Enter WORKINGMAN.
The WORKINGMAN begins to strike a post upon which notices are posted.
Enter FACILIS.
FACILIS:
Wherefore, good man, this post dost thou attack?
WORKINGMAN:
The bard Facilis said he'd play his songs,
but since I know not when he shall arrive,
I'm forced to wait - and waiting burns all men.
FACILIS:
Your wait is over, sir, for it is I!
'tis I, Facilis, my trip has been long!
And as the winter's clouds now fill the sky,
One week hence New Year's Day I'll play my song!
Throughout the land my wisdom is renowned
But never have I read a tome of lore
It is in gold that all my smarts are found
And so I'm even wiser than before!
A maiden fair and true I once did meet
I courted her and promised her my heart
But her companions also looked as sweet
I asked them all to never be apart.
Unless, of course, it's not in God's great plan
I'll prove to you that I'm a "Mega Man!"
Exeunt omnes.
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“I wish they wouldn’t hang on her like that,” Tarou grumbled to Hirotaka.
They were spending their Saturday at a small doujinshi convention a few towns over. A former circle member of Narumi’s had reached out asking for help with her table when over half of her current group came down with the flu. Narumi had been quick to say yes, and, being a veteran of such events, she’d roped in all her otaku friends to help. (Plus Naoya, who was just happy to be included.)
Never one to shy from a challenge, Hanako had immediately bought supplies to whip up a new cosplay for the occasion. She’d barely slept in the past week, and had bitten Tarou’s head off when he’d helpfully - he’d thought - suggested she wear an old one she already had made, but she’d managed to finish the final touches the previous night before collapsing into bed.
And she looked stunning.
Link to read the rest of my Wotakoi fic
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Oc-tober Day 4 - Mercy - Eithruin
At first, she dreams.
Darkness swirls within the light, she sees, flowing and dripping like eddying water. She remembers water, or at least she thinks she does. Remembers the way the starlight glinted off it, cold and strange in the new depths of night.
She can hear voices, at times, fading and surging like waves, like the darkness. At times there are friends, bringing healing and rest and soft words, asking, begging for her to wake. Those times she is sleepy, and wishes not to wake.
At other times there is a harsh, cold voice, whispering at the first and growing louder steadily, and a creeping, debilitating cold. She remembers cold, she thinks, remembers it well.
At times like those she wants to wake, wills it with all her being but she cannot, and she curses the darkness with strength she cannot keep. The darkness heeds her not, and continues its swirling, mindless patterns in the light.
-
Later on, far later as it seems, the dreams begin to stop. She is worsening, the gentle voices whisper through the fog, weakening though they can't guess why. She wants to tell them, when she can think clearly, that the voices are getting louder, and growing in strength themselves. When she can't, she merely wishes for the light to return, and to feel her shoulder again.
Her hands tremble in her sleep, and she mindlessly grasps for her spear to steady them as it always has. A gasp sounds above her, and hands seize her own. The voices get excited the next while, but she does not find her spear. The darkness continues to flow and pour in endless circles and swirls around her, and though she can see them no longer she can feel them now, ever whispering, and ever cold.
-
Harthalín visits often. Later, she will learn that she came every year at the same time, but in sleep all years blend together, some shorter and some lasting ages. She comes, and she sits, and she talks. Unendingly, she speaks, and though the sleeper knows the words not, the voice is a soothing sound to sleep to. Her lips form soft words, the shape of a name, but they can't quite make a sound and she stops trying after a while.
-
Near the end, the visits begin to stop. Soft arguments take place around her that she can hear but not understand--- She isn't going to wake, Elrond, her sleep deepens by the year. It would be a mercy, now, to let her go.
A mercy.
The words remain for a while, then die once more. Nearby, someone is weeping.
She wants to grasp her spear again, and feel the grounding weight of her shield on her back. She does not reach, for there is no strength left to do so.
-
In the last years, a new person comes. Quiet and unassuming, he enters on light feet, and sits beside her in the same chair as the rest. He neither speaks nor begs, as the others have done, but merely sits and holds her hand.
“Nastarún!” Someone is calling her, running up stone-laid streets on quick feet, “Come! Atar has called, and the feasts are starting.”
The boy, bright and merry, is captured in every detail in her mind’s eye, but to her he is foreign, a stranger. Her brother in recent years has grown and wisened after his own fashion, a steady flame beside her leaping fire. Háno, she wishes to calls to him, but he departs only a minute later.
-
There is uproar, all around her, shouts and hisses and whispered worries in the halls and in the chamber. Beyond the window hooves stamp and someone far off is singing a lament. No one comes for a long while, though the air of emergency hangs everywhere.
Sometime after that, someone grasps her hand with strength of steel, calloused hands, ancient hands. You are going to heal, someone says softly, desperately, you are going to heal and you are going to wake.
-
The air without is warm and welcoming. Summer, she thinks, and she smiles softly, for at last her shoulder has begun to warm itself, basking in the sunlight let in by the ceiling windows. The blanket that has been drawn up to her chin is thick and soft, and she settles further into it with the faintest of sighs. The warmth soaks into her, and the cold voice seems faint and far away now. At long last, she sleeps and it is restful.
Far above, Elrond douses the candle with the faintest of smiles, growing swiftly into a relieved laugh. She is resting now, and soon she will wake.
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