night reminds me of the once passionate violin that echoed in this very room, the laughter, the love and everyone that deserved to be saved. And yet here I am, devoid of every thing that once were mine.’

Ravus felt his heart spilling forth. He frantically grabbed his emotions and tucked it deep within himself once again, sealing it up to open again on another day. He nearly slipped but he caught himself. 

Veritas’ small hands soothed his back as words of reassurance filled Ravus’ ears.

‘I know for certain that one day, you will overcome the shadows of the past, learning from it and growing even stronger of heart and soul. I have seen you and you have come a long way. Believe me when I say this -- there is a future for all of us. I believe in you, Ravus. You need not fear the unknown for I am here with you, always.’

Veritas hoped her words reached the deepest pits of his heart and crushed the darkness within. He was such a kind-hearted man; he still was today yet his kindness is not freely given to anyone anymore.

She felt strong arms embracing her, his scent mingling with hers felt like a reassuring hug.

After a while, Ravus pulled away. The gentle breeze blew, heralding the coming of night. 

‘Shall we retire for the day?’ Veritas asked, wiping her tears away.

Nodding, Ravus took her hand in his.

And so Ravus Nox Fleuret spent his last night once more as he lay beside his lover, holding her tightly as if melting into her as they sank in the warm sheets,  his lips whispering reassurances that he would come back again. 

Ravus held on to his words as a sort of string which he attached to her heart. She kissed him so and only hoped that soon they can all live without fear or regret.

I couldn’t think of a proper title, so I went with ‘Pandora’s Box’. It sort of symbolizes Ravus’ emotions, that when left open, his painful memories would come spilling forth, forcing him to remember who he truly is. But as his plot begins to unfold, this box will be a hindrance. So he hides it all the time. 

‘What can not be seen nor felt can never hurt me.’

Also, this is supposed to be a light story, but somehow Ravus insisted that his voice be heard. So I obliged, willingly.

[renegadesrpg]

Dark Angels: Creation, Part 35. Paths of Choice. Sin

I am immune to my senses, so deep in thought am I. The waves lapping at my feet, the sound of sea birds, the scent of salt and ozone in the air…all of it simply does not exist for me. Adrian’s news was indeed an indicator that the time to move was upon us but there is a growing sense of unease within me. Finally rising from the sand, I walk back to the lanai. It is time to look to the future. Or rather, the possible futures.

Adrian has his precognitive ability but it strikes at its own whim, not upon request. I, however, have other methods. There are advantages to having walked the corridors of power for the last 35,000 years and one of them is that I have learned a great deal of magick. There are all sorts of sources for magicks. The angels have their ethereal version, mortals their earth magick, and Zav and Bryn have begun to mix the two for this battle we face, but I am a law unto myself. Death has its own brand of magick, one that is intimately tied to the Fates and the Creator. It is what lets reapers walk between the worlds and bend space and time to do our jobs. In my hands, it is even more. Study with the fae in Tir Nan Og has combined with the innate power I hold and the more general magick of the reaper to allow me to walk the paths of time. It is the only way to see what choices the Fates may put before me, and it is likely even those will be shrouded in mysticism. But I feel compelled to try.

Calling to Declan, I bid him to watch over my body in the physical realm while I allow my spirit to walk other planes. Though a reaper’s body is simply the physical manifestation of his or her soul, the power I hold allows me to maintain that corporeal form while I separate a bit of my own soul from the whole to seek answers from the unknown. This is not the first time I have used his talents thus, even though I know he finds it unnerving to watch, to know the shell no longer houses the spirit.

“It will be fine,” I sooth. “If aught goes wrong while I am occupied, contact Sean. He does not have the power to walk where I will go for this, but he will know what to do.”

Declan’s frown tells me what he thinks of this plan. I have no doubt he would prefer we go directly to Brazil and move forward. Finally, he simply folds his arms and nods, then steps back into the doorway to stand guard.

Maintaining an outward calm but heaving an internal sigh… it is wearing to deal with such unyielding concern from my people… I ignore his recalcitrance and go to the chest I keep at the end of the lanai. Kneeling before it I open it. The fragrant scents of various herbs and resins waft from it as I remove a soft circular rug and smooth it out. An ancient brass brazier follows, along with sage, rosemary, vervain and myrrh. The sage is to bring me wisdom, the rosemary to ground my spirit to this realm and the vervain to protect my spirit as I roam. The last, myrrh, is a resin that when burned will cleanse my mind and my home of any lingering darkness and help me to sink into a deep meditation. In that state I will sever that part of my soul that needs to travel the trails of time.

 All will find their way to the brazier when the time is right. Though it would be a simple thing for me to add them to the bowl with a thought, adding them by my own hand is, as is the careful storage of them physically rather than simply materializing them at need, a nod to the ancient magicks of the fae. A sign of respect for the power, if you will, and one should always respect power if one wishes it to be an ally.

 Sitting back cross-legged on the rug, I place the brazier before me, with the herbs laid out beside it. With a thought white candles ring the rug, declaring my purity of purpose in this endeavor. They flare to life simultaneously at my bidding as I lay the myrrh in the bowl before me.  Extending my hand over it, I murmur “lasair”. It bursts to life, a gold and orange flame dancing above the brazier before settling to a steady burn. One by one I add the others, the fire leaping at each addition and then settling again.  When the flame has receded to stability, the gentle crackling no longer emitting sparks, I settle my hands, palms up on my knees, close my eyes, and begin to speak softly.

 “Cad iad na todhchaíochtaí a scríobh na Morai?

Cad iad na cosáin atá leagtha síos acu dom?

Cad iad na roghanna a thabharfar dom?

Glaoim ar na Fates chun ligean dom a fheiceáil.

 Is ar mo roghanna féin amháin atá an t-iarmhéid crochta,

Is trí mo ghníomhartha amháin a bheidh an domhan saor.

Taispeáin dom cad a chaithfidh mé a dhéanamh.

Glaoim ar na Fates chun ligean dom a fheiceáil.”

 “What futures have the Morai written?

What paths have they laid for me?

What choices shall I be given?

I call the Fates to let me see.

Only on my choices the balance hangs,

Only by my actions will the worlds be free.

Show me what I must do.

I call the Fates to let me see.”

 The sounds and scents of the outside world recede and I feel myself rise above the physical form I maintain. I see myself seated on the floor of the lanai, a body only. Declan is watching from the doorway, his frown gone now, his face impassive, his body rigid as a stone warrior guarding a tomb entrance. And then even that fades away and my essence coalesces on a plane far removed from the mortal one. A wide, raised stone walkway serves as my platform as I survey my surroundings. Around it an ocean of blue flames roil and flicker, a storm of turmoil seething beneath my feet. Sensing that I am not alone, I whirl around, prepared to do battle even here if I must, but relax at the three lovely female forms behind me.

“Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos…” my hand to my chest as I bow my head to them, “I did not expect the Morai to attend to this personally. Why am I so honored?”

 It is the raven-haired Lachesis whose laugh trills across the plane. ‘Why would we not come, Sin? We have grown,’ she shoots a sly smile at her sisters, ‘fond of you.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Atropos adds as she pushes her wavy auburn tresses from her face, ‘you never disappoint. Throughout the eons you have always chosen the door that we would have wished for you. For which I am appreciative. I would find no happiness in cutting the thread of your life. Your existence since becoming Death’s first has provided us with much more pleasure. ’ She smiles at me knowingly.

 ‘Enough sisters,’ the fair Clothos gently reprimands. ‘The time for those recollections has passed. It is the future he needs to see. It is the future he /must/ see if he is to understand.’ She turns her azure-blue eyes to me and takes both my hands in hers. ‘There lies before you only one possible door, but there are two paths behind it.  Both lead to darkness, but the darkness is not always the enemy of the light. It can be the balance and it is that balance upon which the destinies of not just the worlds lie, but of the Creator himself. We came because you must see the results of your decision clearly. We cannot tell you what you must choose or which path it will lead you down. ‘ She smiles lightly, ‘Your free will is still the determiner of all our futures. ‘

 There is a sadness to her smile that I cannot fathom. Gently I reach out to caress her cheek.

 “Clothos, will you not tell me what is on your heart?”

 She simply shakes her head, her enigmatic smile unchanged. ‘I can only tell you whatever you choose, we shall never again be as we were. Whether we become allies or enemies is still to be determined. But we can only go forward.

 “Can fond memories count for nothing, then?” I murmur. She catches my hand and removes it from her cheek. I can see the immortal in her rising as her shoulders firm and her chin tilts. It was always a trait I had admired in her, that ability to put duty to power over emotional frailties. It was one we shared.   

‘The past has been written, Sin. Memories are a wisp in the wind, ephemeral and influenced by what we wish could have been, not necessarily what was. The future is still to be dealt with, an avenue for growth and stability. We cannot let what was dictate what will be.’

 I laugh softly. “And there you have the source of all the disagreements I have ever had with the Morai. The past /has/been written and because of that the memories we hold are the foundation of the future. They are solid and form the basis for the choices we make, the way we grow.” The laughter dies from my face as my need to understand what that future might be reasserts itself. “Come, show me what I need to see.”

 ‘You must go forward from here alone. Your future is yours to determine. We will watch over you and maintain a mental link,’ she answers and then Atropos adds solemnly, ‘Regardless of which path you take, my golden scissors /will/ be used. The only question is upon whom. I have my preferences, but the choice will be yours.’

 I look each of them in turn. Their expressions are impassive now, no teasing, no easy flirtation. They are once again the immortal Fates.  “We have come to the heart of it now, have we not? Who lives and who dies.” Once again dipping my head to them, I turn and walk forward until I come to a door in the pathway. As I open it I can see the path split into two. The roiling blue flames pitch and roll around them and I have to wonder at the significance of this. The flames have meaning and their prevalence around the walkways must symbolize something that will remain constant regardless of the path I choose.

 ‘You must walk through the door, Sin.’ It Is Lachesis voice echoing in my head. ‘You need not walk down far down either path to see what you must.  But you must look.’

Inhaling deeply, I steel myself. Both paths are shrouded in a darkness that the tumultuous fires illuminate only partially.  I choose the right hand path first, walking down it for a few yards until I can see what lies at the end. My jaw sets at the image. I see myself on a throne carved of black marble against a backdrop of fire, the orange flames casting shadows around me.  My face is dark and brooding as thousands kneel before me, my black leathers stained and my bloody sword lying across my legs. Freya, Danu and Kali are in chains before me. An armed guard with spears crossed bars the way to my throne and disembodied souls shimmer on the steps leading up to it. And nowhere do I see the ones whom I now call family.

 “NO. I do not want this!”

 It is a shout in my mind. For before me I see all that I have ever despised. Power without compassion. Strength without mercy. Narcissism and greed. I see a despot leaving bodies in his wake. I see the Horseman of Death as he has always wished to be.

 “I will NOT walk this path, Clothos. I will die by my own hand first!”

‘That is not an option, Sin. The door you went through is one of inconceivable power. It has no limits. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. It is a human truism that holds for the immortal as well. And it is a door you have already chosen to walk through. Nothing can stop it now, but without the influence of the ones whom you hold as family, that monstrous god is what you will become. And you /will/ lose them all if you choose this path. But it is not foregone that you will. Go back now. Walk the left hand path. It has… we’ll call it more creative options.’

 My face is stony, my body rigid with tension as I backtrack my steps to the original fork in the walkway. This one, too, leads into a darkness dimly lit by the blue flames around it, but again, a few yards in I can see the scene at the end. The ebony throne is still there, but my leathers are clean and I am smiling, descending with my hands out to greet those I love. I can make out Sean’s face as he approaches me, and that of his female. I hear Bryn’s laughter somewhere and Zav is there at my left, his dark wings lifted behind him and a teasing smile on his face as he looks down at a small dark-haired female in the crowd, Declan and Celia on either side of her. And there /is/ a crowd. Smaller, mingling, people coming and going with purpose but not fear.  My future self looks up, as though I hear my name called and then I see her. It is my battle angel from the alley in Caldwell. She comes from behind the throne, clothed in leathers, her own silvery, shimmering wings visible now. She smiles at me as I turn to greet her with a kiss. She has a young male of perhaps four years holding her hand. I lift him up and settle him on my hip, kissing his cheek, then pointing to another child in the crowd. He wiggles down and runs to greet her and I laugh at Sean’s disconcerted look of concern.  There are no disembodied souls hovering, no guards with spears. My own sword, clean and shining with glints of fire shimmering along the sharp, curved edge, leans against the throne, an indicator that my future self is not done with it, but it is not bloodied.

 “Clothos…Lachesis…Atropos…” my mental voice cracks with emotion, “What is this you are showing me?”

 Again it is Lachesis voice that comes to me. ‘This is your other future Sin. You cannot escape the power, you cannot escape what you will become. You can only choose how it will be wielded. These are the results of a choice you will make. It will be one or the other. I cannot tell you what you must choose between but I can say that the first will be the result of a choice made out of ego. The second is the result of a choice made from love. You have always had a healthy ego. Do you have the ability to put love over ego?’

Before I can answer, SHE looks at me. My battle angel looks down the long walkway and meets my eyes. I swear she sees me. Not my future self, but me in this time and place. I hear her voice in my mind.

 ‘What will you choose? Will you choose vengeance as you once did or will you remember love and choose a different path?’ 

 #TBC

 #DarkAngelsCreation #PathsOfChoice #CROSSOVER #PhoenixRisingFromTheAshes #RRPG #Renegades #BDBAU #Reapers #Vampires #Angels #Wolven #Ghosts