#deep elm records | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

samstree · 2 years

Text

Beneath the Winter Snow (1/2)

The care and keeping of one’s bard and winter garden. Jaskier falls ill. Geralt copes as best as he can. (sickfic, 3.8k ☆ AO3)

Winter arrives with a small cough that settles deep in Jaskier’s lungs.

“Oh, dear.” Jaskier rubs his chest, coughing a few times, breaths forming a white fog. “What is with me today?”

Temperature near the coast rarely drops so suddenly, but a cold gust has swept over the little fishing village along with freezing rain, catching them off guard. Frost covers the ground overnight, lining bare branches and fallen leaves with glistening silver.

Geralt tucks in the woolen scarf around Jaskier’s neck. “Perhaps you should go in,” he says. “I’ll finish in the garden.”

“Nonsense!” Jaskier pushes Geralt’s gloved hands away. “It’s our winter garden. I will not leave all the chores to you, darling, no matter how adorable you look when you give the plants little pep talks. The next frost won’t be long, and we haven’t planted the honeysuckles yet.”

Jaskier’s voice breaks with another wheezing sound. Geralt’s worry only grows. He frowns in dissatisfaction and pulls the fur-lined hood over Jaskier’s head.

“I know,” Geralt ignores Jaskier’s protest and presses his ears to keep them warm. “Just don’t want you to catch a cold.”

The crow’s feet at Jaskier’s temples are beautiful when his smiles, understanding shining in eyes as blue as the sea. Hair peppered with silver streaks sweeps across his forehead in the wind, and Geralt brushes the strands away, tucking them behind Jaskier’s ears.

“You take care of me too well. I won’t be catching anything,” Jaskier says coyly, his cheeks pink from both the winter chill and a blush. “Come on. I’ll do the honeysuckles and witch hazels. You can trim the hydrangeas for us.”

“Hmm, just…be careful with your knees.”

Geralt isn’t convinced by Jaskier’s reassurance, but they start the chores while there’s still daylight. The air smells like fresh rain as Jaskier plants the seeds in damp soil, humming an absent tune. Geralt trims the bare branches with half of his senses tuned into every subtle cough under Jaskier’s breath.

The sun barely sets before Geralt calls it a day, the few pots of witch hazels still not moved into the ground. Jaskier’s legs wobble as he stands, his hands resting on Geralt’s shoulders to steady himself.

“Alright?” Geralt checks carefully, studying the tiredness in Jaskier’s features.

“Mm-hmm.” Jaskier’s eyes crinkle. “Getting old, is all. The good days of me walking all day without complaints are long gone, dear witcher.”

“Without complaints?” Geralt gives a look. “Sure.”

Jaskier gasps in offense, starting to ramble about how he was the picture of suffering in stoic silence, but Geralt only ushers him indoors, shaking his head. The warm air of their home surrounds them, and they begin another evening routine.

Geralt helps Jaskier out of his garden gears from muscle memory, helping him out of the sturdy boots and thick coats. He then puts all the tools in the closet, before retrieving the blankets to put on Jaskier’s lap so he can relax in front of the fireplace in the soft armchair.

He almost thinks Jaskier has drifted off if not for the occasional coughs that bubble up in his throat. The harsh sound interrupts the quiet crackling of the fire, piercing the most vulnerable part of Geralt’s heart.

So he finds the book.

It’s a leather-bound notebook Geralt keeps solely for Jaskier’s health, recording all the medicine he takes, all the trips to the local healer, and all the herbs that fill up that cupboard in their living room. The book is half full already, with pieces of notes and remedies pressed between the pages.

Geralt checks the herbs they used last time—a small cold Jaskier caught in the spring that didn’t bother him for too long. He finds the turmeric, slippery elm, and ginger root in the cupboard, but the peppermint leaves have dried up along with a few other things. He writes down the list of things to be restocked on the next trip to the herbalist.

“You and that book,” Jaskier grumbles, stretching in the comfortable chair. “Stop worrying and come sit with me.”

Geralt simply bends down to kiss Jaskier’s hair, passing him. He has water to boil and a herbal tea to make.

“Any headache?” Geralt asks from the kitchen, not sure if he should use willow bark in the mix.

“Only from your fussing,” Jaskier whines.

Geralt chuckles as he puts away the willow bark and adds a generous scoop of honey. Gods know how long Jaskier will complain if the tea is too bitter.

When he brings the steaming mug of pungent herbal tea to the living room, Jaskier deflates visibly, lips curling into a pout from the unfairness of it all. “You know, no amount of honey hides the taste.

“I know,” Geralt answers in sympathy, “but it helps.”

Jaskier sighs, wrapping his hands around the mug. “Urgh, the things I do for you.”

Geralt sits on the rug by Jaskier’s feet as he sips slowly, grimacing the entire time. In the end, Jaskier chugs the last of it with a full-body shudder, wiping his mouth clean.

“Proud of you,” Geralt says, rubbing Jaskier’s thigh in encouragement.

“Of course you are. I’m the bravest bard to ever walk the continent. Brave enough to drink this vile liquid.” Jaskier puts the mug on the table, tugging at Geralt’s arms. “Just come here, you.”

Geralt joins him gladly, squeezing into the armchair. With a bit of shuffling, somehow Jaskier ends up on Geralt’s lap, his head tucked in the space under Geralt’s chin, the scent of mixed herbs still in his breath.

“Hmm,” Geralt hums softly. “Your knees okay? Not bothering you?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier whispers, kissing Geralt’s neck. “Yours?”

Geralt moves his bad knee slightly and feels no pain flaring up. The chores they did earlier were not nearly enough to exert his old injuries. He just wants to focus on his human bard who needs a lot more care and attention than a witcher.

“I’m fine,” Geralt says. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Too late. I have to.” Jaskier sags, burrowing into Geralt’s embrace. “I made you my problem a very long time ago, in a most horrid tavern at the edge of the world. You are the one who should want to run away from all of this. You didn’t sign up for taking care of an old human, after all.”

Jaskier takes to coughing again, so Geralt strokes between his shoulder blades.

It’s true that Geralt wouldn’t have chosen this life back then, in a dingy tavern where an annoying bard decided to follow him around the continent like a lost puppy. Had it been up to him, he’d never have grown to care for Jaskier or anyone after. Had it been up to him, he would still be walking the path alone with only the company of Roach. He’d not need to build a winter garden, or keep a collection of medicine, or have Jaskier here with him, in his arms, soothed by his presence.

It would be a living nightmare, compared to the dream that is his life right now.

“Don’t,” Geralt whispers as Jaskier catches his breath. “Don’t say that. I’d fight anyone who tries to take this away from me. You know it.”

“I just don’t want you to take on too much, darling. You’ve spent the past few years caring for me. All you do is scribble in that damn book. Don’t get me wrong, I love the attention.” Jaskier huffs. “But I want you to feel supported too, and I fear—well, I fear I won’t be able to do that for you. Not anymore.”

It’s ridiculous Jaskier still puts Geralt’s needs before his, but he does, and he will always want to.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it,” Geralt repeats, not sure how convincing he is. “Everything I need is right here.”

He just needs Jaskier to be alright. As long as Jaskier is healthy and safe, Geralt doesn’t think of much else.

They stay there like this, in front of the crackling fire on a winter night, with Jaskier warm and tired, resting against Geralt’s shoulder.

The cough won’t go away.

As the days shorten and the chill sets in, Jaskier spends more and more time hacking up a lung, and his energy drains with it. The bad days will leave him exhausted. Even a good day can quickly turn into a bad one with a mere gust of wind.

The night stretches forever near solstice. With daylight waning, Geralt takes up all the gardening to keep Jaskier from the cold. He is just checking on the hydrangeas blooms when the faint strumming of the lute comes from their bedroom window.

It’s been too long since Jaskier last sang.

The coughs leave Jaskier’s voice hoarse, the brightness in his songs diminished by the constant exertion, but his spirit remains. It’s a ballad, a love story, as it always is. Unlike those famous works from his youth singing about heartbreak, this song is about a love that matured over the years. This song sings of quiet mornings and hushed conversations, of secret jokes and companionship.

It’s about them.

Geralt stops to listen as the melody wraps deep around his heart, smoothing over all the tension in his body. He listens as the song comes to an end, fading with the warmth of trust and security.

A cough wrecks Jaskier’s voice. The lute drops to the ground, the strings clanging. Geralt is in the cottage within a few strides, running into their bedroom.

There Jaskier is, perched on the bed, body shaking from another coughing fit, the rattling in his lungs like an old ship.

“I’m—” Jaskier wheezes, trying to smile but only manages a pained grimace. “I’m fi—”

“Hey.” Geralt brings Jaskier into his arms, stroking his back with long, patient movement. “Hush now, don’t speak. It’s alright. Take your time.”

Jaskier ends up slumped against Geralt’s shoulder, clutching at his chest, coughing erratically. The sharp, acrid scent of pain grows as he wheezes. Geralt’s hands act on instinct, soothing, comforting, his lips pressed against Jaskier’s hair in reassurance. None of it seems to help. The coughs pass in time, draining all the strength in Jaskier’s body.

For a moment, he can only let Geralt support all his weight, all his energy focused on taking in one broken gasp after another.

The lute lies by their feet, silent and still.

Geralt feels every slight tremor under his palm. He keeps rubbing Jaskier’s back, knowing he cannot ease the pain underneath. He thinks of the book, of all the medicine in their cupboard.

“I’ll get you something.” Geralt starts to leave, but arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back.

“No, don’t go,” Jaskier croaks, eyes watering. “I’m really fine.”

When he tries to squeeze out a smile, a tear streams down his pale cheek. Geralt wipes it away with a thumb.

“Let me get something for your throat, at least,” Geralt says gently, coaxing Jaskier to release him. His arms are so weak it’ll only take the barest force to push him away, but Geralt can’t bring himself to do it. He hasn’t been able to do it for decades.

Jaskier shakes his head, resting against Geralt’s neck. “In a bit. There’s no rush.” He huffs a small smile against Geralt’s skin. “Did you hear me sing?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Geralt lowers his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes in sincerity. “It was beautiful.”

Jaskier nudges with an elbow. “Such high praise for you. You were the most difficult audience member to satisfy on this continent. Did you even realize? For my entire career, you were always so picky. Can’t be too inaccurate, can’t make you sound too heroic. Had I known dedicated love songs were the way to go, I’d have professed my love much earlier.”

Geralt softens. “It would have saved me a month after that sleeping curse, looking for your one true love.”

When Jaskier looks up, remembering that day, his eyes sparkle with fondness. “But it was you all along, the love of my life who saved me with a simple kiss.”

“Hmm. If only those could cure coughs.”

Geralt hugs Jaskier closer, feeling the thinning of his waist and the sharp edges of his ribs. Something in his chest aches at the overwhelming powerlessness that won’t leave him since winter began.

True love’s kiss saved them from a curse then, but it’s nothing against a fragile human’s mortality.

He hugs Jaskier more tightly, somehow.

“How are the flowers today?” Jaskier changes the subject, sensing Geralt’s melancholy, exhaustion already seeping deep into this voice. “You won’t let me stay outside, and now I miss them.”

Geralt keeps his voice soft. “The hydrangeas are fine. Growing better than last year. We should be able to sell soon.”

“Remember to save some for us. We haven’t kept flowers in the house in a while.”

Geralt hasn’t had the mind to decorate since Jaskier became sick, but he promises anyway. “Of course. The pink ones for your study, blue for our room.”

“The White Wolf has such a keen eye for colors. Who would have thought?” Jaskier teases. “Come on. Let’s stop moping. I haven’t been out of this room all day. Let me at least go out in the garden, lest the plants miss me too much.”

“You make fun of me, but I know you talk to them too.” Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“You rub off on me, dearest, especially when you are being a sweetheart. Plus, they do grow better when you give them some encouragement. I thought I’d try, that’s all. Once I started, it was hard to stop. They are such great listeners.”

“Like Roach.”

“Not as good as Roach, I’m afraid. She’s the best.”

With much dramaticism, Jaskier tries to stand but his legs are too weak. Geralt pulls him up gently, supporting him by the elbows.

Jaskier smiles tiredly, opening his mouth to say something, only to suppress a sudden cough.

It’s a big, violent one that seems to rumble against his chest. Pain flashes across blue eyes that were relaxed a moment ago. Color drains from Jaskier’s face, leaving his cheeks white as a sheet.

Geralt is alert in an instant.

“Jaskier?” All of his senses turn towards Jaskier and every shudder in his breaths. There is nothing outwardly wrong, but the bitter scent of pain spikes, mixed with overpowering fear and panic. Geralt’s hands move frantically, touching and checking everywhere, not sure how to help. “Talk to me, Jaskier. What is it? What’s wrong?”

Jaskier looks like he’s out of his body, confused and unresponsive, vacant eyes fixed on somewhere miles away. He sways, before bending over and coughing up a mouthful of blood.

The crimson color cuts sharply into Geralt’s vision, stark against the paleness of Jaskier’s face. The world rings in Geralt’s ears, a dulled background noise behind the heaving of Jaskier’s lungs.

“G’ralt—” Jaskier’s eyes are round with unbridled fear, much like that fateful day in Rinde all those years ago. All he blindly searches for is Geralt. “Geralt, I…”

Geralt catches his hand, just like that day. He catches Jaskier’s hand, the same fear echoed deep within his ribs, enveloping his heart.

“Jaskier? Jask—”

Jaskier coughs again, spitting out more blood. “Hurts,” he chokes hoarsely. “Geralt, it hurts so much—”

With that, he collapses against Geralt’s chest, legs giving out. His body is light, nearly weightless in Geralt’s arms, but they are brought to the ground anyway. Jaskier’s head lolls listlessly, face scrunched up in pain, but his hand still holds onto Geralt tightly. He holds on as if Geralt is the single most powerful anchor in a storm, as if Geralt alone can keep him afloat when another wave of coughs topples him over.

But all Geralt can do is hold on in return. All he can do is call out for Jaskier helplessly as he struggles to choke in one breath after another.

It’s painfully clear to Geralt what is happening—what he missed. An infection has set in as the cough progressed. He should have recognized this disease and its symptoms. Witchers never fall to human illnesses, but he’s witnessed how many have been taken by it in his century-long life. The white plague, consumption, the names are unimportant, but knowing the danger of it nearly leaves him paralyzed with fear.

There is no cure on the continent apart from magic. Geralt has never been more thankful for the xenovox Yennefer and Triss left for them. For emergencies, Yen said at the time, but the meaning behind the existence of the small box is clear. For when you can’t protect Jaskier. For when you fail him, for when you’ve put him on the brink of death again.

Geralt doesn’t let his voice waver when he calls for Yennefer’s name. He doesn’t fall apart when he describes Jaskier’s condition to Triss, who listens patiently and without judgment. His chest twists with panic when learning the sorceresses are being held up for another two days by local matters, but a cure will be ready before they arrive.

He doesn’t fall apart, because Jaskier needs him, now more than ever. He stays by Jaskier’s bedside and watches as he sleeps.

It’s just that Jaskier is too still when he sleeps.

For two days, Jaskier is confined to their bed, only making a noise when the coughs rattle his lungs. A fever flares up and refuses to come down, making him drowsy all day. When he’s lucid, he can’t keep anything down, throwing up all food and medicine.

There’s a smear of blood on Jaskier’s chin. Geralt wets a cloth to wipe it away. Sweat soaks through Jaskier’s hair, his skin scorching to the touch.

Geralt sits through another night, dabbing Jaskier’s forehead with a cool cloth with little effect. He answers to the incoherent mumbling from fever dreams, but his reassurance is never heard.

“Don’t…leave…” Jaskier’s eyes remain closed, tears streaming down his temples. “I’ll be better… worthy travel companion…”

It’s one of the worst nightmares. Geralt’s heart breaks into pieces as Jaskier calls for a past version of him, begging not to be left behind. He holds Jaskier’s hand near his heart and murmurs his love quietly until the dream passes.

Dawn breaks. Jaskier’s health book lays flat on the bedside table, useless.

Jaskier begins stirring with the sunrise, the shimmering light under the curtains interrupting his fitful rest, so Geralt leans down to press a kiss to his dry, pale lips. Blue eyes crack open. There is so much happiness in the small, tired smile on Jaskier’s face when the first thing he sees is Geralt.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Geralt whispers their private joke.

“Oh…” Despite everything, Jaskier plays along. “You saved me, my brave knight. Now I’m all yours.”

He tries to say more but the cough takes over, shaking his whole body. The violent sound rips through the heavy silence in their home. Phantom pain echoes between Geralt’s ribcage with every wheeze.

Geralt helps Jaskier sit against the pillows and claps his back gently. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, dizzy from the lack of air. Blood stains his lips, grotesque against the paleness of his skin. He coughs until he’s gagging, muscles spasming and trembling all over.

“Yen will be here soon,” Geralt repeats what he’s been saying for the past two days, stroking Jaskier’s hair. “Triss too. They heard my message as soon as I sent it. It’s just something holding them up. They’ll be here.”

Jaskier breathes, and breathes, shivering against the pillows. He takes a sip of water from the cup in Geralt’s hand, and pushes it away, scared of it turning his stomach. “Just need—” he rasps, “just need you.”

“I’m right here.”

Their home smells of pain.

“Just you… No one else.”

Geralt looks away from all the love in Jaskier’s eyes, his trust unwavering. He finds shame and guilt weighing on his breastbone, overpowering and inescapable.

This is all his fault.

“I don’t know what to do, Jaskier.” Geralt wipes the sweat from Jaskier’s brow, patiently explaining. “You are sick, and I can’t make it better.”

Jaskier shakes his head in disapproval. “You make everything better.”

“Not right now,” Geralt nearly huffs. “I’m doing everything I can, but nothing is better.”

Jaskier gives a long, poignant look. His eyes dim in the way that says he’s seeing right through Geralt and finding the most guilt-ridden and self-deprecating part of his soul. It’s the same unhappy look Jaskier gives when he’s ready to give Geralt a lecture about thinking badly about himself.

Jaskier doesn’t give the lecture.

“Have you slept?” he asks instead.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “I don’t need to.”

“Not an answer.” Jaskier sighs, shifting on the bed. There’s so little strength in his body all he manages is lifting the cover by a corner. Even the small movement leaves him breathless, and Jaskier pauses with nearly every word. “You haven’t—haven’t slept for two days. You look awful, dear.”

“I don’t need much sleep. You should rest—”

“Please?” Jaskier rubs his chest pitifully, looking up at Geralt through his lashes. “I feel better when you are next to me.”

It’s a trick, an old one Jaskier uses to make Geralt take care of his own needs. It’s been working since Geralt found himself incapable of saying no to a cheeky bard who wouldn’t stop following him, and it works now, when Jaskier is sick and miserable and all he asks for is Geralt’s presence.

Geralt slips under the cover, curling around Jaskier’s too-warm body.

“I need to bring your temperature down,” he says, mind still alert.

“Shh…” Jaskier only hushes him, humming a contented sound. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll end up with wrinkles like me.”

The crow’s feet at the corners of Jaskier’s eyes bloom beautifully, and Geralt brushes away grey hair to see them. He feels his eyes crinkle in return.

“Sleep,” Geralt whispers. “You need rest. I’ll wake you later.”

Jaskier blinks slowly, exhaustion pulling his eyelids, but he frowns at Geralt. “You sleep too.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Am not.”

Geralt watches as Jaskier drifts off, knitted brows relaxing gradually. He listens to the subtle scratches in Jaskier’s lungs, the fluttering beats of his heart. They are lucky enough that the coughs don’t act up in Jaskier’s sleep.

But Jaskier is too still when he sleeps, too still that, for a moment or two, it looks like the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest have stopped.

Geralt’s breath catches. He blinks, shaking away the false sight in front of his eyes. He stays awake after that, counting Jaskier’s labored breaths, one after another.

It’s the only thing keeping him sane until the familiar sound of a portal appears comes from their living room, Yen’s magic humming in the air.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #old jaskier #sickfic #not sure if people still read my self-indulgent nonsense but here it goes...

108 notes · View notes

farewell-persephone · 4 months

Note

4, 15, 17, 39

4. Last song you played?

apparently this

15. Some songs that make you cry?

17. How many concerts have you been to?

4 but I'd really really really really really like to make it 5 in July if I can get to Chicago to see The Ocean playing Pelagial

39. "Weirdest" music you like?

there's probably weirder in my library if I took the time to look/listen (still resting my ears)

#ask #kvtie-pie #music #thank you Anna <3

3 notes · View notes

brokehorrorfan · 1 year

Text

Rumpelstiltskin's original motion picture soundtrack is available on vinyl for the first time via Terror Vision Records. The score, Charles Bernstein (A Nightmare on Elm Street, Cujo), was pulled from the original tapes.

Priced at $32, the album is pressed on deep purple with yellow spokes colored vinyl (pictured below). It's housed in an embossed gatefold jacket designed by Earl Kessler Jr. with liner notes by Bernstein.

The Rumpelstiltskin soundtrack is also available on yellow cassette for $13.

youtube

#rumpelstiltskin #charles bernstein #horror #90s horror #1990s horror #terror vision records #vinyl #soundtrack #gift #earl kessler jr.#mark jones #max grodenchik #90s movies #1990s movies #Youtube

6 notes · View notes

obscure-song-tournament · 1 year

Text

Bracket O - First Set

Reclaim - Porch Cat

“it's punk. I'm actually surprised she doesn't have more listeners, she sounds like famous people do”

Perspectives - The Cast Before The Break

“post rock ish indie rock?”

#poll #obscure song tournament #music poll #Bandcamp

10 notes · View notes

femmeanonymelives · 1 year

Text

Electric Touch (feat. (feat. Francisco Morales) (Val's Version)

Frankie Morales x Valerie "Songbird" Harlow (Singer Songwriter!OC) (platonic)

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x Valerie "Songbird" Harlow (Singer Songwriter!OC) (mentioned in this chapter)

Series Masterlist Part 1

Ari's Note: Finally, I finished this chapter. I took some liberties with the timeline. (In my head, the movie takes place in 2017 and this story takes place in 2019 or 2020ish.) Frankie in my head is in his late thirties, whereas Val is 31 in this story.

Deep breaths, in and out.

In and out.

“What the fuck,” I think in my head as I pace inside the home studio inside my house back in Florida, a day after the show where I ran into Santiago. My mind is racing over the kiss that he gave me the night prior. I owned the house before I started dating Santiago. A small house near a beach. When we were dating, we balanced staying with each other at both of our homes. I come from an old-fashioned family who never believed in moving in together with someone before an engagement.

Frankie comes into my home, holding two cups of coffee, one for him and one for me. His hunter-green jacket is slightly stained due to wear. His slightly brownish-gray hair is messily curled. His “Standard Heating Oil” hat always seemed attached to his head. We have known each other since childhood. He is a few years older than me; he used to babysit me when he was 10, and I was 6. We were more like siblings than friends. His child refers to me as “auntie” more than anything else.

“Kid and momma are spending the day doing a mommy playdate. I am all yours. You okay?”

“I am fine… you are late, by the way.” I sip the lukewarm, bitter coffee slowly to fully enjoy it.

“Being late for a demo session for a song that I am not even singing on.” Frankie takes a look at the home studio setup. A setup that I made when trying to get someone- anyone to recognize what I have is real. A random patterned rug that I found on clearance at West Elm. Faux-leather stools that were found at a yard sale when babysitting Frankie’s kid years prior. The only new thing is the technology given to me by the label.

“The band recorded the instrumentals back in Seattle. The label wanted to see how I would sound doing an actual love song, which is this song. I told them this song is perfect if the male vocalist is a tenor and as a duet. That is why I sent you that text with the lyrics a few days ago. This session to record the vocals and send it to the producer and the label.”

“When you told me about this, I thought you were crazy for wanting me to sing again.”

“Said the man who loved choir in high school.” He rolls his eyes. He takes off his faded trucker hat and tries to straighten his hair. His darkish gray curls are messy like always.

“That was the choir in high school, Val.” He looks at me with concern, fully knowing what happened the night prior backstage. “What happened with you and Santiago last night?”

“It was nothing,” I look over at him as I start prepping the studio for two people recording there. He grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him.

“Val, he left mid-song. I tried to find him after your set for over an hour. I had to find him nursing a beer outside the venue. I know your guys’ breakup was hard on you, but it hit him the hardest.”

“Frankie, I love you like a brother. Can we not talk about this now? I don’t want to waste your time by talking about this instead of doing the recording.” I start vocal warmups before handing him his headphones, and we go into the booth together. We both are standing in front of a microphone for each of us. I place my laptop on a nearby table with the instrumental track and pull up the recording software. He holds the notebook with the lyrics in his hand. “I will lead you in when your part comes in. Recording in 3…2…1.”

The soft country rock instrumental leads me in as I start singing. Frankie smirks the songs as he recognizes the song beat as a signature of my musical composition style.

“Just breathe, just relax, it'll be okay

Just an hour 'til your car's in the driveway

Just the first time ever hangin' out with you tonight

I've got my money on things going badly

Got a history of stories ending sadly

Still hoping that the fire won't burn me

Just one time, just one time

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life

And I want you now, wanna need you forever

In the heat of your electric touch, mmm”

Frankie’s soft tenor voice appears as I gesture him into the song. His voice is soft, yet rough. I could have been a while since he sang aloud, but he still sounded good.

“I've been left in the rain lost and pining

I'm tryin' hard not to look like I'm trying

'Cause every time I tried hard for love, it fell apart (whoa)

I've gotten used to no one callin' my phone

I've grown accustomed to sleeping alone

Still, I know that all it takes is to get it right

Just one time, just one time

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life

And I want you now, wanna need you forever

In the heat of your electric touch

I was thinking just one time (just one time)

Maybe the stars align (just one time)

And maybe I call you mine

And you won't need space

Or string me along while you decide

And just one time (just one time)

Maybe the moment's right (the moment's right)

It's 8:05 and I see two headlights

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

Got a feelin' your electric touch (oh)

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life

And I want you now, wanna need you forever

In the heat of your electric touch, mmm”

Out of breath, I pushed the end of the recording. “Please tell me it hasn’t been a while since you sang aloud.” I take a long sip of water from my water bottle nearby.

“Three years.”

“Karaoke with Ben was the last time you sang,” I asked as I gave him a questioning look.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Santiago kissed you?” I gave him the look of “are we really talking about this right now again?”

“How did you know?” Frankie gave me a concerning look since he knows the truth.

“Based on the details in the song, this song was about your first date because you told me how much you cared for him. Plus Santiago told me that he kissed after your set after you two talked after I picked him up from the bar…. Val, what the hell happened?”

“He and I kissed… He told me about the money… his share of the money.”

“And?”

“And that his share was for me…”

“He finally told you then…”

“Frankie, don’t dabble in his bullshit…” I am getting fed up with the same fucking lie that his share was for me.

“I am not… Val, he wanted that money for you….” He sighs deeply as he takes a long sip of coffee. “I know it was shitty of me for not telling you, but I promised you I would have done the same thing.”

“I understand the guilt around Tom’s death but why did he have to do it like that?”

“He was going to buy you a ring so he could propose to you…”

“What?”

“He wanted to propose and do a big old fancy engagement for you. I am sorry that I didn’t tell you.” Frankie is concerned about what is next for me and Santiago.

I sigh as I step out of the makeshift studio so Frankie can record his audio. “I need to record your vocals, Frankie... I will start the music where your part comes in.” As the music plays, my phone buzzes. I pick it up. It is a text from Santiago.

Santiago: We need to talk. Alone.

#santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x oc #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier boys #triple frontier fanfic #oscar issac x reader #oscar issac characters #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales fanfiction #Spotify

4 notes · View notes

priokskfm · 10 months

Text

#MixOfDay #Podcast #Radioshow #LiveDjset Bobbin Headcast 170 - By Husky – 02/11/2023 Bobbin Headcast 170 - By Husky – 02/11/2023 Podcast link - https://goo.gl/nKG2lM Google Podcasts – https://bit.ly/3fuABex Follow us on the social links below https://ift.tt/exaFhvs https://ift.tt/ueRdrHE http://www.twitter.com/bobbinheadmusic https://ift.tt/XkyaPsS Track listing 1. The Shapeshifters – Slippery People (Sophie Lloyd Remix) – Glitterbox 2. Urban Blues Project – Your Heaven (Micky More & Andy Tee Remix) – Soulfuric 3. Sgt Slick & Karina Chavez – I Thank You (Michael Gray Remix) – Neon Records 4. Husky Feat Red London – Heaven (Deluxe Club Mix) – Bobbin Head Music 5. Pat Lok – Love FM – Sweat It Out 6. Per QX, Filip Gronlund, Elias Bravo & Max C – You & Me (Re-Tide Remix) – Let There Be House 7. Random Soul – Hypnotize Me (James Alexandr Remix) – Random Soul Recordings 8. Husky & Shyam P – Ticking Away (VIP Club Mix) – Bobbin Head Music 9. James Starck, Yvvan Back, Zetaphunk & Alfreda Gerald – He’s Alright (David Penn Remix) – Urbana Records 10. Mike Newman – Vibin’ – Panthera 11. Navos – Body Work – Spinnin Deep 12. Nas Elmes – Avant – PIV Records 13. Oden & Fatzo & Theos – Fly Away – Defected Records 14. Paul Woolford & LF SYSTEM – In My Head – Ministry Of Sound 15. Dale Howard – Ghetto Funk – Toolroom 16. Belters Only & Sonny Fodera Feat Jazzy – Life Lesson (Dub) - Polydoor nudisco, Husky, Podcast, Chill, Poolside, Ibiza, "deep house", "Bobbin Headcast", "Bobbin Head Music", "DJ Mix", "Dj Podcast", "House Music", "Funky House", "Jackin house", "Soulful House", "Summer Vibes" www.priokskfm.online https://ift.tt/AgfZaoR

3 notes · View notes

stereopticons · 2 years

Text

Ten Random Lines

I was tagged by @mostlyinthemorning @hippolotamus and @rmd-writes, thank you, lovelies!

Rules: pick any 10 of your fics, scroll somewhere to the midpoint, pick a line (or three), and share it! Then tag 10 people.

I used a random number generator to pick fics because I cannot be expected to make actual decisions right now.

1) yeah I’m afraid (but I’ll follow you anyway)

But what if someday, it’s not enough? There’s something inherently nerve-wracking about promising forever to one person when you can’t possibly know what forever will be.

2) the same deep water as you

“I asked, though.” Rachel’s eyes go wide and he hurries to explain. “Not if he had a fiancée or whatever, but about his history.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. I mean, he said to lock that box back up and I guess we just…never unlocked it.”

3) if I’m not beyond repair

Out in the hall, he leans against the wall and allows himself one moment to be upset. There was always a chance that David wouldn’t want him here, he knew that when he came here. He knew the hope that he had that David had left him as an emergency contact on purpose was small and distant. He knew that David must have stopped loving him a long time ago; David was the one to call things off, after all. Patrick knew all of this, and yet, he still came. Because despite everything, he still loves David. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop.

4) carve your name into my heart

But even if he hasn’t said it, he knows it. It's a new feeling, assaulting all of his senses. He can see it in the way they look at each other, Patrick’s eyes soft and wide and so fond. He can feel it in the casual (and not so casual) touches, a spark that never seems to diminish. He can hear it in their voices, tender and breathless.

5) love you in moderation (do I look moderate to you?)

David lets himself get lost in the sensation of Patrick’s hand in his hair, Patrick’s taste in his mouth, Patrick all around him, engulfing all of his senses. Patrick is chanting David’s name over and over, mixed with deliciously obscene moans and whimpers as David takes him completely into his mouth. David thinks he could stay like this forever, the feeling of wanting and being wanted in return burning hot in his chest.

6) Persistence of Memory

David remembers thinking that he had never, never, been so comfortable with someone that he could let go this much, this easily. At least not while sober. He remembers rolling onto his side, wiping away tears from Patrick’s face with a thumb and planting a soft kiss on his forehead. He remembers thinking that this must be what it’s like to love someone with your whole heart.

7) Logging Off

Did you happen to give the password to anyone else?” Patrick asks.

“No!” Alexis responds. “Oh, except I might have given it to Twyla when I was staying with her?”

“I told you not to share it!” David yells.

“Well, first of all, David, no, you didn’t, and second of all, how am I supposed to Interflix and chill with my girlfriend when she only gets the Elm County public access channel?”

8) don’t second guess your feelings, you were right from the start

He can feel the blush just thinking about it, heat spreading across his cheeks. What kind of horribly unprofessional businessperson is he that he gets a full hard-on while giving his business partner a hug? Oh god, he hopes David didn’t notice. What if David thinks Patrick went into business with him just to fuck him?

9) wish I was the moon tonight

Hi, this is Patrick, and welcome to Brewer’s Baseball History. Tonight, I’ll be taking you on a journey through the Toronto Blue Jays’ first winning season, the season of 1983.”

David could not care less about the Blue Jays’ 1983 season, but the man’s voice is mellow and comforting, which is precisely what he needs right now. The recording is thirty-five minutes long, but David doesn’t make it past the first five minutes before he’s drifting off to sleep.

10) standing on my little island with you

“We have to stop meeting like this, David.”

David yelps and nearly drops the book he’d been reading the back cover of. He hadn’t expected anyone to sneak up behind him deep in the fiction stacks, and he really hadn’t expected it to be Patrick, of all people.

“Mmkay, I don’t know what that means?” David says, once he regains his composure and turns around to see Patrick leaning casually against one of the shelves, his hands shoved deep in his impossibly tight pockets. Had his smile been that nice the last time? David doesn’t remember that, and he definitely doesn’t remember the stupid, weird fluttery feeling he gets in his stomach when Patrick laughs. What the fuck?

Tagging @rosedavid @alienajackson @jettestar @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3 @blueink3 @mr-writes and anyone else who feels like sharing!

#ten random lines

8 notes · View notes

impish-lion · 2 years

Text

Stray thoughts on Dylan

Teenage me loved Bob Dylan because I thought the lyrics were fun. I only really listened to the 60s rock trilogy though. Who needed him after that? I wanted the amphetamine prophet railing against society, none of those weird off putting musical detours he seemingly dedicated his life to.

College brought an appreciation of things like Desire. The idea of Bob as a troubadour, an old school entertainer with a merry band by his side was so entertaining, a shot of energy. Someone to tell the tales of old with a sly twist.

Then I heard "Murder Most Foul." I thought it was a joke. It sounded like something Dewey Cox would record. Bob was so impressed at how well Lee Harvey Oswald blew JFK's brains out. He bragged about watching the Zapruder film countless times. He spouted inanities like "rub a dub dub, it was a murder most foul" and "it was a nightmare... On Elm Street." But I couldn't stop listening to this 20 minute behemoth of a song that ended with an extended tribute to Wolfman Jack. It was beguiling. Had he lost his mind? Was he in on the joke? Did it even matter when the result was this mesmerizing?

And now in what I guess qualifies as my adulthood, I find myself drawn to more of his detours. Though I find the "prayer warfare" stuff on Slow Train Coming pretty dreadful, you can't deny the power of a song like Gotta Serve Somebody, sleek, funky, and nasty. His return to secularism in the 80s came with moments that mean as much, if not more, to me than those 60s albums, with the near mythic reggae put on of Jokerman and the desperation and regret of Don't Fall Apart on Me Tonight taking on a deep level of personal meaning.

However, I find myself most drawn to his domestic period now.

We all know the mythos of the motorcycle crash by now. Severe physical injury made ol’ Robert Zimmerman realize he didn’t want to be a prophet anymore. He wanted to just be himself. John Wesley Harding and Nashville Skyline are perhaps the best crystallization of this idea. The flash and anger is stripped away, leaving a man and his songs. The first is familiar territory but with a new poetic narrative style, but the second is entirely new. New voice, new genre, even a duet with Johnny Cash. New, but square. He’s no longer the cool detached enfant terrible of Highway 61, but a normal, down to earth, and almost goofily earnest guy.

(In the interest of time, I will not be discussing Self Portrait here.)

Then comes New Morning. A quick little LP that is announced as the return to old Dylan. He’s singing like the old days again! No more crooning! The country stuff isn’t as corny! But there’s the trick. Yes, his old delivery is back, but his concerns are entirely different. Now he’s singing about getting into antics with his friend Croz, having a weird time meeting Elvis, and most of all, he’s singing about simple uncomplicated love and a quiet domestic lifestyle. It’s strikingly similar to what McCartney was exploring in this period, with his blissed out debut and RAM. However, Dylan wears this life nowhere as well as McCartney. Cracks begin to emerge. The lyrics begin to sound more like him convincing himself that he’s happy than actual happiness. Time Passes Slowly...

Then comes Planet Waves. Perhaps the most unfairly treated of Bob’s records, lacking either the status of masterpiece of his unquestioned classics or the cult curio reputation of his misfires. The Band is here, guys! Oh, they just sound like his normal backing band with bit more power... Yes, it’s not the classic collaboration people expected, but it’s one of his finest records. It channels the ephemeral anxiety of New Morning and finally states it outright. Bob is reckoning not only with his domestic unease, but with his own status within culture.

Forever Young is, of course, the consensus pick off the record. Rightfully so, it’s a great song and even lets you pick if you wanna hear it fast or slow! However, I’d argue his real artistic triumphs on here are Dirge and Wedding Song. Dirge stands as perhaps the vitriolic recording of a career partially built on bile. Listening to it, it’s easy to understand why he’s never played it live. From the opening line (”I hate myself for loving you and the weakness that it showed”), you know the version of Bob who (perhaps falsely) sang about the charms of country life is gone. He has nothing but hate in his voice as he pillories an ex-lover and paints a near apocalyptic portrait of the world at large, “an age of fiberglass” and “the doom machine.” He even clarifies that although he hates being alone, “he’s paid the price of solitude and at least [he’s] out of debt.” It’s mean as hell and with a nasty arrangement to boot. “I hate myself for loving you, but I should get over that.” A kiss off too rancid to revisit even for the man who made his legend on Like a Rolling Stone.

Then comes Wedding Song. Perhaps the former colors the latter, but this ostensible love song sounds more like a terrified vow of mutually assured doom. The recording is stripped down to just acoustic guitar, making it probably the most intimate sounding track on the album. Bob’s sandpaper voice is often the perfect avenue for sweet sentiment, but here there’s a certain timbre to it that suggests something is off. “Love you more than life itself, you mean that much to me.” While it brings me no pleasure to quote one of the great monsters of music, it sounds more like a suicide note than a love song. At a point it becomes impossible to not see this in conversation with Blood on the Tracks, the inevitable followup. This is not a song to celebrate a wedding, but to say goodbye to a union that’s coming undone right at this moment. He sings her praises and tells about how she helped him at his lowest, then things start to take a turn:

“You gave me babies one, two, three, what's more, you saved my life

Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, your love cuts like a knife

My thoughts of you don’t ever rest, they’d kill me if I lie

I’d sacrifice the world for you and watch my senses die.”

This love is painful. It saved him once, but now it’s killing him, yet he can imagine no alternative. His senses will die and the world will end before this does.

“The tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth

We’ll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth

What’s lost is lost, we can’t regain what went down in the flood

But happiness to me is you and I love you more than blood.”

They must play this tune. There’s not really any choice in the matter, is there? It’s what they’re here to do and there’s no going back after all. The flood has wiped out everything. There’s obvious biblical parallels there, but I don’t think Bob is using it lightly. Loving someone more than blood is never light.

Then he does it. He acknowledges his shunning of his role as “the voice of a generation” directly and head on. “It’s never been my duty to remake the world at large / Nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge.” While triumphant in some ways, these lines take on a certain kind of bitterness here. He’s shaken off what people wanted from him, but now finds himself trapped in the life that was supposed to save him and set him right. Normality can be oh so crushing.

“And I could never let you go, no matter what goes on

‘Cause I love you more than ever now that the past is gone.”

A new beginning or just another end? Is the past dying liberation or prison? Does he know the terror of what he’s written?

Is he in on it? Has he lost it? Does it even matter?

Dylan provides no easy answers. Hell, my analysis is probably wrong. It’s colored by my own life. I can mythologize about the man all I like, but I’ll never understand him in any way but my own. A rorschach test of an artist. But that’s poetry, baby.

3 notes · View notes

ayearofvinyl · 4 months

Text

Record #985: Benton Falls - Guilt Beats Hate (2003)

Very few releases had as profound an impact on my teenaged music tastes than Deep Elm Records’ Emo Is Awesome, Emo is Evil, Vol 1. And few tracks on that compilation had the impact of Benton Falls “Angel on Hiatus,” a shapeshifting track that traverses the full spectrum of emo’s moods and dynamics with a powerful climax. But like many of the bands discovered through that comp (see also: The…

View On WordPress

#benton falls #deep elm #emo #midwest emo #post hardcore

0 notes

uglyorganist · 5 months

Text

0 notes

elainapendragon · 7 months

Text

An Eternal Hope: Prologue

Summary: The wood elf Ilandian reads an excerpt from an ancient book recording the history of the lands of Valhöll, back to the time of the Old Gods. Briefly, its inconsistencies and falsity gets his mind off of his human mentor Torvir's failing health...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, use of poison, depictions of loss and grief, if I missed anything please let me know!

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

In the beginning, before you or I or our ancestors lived, the world was born to ice and fire.

In the south, there was a realm called Muspell. This realm was made of magma and volcanoes; it was a barren wasteland of basalt and brimstone. Few things lived there, and those that did were inherently hellish. To the north was another realm, called Niflheimr, and this world was vastly different from its counterpart; cold and unforgiving. Great mountains of ice and snow rose into a deep blackness, lit only by the distant light of Muspelli flames. It was a lifeless emptiness of windswept tundra, save for one thing: Hvergelmir, the spring that is the source of the eleven rivers called the Elivagar. They were Svol, Gunnthra, Fjorm, Fimbulthul, Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid, Leipt, and Gjoll.

Between these realms was a great endless chasm known as Ginnungagap. The rivers that sprang from Hvergelmir tumbled into this chasm thick with congealing venom and it turned to slag, which froze into slopes. The drizzle that fell from the venom-rivers was met with slag and turned to rime.

From the south, the warmth of Muspell carried up and north on the winds, meeting the rime of Niflheimr across even the chilling depths of Ginnungagap. The hoar-frost of Niflheimr began to melt and drip, and from this began life, as it formed Ymir, the first and most evil of the frost giants. He was the father of all frost giants, and by them, he was called Aurgelmir.

From the drops came also Audhumla, the Sacred Cow, who fed Ymir in his youth and nursed him to adulthood. She licked the salty blocks of ice, and slowly, over the course of three days, revealed a man. This man, Buri, was the first of the gods, the immortal men, and he married a frost giantess of Ymir’s line and had a son named Borr. Borr was also married, and he had three sons. They were called Odin, Vili, and Ve.

The sons grew hateful towards the frost giants as they became grown men, and so slaughtered Ymir. From his wounds burst rivers of blood so violent it flooded Ginnungagap and destroyed all the frost giants. From the corpse, the three sons created a world made for life to flourish, and they called this Nærnin. To light this world, the sons took the sparks from the ruins of Muspell and used them to create constellations of stars and the sun. To accompany the sun, they crafted a moon from the ice remnants of Niflheimr. All were placed in the black heavens above.

Upon admiring their new home the brothers came upon two fallen trees, an ash and an elm. They lifted them and formed the first man and woman, Ask and Embla. Odin gifted them with the spirit of life so that they may move and speak freely; Vili bestowed upon them wit and kindness; Ve gave them ears so that they could listen twice as well as they could speak, and sight so that they could gaze on the beautiful world the brothers had made. They gave solely to the first humans a realm known as Midgard for them to grow and flourish.

So that the mortals could keep track of time, they took Night, a daughter of a frost giant who had wed one of Buri’s line, and her son Day, kind and fair, and they were determined by the brothers to make rounds of Nærnin, patrolling its borders and protecting its peoples.

Upon Midgard, a man descended from Ask and Embla had two children, and they were so beautiful he named them Sol and Mani, after the sun and moon. Odin, Vili, and Ve were so angered by this that they swept both children away, and after placing them in chariots, bid them to race across the sky in turns to guide the sun and moon on their courses. Mani leads the way, accompanied by two children called Bil and Hjuki. Behind Sol is Hati, a wolf who will one day catch and devour her at the End of Days. In front of her is Sköll, another wolf, who will catch Mani.

The Sun, so scared was she of Hati, shed tears of gold. These tears fell upon the surface of Nærnin and when they festered in her light, became tall, fair elves. Some of these fell into the shadows of the world, and these became dark elves and orcs. Mani shed tears of sympathy for his sister, and these too fell on Nærnin, but upon distant lands, and became the shape changing drakes. Elves and drakes were considered to be noble races, but they chose their lands and went far off on their own separate adventures.

Over it all stands the Worldtree, Yggdrasíl. Its topmost branches can never be reached by mortal man, and a mountainous root descends each into Asgarð, Jötúnheimr, Midgard, and Niflheimr. Deer frolic upon it and eat its moss and bark. Atop it sits an eagle, Hraesvelg, the source of all the wind in the Nine Worlds. Below, in Niflheimr, rests Nídhogg, and he chews vehemently upon the root of Yggdrasíl in an attempt to weaken her and chew through to Hraesvelg. Between them scurries Ratatösk, who carries false insults from one to the other, causing eternal conflict between the two.

When all was done and the world was new, Odin, Vili, and Ve remembered the maggots that had crawled in Ymir’s flesh. They gave them the shape and speech of men and they were called dwarves, but they were stout and stocky in body with unusually large ears and eyes that could see in both complete darkness and daylight. They took to living in the depths of the earth, unseen or heard by most. Their chief was Modsognir, and his deputy, Durin. Though their origins were questionable at best, none could question the craftsmanship in the handiwork of dwarven smiths; it was unmatched by all in the worlds, and would forever remain that way.

Now Odin, Vili, and Ve went and summoned the guardians of men. They together built the stronghold of Asgarð, a shining golden city, upon sheer gray cliffs that rose hundreds of feet into the air. This is where the gods, or Æsír, resided, watching over their lands. There are far too many to be named here, but most notable among them were Odin All-Father, the strongest and oldest, and his wife Frigg, Goddess of Marriage; Frey, God of Life, and his sister Valfreyja, Goddess of Love; Thor, son of Odin, God of Storms and Battle; Loki, blood-brother to Odin and God of Mischief; Heimdall, Guardian of the Bïfröst; and Baldr, son of Odin and future King of Æsír. Aside from these, there were twenty-four well-known Æsír, twelve male, and twelve female, and then many more lesser Æsír. Among them lived the Great Elvenkings and Elvenqueens in the City of Gold, and worthy lords and ladies of all races were brought to the Capitol of All the Worlds in a great center of commerce and trade.

The Æsír spent many thousands of years together in peace, antagonized by their enemies to start Ragnarök, the End of All Things, earlier than foretold by the three Norns, those who wove the fate of all creatures. They lived like great kings of men and went on many adventures on many worlds, becoming ever more powerful. But, despite all they had done to prevent it, Ragnarök came.

Foreshadowed by three years of winter, Fimbulvetr, war soon followed. This war lasted three hundred years and took many lives, and this suffering brought about the End of All Things.

The sky ran red when Hati caught Sol, spilling her blood. The clouds were stained with the smoke of war and turned black as a crow’s wing. Fenrisúlfr broke free of his bonds and gobbled up the sun, while his brother Jörmúngandr slid from the oceans onto land, destroying anything in his path. Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead, set sail from Niflheimr for Vigrid, the prophesied final battlefield of the gods. The Bïfrost broke under the weight of a thousand horses’ hooves, and Heimdall blew Gjállarhorn, summoning the einherjerii of Valhalla to battle. The Æsír and the giants with their undead and evil creatures fought to the death on Vigrid’s shores. Amid the chaos, Surtr, the king of Múspellheimr, swung his flaming sword, engulfing all of the world of Nærnin in a hellish inferno that scorched the land to blackness and turned oceans to steam.

When the ashes cleared, not much was left. The world had been cleansed but at a terrible cost. Only a mere handful of the Æsír had survived. Of them, Baldr, son of Odin, with his wife Nänna, came back from Helheimr and took the throne. Líf and Lífthraisír, the last humans, were escorted back to Midgard by way of ship, guided by Magni and Modi. But it was only days after leaving that Midgard, and all it once was, sank into the depths of the oceans without the support of Jörmúngandr at its base, leaving nothing more than an island chain.

As the sons of Thor reached the broken harbors, so did another ship. A great ship of white wood, it carried dozens of well-armored hominids resembling elves. They were the drakes, coming back to the worlds of the Æsír to fight in Ragnarök, but too late. The Norns had delayed them so the proper fate could pass. Their true forms were dragonesque in nature, their king unimaginably large in size. He was called Fhyrisaal King, and now with Ragnarök ended he had changed his intentions to make an allegiance with the god-kings. The Golden Gods gladly agreed to his peacemaking.

A spawn of Yggdrasíl, with the great tree of life long gone, took root in each world, both surface and sky and even deep below in Helheimr and Nídavellír. These were called the Worldtrees, and they became centers of trade, where peoples of all races and worlds, even from distant shores, could meet one another and share tales. Their topmost branches, inaccessible to most, could be seen from most corners of whichever world they were in. These were a memory of what had been, a gift to those who remembered the Golden Age and to those who would hear stories of it.

The courts of Gimlé in Asgarð, Brimir in Okolnír, Sindri in Nidafjöll, and Nastrond at the Shore of Corpses were established, all good halls for good men, save for the last, where the dishonorable dead would eternally wade in the poison issued from the snake-mouth walls. Baldr lifted some of the worlds above the surface, letting them float as sky islands, and also put three more moons into the sky and a new sun, and made them take up the positions of their predecessors. This rebirth had the Eight Worlds renamed Valhöll, after Odin's Hall of Warriors.

A millennium later, a chain of disturbing murders started in Vanaheimr. When the murderers were caught, it was revealed that they belonged to a cult, their only symbol that of a shadowed skull wreathed in black flame. They claimed they were on a mission to end the peace of Valhöll, thinking the purity of the land obscene. They wished to restore disorder and chaos. The Æsír ordered a dungeon to be built to house these criminals, and a search commenced to find the leaders of the cult, but the damage had already been done. Spies had infiltrated the houses of kings and civil wars had started between the Surface Worlds over territory and game. In an attempt to stop them, Border Walls were erected between the worlds. They were practically insurmountable slabs of stone ten meters high, placed on the exact borders that Baldr had previously determined.

No number of dungeons could hold the surge of convicts. The nobles of the worlds began to take prisoners of war and the poor among them as slaves. Any criminals, rogues, or slaves who had escaped fled to the chain of islands beneath the Sky Isles, creating the Pirate Archipelago. Black Markets were established by them on the northern shores of Svartalfheimr and Niflheimr, as Vanaheimr was too closely watched.

When the unfinished dungeons grew full, the Æsír had any further criminals caught and placed on the wild, overgrown isle between Höddgarðr, that place which houses Asgarð, and Alfheimr, to be retrieved once the dungeons were finished: Midway Isle. But they could not be found, for they had all seemingly vanished.

Baldr, busy with trying to amend the situations of the Surface Worlds with his fellow Æsír, recruited a light elf general by the name of Vaeryn Golden-Eye to investigate with his troops. They found that a few of the prisoners had leapt off of the isle to their deaths, but the majority of them had fallen prey to the isle’s inhabitants: somehow, dragons had roosted upon the isle. They had built a city of pale stone that they called Tal’mar, where the dragonic royalty lived, and they had assumed that none would miss the humans that had been dropped on the isle, which they called Zou’maal.

Baldr was going to destroy the dragons, but Vaeryn desperately urged him not to. Despite the deaths, he thought that they would miss a grand opportunity– an opportunity to make allies with one of the most dangerous races of Valhöll. So Baldr reluctantly allowed him to observe the dragons for one year. Vaeryn gathered a few apprentices and began his work at once.

The dragons upon the isle were highly intelligent, able to do complex math and communicate through a special form of racial telepathy if they weren’t speaking– and only the eldest among them performed the latter. They were primarily solitary creatures, but some, especially siblings, traveled in groups– very few of them dwelt in Tal’mar. They were so quick, they knew of Vaeryn’s presence immediately, and allowed him to study them up close with the shared interests of their races in mind. A great silver quadruped dragon, Zephysus, was to be their guide, but before the year was out, he had Chosen Vaeryn as his companion. Between them was the first Mindbond of dragon and rider.

As it had never been recorded before, Vaeryn reported that he and his companion could now speak through the mind. They shared pain, and emotions; his Bond with his companion gave him further strength and magic, as if he as Zephysus were one. Even without a Mindbond, dragons and their riders were so close, they were inseparable.

They together requested to build a school upon the Sky Isle north of Alfheimr to teach not only what would soon become the newly-formed faction of the Drekivörðr, but to return factions of einherjerii, valkyries, and even healers. This academy he called Hýveldírin, after his father. Baldr bid them do so quickly, and thus it came to pass that dragons, men, and elves formed a new class of warrior.

Crime was diminished as dragons became more frequent, and peace was returned to Valhöll once more. For ten thousand years, peace was upheld.

The Æsír were not surprised when once again, the cycle returned to war as armies of undead and demons began attacking the coasts of the Surface Worlds. Captured individuals claimed to work for a godlike entity known only as Vandr, but his future warmongering actions gave him the title of Lord of All Evil.

At the same time, nine haphazard warriors became einherjerii. Their real names are not known, but they were called by all who knew of them Owlheart, Wolfheart, Falconheart, Bearheart, Hawkheart, Ravenheart, Ramheart, Deerheart, and Tigerheart. All nine of them had come from hard lives of slavery, roguehood, and piratehood, and had worked hard to win their half-freedoms in service to the Æsír.

At a battle in Jötúnheimr, Vaeryn’s ancient great-grandson, Rígurd, saw their potential, and put them through a series of perilous tasks to prove their worth. Once they had shown beyond doubt that they were the most capable out of the sponsored “heroes” that had been put through the same, they were given special permits and became Drekivörðr. The more they fought, the more it was clear to Rígurd that they were not average warriors. To test his claim, the Æsír tasked them first with finding the fabled Treasure of Fafnir.

Following clues in ancient legends, they searched for twelve days and nights before locating the treasure, despite everyone’s low expectations of them. It had been hidden within the cursed dragon’s old lair, guarded by a pack of dögúl hounds, out of Vandr’s number. In the excavation of the treasure with the help of the einherjerii, they found another treasure that they did not expect: a Shard of Bïfrost, a piece of the ancient Rainbow Bridge that had bound Asgarð to Midgard so long ago. When they brought it to the Æsír, they were told to find the remaining eight Shards.

It took them four turns of the moon Týrs to find them all. Once brought to the Æsír, they were forged into nine magical swords and nine magical shields, which were henceforth known as the Bïfrostblaða and Seiðskjöllir. The Norns beheld a vision of the nine as heroes, the slayers of Vandr. At their behest, the Blades and Shields were gifted to them, and they were dubbed Drakahalr, held above even the Drekivörðr general in ranking.

They were put through several more grueling tasks, which included finding the Shield-Breaking Blades of Sígarsholm and forgotten relics that had once belonged to the gods themselves, which will not be mentioned here. When all of these were located, the Æsír gifted the forty-two blades to the greatest of valkyries, and the Treasure of Fafnir was melted down and fitted to the most accomplished of the einherjerii as armor. As a final gift, enchanted armor, Galdyrbrynja, for the heroes and their dragons were made by master dwarven smiths, crafted out of materials as Gleipnír, the ribbon that had bound Fenrisúlfr, was.

War came to Valhöll’s soil, and lasted for many years. This span of time later became known as the Uprising. At the end, the Drakahalr met Vandr himself. He challenged the heroes to face him on Vigrid, with their armies at their backs to face his own.

On the dragon-ship the Ellída, the Drakahalr set sail, followed by ten thousand einherjerii, valkyries, and the magic-made vaettrhaerr, born only to serve the heroes. Flying above them was the drake’s army, led by Fhyrisaal King himself.

Waiting in the center of Vigrid, amidst the ancient remains of Fenrisúlfr and Jörmúngandr, was Vandr, surrounded on all sides by his army of undead, wraiths, and demons. The two forces met in a clash worthy of songs. The battle lasted three days and nights, and at the end of the third, the Drakahalr finally met their opponent.

Their dragons now dead, they had each other alone as they fought the mad king. By command of the Norns, they brought him to a yielding point, and bound him in the ribbon Gleipnír, the very same which had held Fenrisúlfr an age ago. They locked him in a steel coffin with magic chains, and with the help of Fhyrisaal King, buried him eight fathoms beneath the earth.

It wasn’t long after that they fell in battle, pelted with poisoned arrows before any could come to their aid. Fueled by rage and grief, the armies of Valhöll prevailed over the failing regiments of Vandr. Upon their return to the Eight Worlds, a proper funeral was held for the heroes. The Norns had more visions of a time when Vandr would return, prompting the Drakahalr to be reborn; next time, they would have even greater strength, gifted with immense power.

The Æsír hid the Bïfrostblaða, Seiðskjöllir, and the Galdyrbrynja in places that only the Drakahalr would find them.

And for six hundred years, they waited...

Ilandian replaced the book in its proper place on the shelf, brow furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder; his mentor was too engrossed in ensuring several old documents were in their places to notice him slacking on his own work. Ilandian heaved a sigh and documented the presence of the book he’d been reading, the time, and date, in the record book that his supervisor Torvir had given him.

Outside, through the thirty-foot high stained glass windows, the young wood elf could see that twilight was settling on the city of Asgarð. It was a mournful look, he thought. Or perhaps it was his superstitions, having grown up in a place where twilight was considered a time when the spirit world and the world of the living intersect. Ilandian stood from his crouched place at the end of the shelf, glancing at his mentor.

For a mortal man such as Torvir, this work was days long and grueling. Often, Ilandian heard the old man’s bones creaking and popping in protest as he tried to sink to the floor, then his body would not allow him to stand again. But for him, it was easy, if boring, and fast-paced. He wondered if Torvir had been a faster man in his youth...

No time for those thoughts now, he scolded himself, and whipped back around to sign his name in the log beside his previous recordings. The old man does not have much time left...

Torvir was ninety-three, with scarcely any hair upon his head and a scraggly white beard. His eyes and hearing were failing rapidly, but his mind was still fresh and young. He wore the red and gold robes of a noble scholar, such as he was, which hung on his frail, shaking body. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment. Nevertheless, he was considered a sort of priestly figure, insisting on going to weekly sermons despite his poor health and preaching of the Æsír’s greatness. He was a hero of sorts to the people, having even in these recent days been a leader in the hunt for clues on the whereabouts of the Shadowskull Order that even still plotted the Æsír’s downfall.

As Ilandian’s deep maroon-on-black eyes scanned his supervisor’s fragile form, he could not help but to feel sorry for him. Filled with premature grief, he closed the record book and crossed the space between the shelves, tables, and seats. “I am finished,” Said Ilandian, louder than he liked to speak.

Torvir weakly responded, moving his head vaguely in the direction of Ilandian. His pale blue eyes squinted to focus on the elf’s tall and slim figure. “Oh? Done already, my boy?” His croaking voice scratched roughly out of his throat.

Ilandian winced. For seventeen years he had worked under Torvir, and the thought of losing him was a taxing thought indeed. “Yes, my lord.” After a moment of hesitation, Ilandian added, “I could finish your rounds for you, if you’d like.” It was the very least he could do, although it was by no means any repayment for the long years of kindness that Torvir had gifted him.

Torvir waved a bony hand. “Nonsense, dear boy; I can finish on my own.”

“Then would you at least have me by you?” Asked Ilandian, coming closer and setting his record book down on a nearby table. If Torvir lost his balance, he would not be able to get up. Or if a heavy book fell, he would be hurt. Many horrible accidents swam through Ilandian’s mind, but none so vile as the event which he knew would soon occur. Again, Torvir waved him off, dismissive with pride in his old age. “No, no; go and get yourself ready for the evening tea, Ilandian. I will be there, on time and as promised.”

Ilandian hesitated for a long few moments, but finally, he bowed at the waist, inclining his head. If he will not accept aid, he is forced to accept my respect. “If you are... Absolutely certain, my lord.” Ilandian grabbed his record book and quill and made his way to the manifest room, where he could return both items. Silently, he vowed to come and check on Torvir if the old man did not show up for tea on time.

In recent years, as Torvir had aged, it had become a tradition for Ilandian and his friend to meet for tea once a week on Wodensdäg. This one would be different; Ilandian knew that it would be his last. With the utmost care, he returned the record book to its rightful place, and he did the same with the quill. He left the room with one final glance to his supervisor before setting off for the Gathering Room.

All the doors of the palace of Valaskjalf were huge, crafted ornately of oak straight from the Ironwood to the north of the golden city. Torvir struggled with them, so Ilandian left the doors open for him. Turning right, he traveled down the golden hall lit by the huge arched windows with the setting sun. He passed very few individuals, as these halls were restricted to all but those who were chosen Master Scholars or apprentices. Up a winding staircase in a shining tower crafted beautifully with ancient knot and dragon designs, Ilandian was met with the second floor of a great rounded room. This was the Gathering Room, a meeting room for the Master Scholars of Valaskjalf, those who were chosen by the Æsír to continue their legends and legacy.

Positioned around the staircase was a long table, stools, a cooking area, and an entertainment area where the scholars could enjoy songs, music, tales, or plays put on by esteemed members of Asgarð. Tonight though, the room was empty, and Ilandian was alone. With the utmost care, he prepared the woodburning stove and the kettle, and even more carefully prepared the water and tea leaves.

Ilandian sat by one of the windows and looked out upon the shadowed golden city. Torches lit the streets, while dragons patrolled the skies. Against the distant rising moons of Týrs, Mún, and Dägsa, the silhouette of the Asgarðian Worldtree loomed over the mountains that surrounded the city like a protective girdle. What will I do with him gone? Will I leave this place, or stay?

The kettle whistled as Ilandian pondered; he hurried over and removed it from the stove. His advanced hearing caught the halting footsteps of his supervisor approaching the stairs down below; quickly, he retrieved two old cups from the cupboard. One of them was chipped badly, and after pouring the tea, he added to the unblemished one a few drops from a tiny glass vial he slipped from his sleeve. Regretfully, he replaced the vial and set both cups upon a tray, taking them to the table as he heard Torvir reach the stairs.

Ilandian rushed downstairs with all speed to greet his beloved mentor. Torvir was barely hobbling along, exhausted from the day in the library. Ilandian went to his side, assisting the old man up the stairs even as he waved him off. “You should not do such hard work anymore, my friend.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Puffed Torvir laboriously, “I can do just the same work... As I ever did...”

Ilandian remained silent and grim on their way up the stairs. He tried, desperately, to convince himself that what he was about to do was for the benefit of Torvir. He was old and in pain, overworked by the Æsír who did not think to care for him. They considered him replaceable, and already had chosen Ilandian to take his place, including the special duties of finishing Torvir’s work involving the Shadowskulls. If Torvir lived but a few more days, he could very well discover their stronghold and eradicate them from existence, at least for a while. Ilandian was certain that he would not do so well as the old man that he helped up the stairs.

The tea, he was sure, was cold when they finally arrived at the top. He assisted Torvir down onto one of the stools and, with a heart heavy with grief and remorse, passed the unblemished cup to his mentor. When his sight was better, Torvir had joked that Ilandian would one day die of paint poisoning if he did not stop drinking from the chipped cup– but scholars, despite their noble status, did not receive enough wages to both care for themselves and repair what they might have lost in their shared possessions– they all spent it on their own persons, rather than what they would commonly use at a gathering. Luckily, most of them detested any kind of socialization. Instead of letting his supervisor drink from it, he drank from it himself.

Ilandian had to look away as Torvir drank from the cup. Icy claws of guilt raked deep tears at his insides, and he truly felt as if he were bleeding. “Ah,” He said after a long sip, “That is refreshing, after a long day of work... And delicious! My friend, did you add something more?”

“Honey,” Rasped Ilandian, staring at his reflection on the surface of his own tea. “From the beehives of the Asgarðian garden.”

“You received such permission?” Breathed Torvir in awe. He coughed a laugh, weak and feeble. “My, you are full of surprises, Ilandian!”

You have no idea... Permission to even enter the gardens of Asgarð was seldom given. But as a gift for his dying master, one beloved by everyone in the palace aside from the Æsír, it was practically effortless to obtain just enough honey to flavor a final cup of tea. It was the least he could do… even if it had the double purpose of disguising the poison.

Finally, the agony of waiting was over. Torvir’s eyes bulged out of his head as he gasped, clutching his chest. Now, came the hardest part for Ilandian– acting as if he knew nothing of what was happening. He knew of many spells which could allow someone specializing in the necromantic arcane to see into the last few moments of someone’s life. He knew of similar incantations that could revive a soul long enough to allow them to speak of who killed them. He also knew that, with Torvir, such precautions would be taken– especially in the manner of his death. So close to discovering the hideout of the Shadowskulls, it would be all too convenient timing, despite his age, especially when the healers were trying their very hardest to ensure he lived long enough to at least declare without a shadow of a doubt where the headquarters of the Order resided.

Thankfully, honey made by Asgarðian bees is renowned amongst the cults of assassins for masking any type of poison, even from magical investigations– a little-used method and a little-known fact. He could present the vial with the poison straight to any sorcerer for investigation and they’d never know it had venom in it.

The reaction was fake, yes; but the grief... That was real.

“My lord?” Ilandian’s head snapped up. For all intents and purposes, Ilandian’s previous depressive state could have been because he was worried for what he knew would soon come, as everyone was. He had taken up the persona when it was stated by the healer who looked after the scholars that Torvir did not have much longer to live– it was not a terribly difficult thing to do, after all.

Torvir collapsed, choking and freezing up; the sound of his mentor’s dying gasps would haunt him for the rest of his life. “No!” Cried Ilandian, and caught his supervisor before he hit the ground. “No, you cannot die yet! You cannot!”

It was too late, as he knew it was already– the poison was deep in Torvir’s system. To any who were knowledgeable of human biology, it would look like an attack of the heart. There would be no evidence pointing to the young elf, and he could go about his work without risk of being put away.

Stiff with his own grief, Ilandian laid Torvir’s rigid body on the ground; his eyes were open wide, his hand forever stuck clutching at his breast, his mouth agape in a silent scream that would echo for eternity.

Ilandian let his gold-tinted tears fall; he regretted what he had done, but he knew it was necessary. I am truly sorry, my friend... I wish it did not have to be this way. Had Torvir been allowed to continue his work, and his body tolerate the weeks of slow poisoning Ilandian had done to him for just a while longer, he may have found the Shadowskulls.

And they had work to do yet.

Ilandian wiped the tears away with the backs of his hands, forcing himself to regain his composure. Using a special ward, he was able to temporarily shield himself from prying eyes, future and present; none would see his actions henceforth until he dropped the spell, but he could only maintain it for a few minutes at most. He lifted his left hand and incited, “Menora vaurae lietis.” A projection appeared over his palm– the projection of a cave, dimly lit.

A silhouette stood before him, awaiting a report. The leader of the Shadowskull Order had never been seen by his followers. All they knew him as was a shadowed figure with an altered voice, speaking from a cave none could find. Many had tried to seek him out– only to end up dead and displayed in the headquarters of the Shadowskulls as an example to others who would try it. He was merciless and relentless; just what the Order needed.

“Well?” He demanded shortly in a warped tone.

“It is done,” Ilandian replied evenly. His youthful elven face showed no sign of his grief, his expression having been trained into a perfect mask, but the words were heavy on his tongue. “Torvir is dead.”

“Good,” The Shadowed Figure leaned back in satisfaction. “I’ve prepared everything. You know to hold a substantial grieving period, yes?” Ilandian nodded; I’ve already begun... “And then you will, over the next few weeks, lead them to an abandoned cave five miles to the north of headquarters. You will then admit to either reading Torvir’s studies wrong, or that Torvir was wrong in the first place. You will later prove the latter, and start the research over. You will be contacted and be given further instructions at that time.”

Ilandian fought showing surprise or asking questions. It seemed dangerous to have a battalion of einherjerii and valkyries swarming a cave so close to home, but he knew better than to question the Shadowed Figure. He bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

The Shadowed Figure waited a moment, then, “...Well done, Ilandian. I know it must have been hard for you...” Ilandian fought a surge of emotion– guilt and grief slammed together, and he swayed with the effort of keeping a straight face. “...But we all must make sacrifices for the good of the people. You must understand how important it is for us to have a spy within the ranks of the Master Scholars; now, no matter how hard they try or how close they come, we can be certain that no one will find us.

“The time is almost upon us, Ilandian; rumors have begun to spread... Rumors of the Æsír, of the elves... And of him...”

Ilandian’s head snapped up, but the Shadowed Figure continued before he could say anything. “When the time comes, the Order shall rise once again, and we will vanquish the corruption that has filled the hearts of our leaders... Valhöll will be free of lies and deceit once again. Just remember who we do this for, if you ever feel doubts.”

Ilandian’s mind flashed to someone– the only one– that he loved. Someone he loved more than anything in the world: the reason Torvir lay dead on the floor behind him, and the reason he had joined the Order in the first place. The reason he was so determined to destroy the Æsír.

Without another word, the Shadowed Figure ended the contact. Ilandian let his hand fall for a moment, and then began another incantation that would further shield what had just transpired, sewing the gap of time together so that the transition appeared seamless. If any sorcerer, even any seiðberendr, attempted to scry the past to see Ilandian’s reaction, they would find no trace of spells. All they would see is Ilandian clutching his mentor as he died, just before he ran for help.

He raced downstairs, headed for the healer’s chambers. His hatred for the Æsír filled his every step.

If anyone would like to be added to my taglist, please let me know!

#dragons #dragonriders #vikings #norse mythology #fantasy #fantasy books #fantasy fiction #romantasy #romantasy fiction #wood elves #magic #asgard #aesir #aneternalhope #drakablodsogur #elainapendragon #darkfantasy

0 notes