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A Garden of Wishes: A Retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”

We go to the same garden every day, but you never see me. Why should you? You are the Princess Sonatina, youngest daughter of the greatest king on five continents, while I am only a gardener's assistant, with not even a surname of my own, save one that was given to me half as a taunt for my daydreaming ways. If you were ever to ask, I would tell you I answer to Michael Stargazer—but you never will think to ask, and I will never presume to speak.

Instead, I work silently in the gardens, while you wander past with your sisters—eleven of them, all unsurpassed in beauty of face and form and voice—laughing and chatting and singing snatches of songs. You are all more beautiful and vibrant than any of the flowers I tend, and I feel more alive just being near you.

Then the day comes when your morning songs are silent. You drag weary feet through the gardens, look blankly at the beauties of the world, lounge wearily along the edges of fountains and atop retaining walls. The rumor comes that every night, you are all wearing through your shoes.

Were I a prince, I would think no quest too perilous to save you from such sickness. I would climb a million trees in search of golden apples, cross storm-filled oceans in search of the Water of Life, work a dozen years at impossible tasks to find the key to ending your curse.

But I'm only a gardener, and nobody's son, so it falls to those with name and fortune to try their hands at saving you. The king has vowed that the man who finds the secret of where you go at night will win your hand in marriage, and there are many who are willing and worthy to try.

They are wonderful men—strong and handsome, noble and brave, with royal titles, vast holdings, great fortunes. They have skills and talents that a simple gardener could never match. Any one of them would make a fine husband for a princess. Yet all of them, to a man, disappear within a day of taking up their quest.

The rumors turn darker then, casting you not as victims but villains, luring men to their deaths with some dark magic of your own. Those who say such things did not see you in the gardens, or they would know that not one of you is capable of the crimes they accuse you of. Unfortunately, no one will ask a garden lad's thoughts, and I cannot speak unbidden unless I have proof.

So I go to the gardens and find two tiny rose trees. The head gardener tried to tear them out, in my first days at the palace, and I convinced him to let them live. I have watered them, fed them, saved them from disease and decay, told them stories of the princesses they serve. You have never seen them, I'm sure—you have never seen me—but though they are small, they are fine little plants, with dark, glossy green leaves, and little buds that seem always to be waiting for just the right time to bloom. An old woman told me once that they were wishing trees, planted in the earliest days of the kingdom's existence, and my service to them meant they would give me anything I desired.

For myself, I want nothing—wishes too easily become the ruin of those who have them granted—but for you, I would dare all. I ask my two rose trees to make me not only unseen, but unseeable, able to follow invisibly wherever you go.

The rose tree sprouts a single bloom, its petals so white and delicate they are almost transparent. When I pluck it from the bush, I disappear from sight. I place it in my buttonhole and move about the gardens, unseen by all who cross my path, even in the brightest sun.

That night, I follow you into the bedroom you share with your sisters, and I hide beneath the largest bed while the room above fills with the sounds of rustling dresses, clinking jewels, and girlish whispers. At last, your eldest sister Aria declares you dressed to perfection and calls for silence.

I creep out from under the bed and find you and your sisters dressed in ballroom finery—silks and satins and twelve pairs of perfectly-mended dancing shoes. I take my place just behind you, and find you more beautiful than ever in this moonlit room.

Aria pulls aside a tapestry, and the blank stone wall suddenly becomes an wooden door that Aria opens to reveal a torchlit staircase. You all rush through in single file. I keep close at your heels, afraid that I'll be left behind unseen.

I rush past where Aria holds the door, afraid she'll follow too close and crash into my unseen form. In doing so, I trod too near your skirt. The fabric tears beneath my foot as you take your first steps down the stairs.

You shriek and grab hold of Lyra, standing just before you on the stairs. "Someone stood on my skirt!" you scream.

I hold myself flat against the damp stone wall, heart pounding so fast that I'm certain you hear me.

Aria breezes down the staircase, rolling her eyes at her foolish juniors. "Don't be silly, Tina," Aria says. "I was nowhere near you on the stairs."

You protest that you felt someone on your skirt, but your cries for belief are drowned out by eleven dissenting voices, and your sisters continue down the staircase. You go only reluctantly, looking back at me—right through me—a thousand times as you go forth. Were it not for the weight of my mission, I would cast off the rose in the hope of a single moment when our eyes could truly meet.

After what seems like a million stairs, we emerge into an open clearing that would look like the outdoors if there was any sight of sky above. Trees tower over us with drops of silver on their branches, like rain upon the leaves. Further down the path is a gold-spattered orchard, each precious drop catching the soft white light that comes from I know not where. Even further beyond is a forest full of diamonds, every stone flashing fiery rainbows.

The forests are strange, but also strangely unsurprising—as though they've always been here, but simply unseen. Your sisters whisper of the night that this place was wished into existence—a place where they might revel in pure beauty and joy, away from the weighty expectations of the watchful world.

But the forest, it seems, is only a prelude—the true marvel is far ahead. We emerge onto the shores of a shimmering lake—so vast, so deep, and so darkly blue that I can see neither the bottom nor the opposite shore. On an island in its center stands a castle so magnificent that it makes your father's palace seem like a paper toy. Its white, sculpted spires glitter with gems in a thousand colors, every brick spangled with precious stones. Its windows hold wonders caught in flawless stained glass. Music sweeter than any I've ever heard pours out its open doors. Light from within forms a shining path across the lake, upon which float twelve sleek obsidian-colored boats.

Each boat has a boatman who rows swiftly toward the shore, and as they approach, I find that I know all the faces. Every one of these men is a prince who failed at finding your secret—or rather, they found it, and did not return. They are dressed in silks and velvets unlike any I've seen in the outer world, too rich for comprehension. As they slide up to the shore and each offer a place to one of you girls, they wear smiles that shine as bright as your own—but there is also something empty in their eyes.

You, as the youngest, take your place in the very last boat of all, piloted by a king's younger son whose sires have ruled half a continent for centuries. He smiles and bows as he takes you by the hand. The way your eyes light up make me wonder if I've seen what you look like in love.

The prince rows with arms strengthened by a warrior's skill—I doubt he's ever held a shovel in his life—but the other boats still outpace us by far.

"Why are you so slow tonight?" you ask him, half teasing, but with a trace of true annoyance.

"The boat is heavy," he says, "and I know not why."

You glance backward, toward where I sit in the stern, and again, I half-wish you could see me. But I let out a sigh of relief when you turn your eyes back toward the castle and give no further thought to unknowable truths.

We disembark on a dock just beneath the castle entrance, and in moments we are inside the palace of enchantment. This is a ballroom beyond what I could imagine—floors of marble streaked with gold and silver, towering windows displaying fantastical birds and beasts, spidery silver chandeliers holding thousands of brightly-lit candles, and at the far end of the room, tables tottering beneath food enough to half a nation.

But this splendor is nothing compared to the beauty of the music. It is like a living thing—vibrant, rapturous, all-consuming, pulling all into it like a roaring, flowing river. The moment one steps through the door, there is nothing one can do but dance. Your prince pulls you into his arms, and your sisters' princes do the same, and soon you are swirling through that wondrous room, beauty and motion and life all brought to their fullness and put into perfect order. All along the edges of that room are other faces—other princes who've failed at your father's quest—and they all take their turn in the dance.

If I thought you alive in the gardens, you are a thousand times more vibrant now, laughing and dancing so you glow with pure joy. These princes are your perfect partners, matching you with every step, reflecting the glow that you bring to the room. If I ever thought that I could take a place beside them, maybe win your father's wager and claim a princess for my bride, that spark is snuffed by the brightness of your blaze. You are ethereal, almost angelic, and could never be happy with one whose hands are stained from working with the common, solid Earth.

While the princes take their turns, you and your sisters dance without ceasing, and I no longer wonder how you could wear through your shoes in a single night. Those shoes are little more than tatters by the time the last note of the last dance plays, and the twelve of you trudge toward the boats to reach bed. Your princes are silent as they row the boats to the forested shore, and you, Sonatina, do not say a word about his slowness.

When you reach the banks, your prince bids you farewell, then all twelve of them row back to the palace, choosing to stay in the splendor rather than return to the pressures of their ordinary lives. After what I have seen, I cannot blame them for their choice.

But you and your sisters choose to return to your father. You trudge through the diamond, then gold, then silver-spangled forests, and as your sisters file one-by-one up the staircase, I realize that none of this fantastic tale will have a ring of truth unless I have something to bring as proof. I reach toward the nearest tree and snap off a slender silver branch. It disappears from sight as soon as I touch it to my clothes, but the sound of its breaking rings through that silent wood like a gunshot.

You jump at the sound and are suddenly wide, wide awake.

"What was that?" you ask your sister.

Aria rolls her eyes. "Only an owl," she says. "You know it roosts in the castle at night."

The explanation does not please you, I can tell, but having no other, you fall silent and leave the silver woods behind.

When you are all safely asleep in bed, I slip unseen through the door and make my way invisibly to my small cot in the servants' quarters. When I lay on my bunk, I take off the rose, and my face reappears in the reflection off the washing bowl. I look as I did before I left, though infinitely wearier, and perhaps—though it might only be fancy—I carry something in my eyes of the enchantment of the night.

In my hands sits the branch I broke, its leaves as green, its silver dewdrops as solid, as they were in that fantastical land. I imagine myself taking it to the king at dawn, having triumphed where the sons of kings and emperors have failed.

Then I imagine the you and your sisters standing by. In a horrible flash, the daydream shatters, and I see myself for what I am—a sneak and a spook, who crept uninvited into a strange woman's room to steal evidence that would bar her from the place she loves most in the world. If I have a role in this tale, it is as the villain, not the hero. I have triumphed in discovering the secret, but if I have any love in my heart for you, I cannot think of speaking.

After a short hour's sleep, I awake with the dawn, but I do not go to the king with what I've found. Instead, I go to the head gardener and get myself assigned the task of bringing the twelve princesses their morning bouquets. I gather careful handfuls of daisies and larkspur and bind them together with handfuls of greenery. I hand them to your sisters one by one as they come bleary-eyed to your bedroom door. When you come to me, last of all, I make sure that your bouquet contains a single silver-spangled branch.

Then, at last, you see me.

Golden sunlight streams down upon a freshly-turned flower bed. I am soaked with sweat and crusted with dirt as I shovel mulch around newly-planted seedlings. I can imagine no scene less like the moonlit enchantment of your jeweled forests and wondrous dances. Even you, when you come into the garden, are nothing like you were last night. Your golden brown hair is unruly, your dress is hastily done-up, and instead of floating with ethereal grace, you storm toward me like an angry warrior goddess.

Only the branch, silver-spangled, is the same as it was last night, when you brandish it beneath my nose.

"Garden boy, where did this branch come from?" you demand.

Your eyes blaze and your golden curls flash in the sun. I could cast myself at your feet in devotion.

I keep my countenance blank and my eyes downcast—the dutiful, lowly servant. "Your highness knows better than I," I reply.

"You have followed us!" you hiss.

I raise my head to meet your gaze. It is a wonder I am not struck dead by your fury. "Yes, your highness."

"How? I saw no one."

"I hid myself."

"It is impossible. I don't believe it."

"Believe as you like," I say. "You will still hold the branch."

You scramble to grasp something at your belt, and you throw a sack full of gold at my feet. "Keep your silence, and you will have this and more besides."

I stare at the bag of gold—more than I could earn with a year's labor—and my heart sinks like a stone. This is what I am to you. Not a man of honor, whose heart and reason can be trusted, but a common blackmailer whose silence can be purchased for a price.

"I will not be bought," I say, and when your face goes white, I add gently, "You have nothing to fear from me."

It is only after dark that it strikes me I may have something to fear from you. I have vowed my silence, but you have said nothing about yours. The secret encompasses your sisters and nearly two dozen princes. What would they be willing to do to ensure my silence?

Though the thought shames me, I cannot vanquish the fear. I must know more about you royals and your hidden world—and I long to spend just one more night in that palace of enchantment. I take the pale rose from its cup on my washstand, place it in my buttonhole, and make my way invisibly to your room.

You and your sisters are already dressed for the evening when I make my way among you. You are pale, and quieter than you were last evening, but none of your sisters remark upon it. I follow you down the staircase, through the forest, and to another wondrous dance. I can tell you are watching for me, but none of your sisters join in the search. They and all the princes laugh and dance as usual. At midnight, you dine upon a feast of impossible delicacies, and though the conversation is steady and quick-witted, none of you makes the least mention of me or the secret I know.

As dawn nears, I take my place in the rear of the boat that you ride in with your prince. Tonight, it is he who comments on the unexpected weight of the boat he steers.

My heart stops. Now you will tell him of my spying, and since there are few places to hide in a small boat, like as not I will be pitched headlong into that bottomless lake.

Your answer lifts my heart like the arrival of the long-awaited dawn. You take up a second oar and say to your prince, "It feels light to me."

The wonder of your defense of me makes me love you more than ever. I all but float behind you as you make your way through the jeweled forests.

In the golden orchards, I stumble and snap off a branch. I hide it against my invisible clothes, just a moment before your sister Melody looks toward where I stand.

"What was that sound?" she asks in fright.

"Only an owl," you answer quickly.

Though you do not know it, you meet my eyes. I bow my head in thanks.

The next morning, the golden-spattered branch I place in your bouquet is a gift of thanks—and an expression of trust.

When you storm toward me in the gardens the next morning, the golden branch quivers in your iron grip.

"What is it you want?" you ask. "You won't take gold. Do you plan to win yourself a princess, garden boy?"

"I do not plan to take a wife," I say. "When I wed, it must be to a woman whose love is freely given."

"Then why did you follow us?"

"I had to know if I could trust you. I now know that I can." I pluck an ordinary blossom from a nearby rose bush. I focus on its petals so I do not have to take the daring step of meeting your gaze while I ask my more-daring question. "Why did you shield me? You could have betrayed me to your princes or your sisters a thousand times."

"This is between you and me alone. I saw no need to frighten them."

I nod, understanding, even as I fight a strange sense of disappointment. It is love for your sisters, not care for me, that leads you to keep my secret.

"Do you see need now?" I ask.

You examine me, and you look at the golden branch, and I can tell you are thinking of the events of the last two nights. "You do not merely hide yourself," you say. "You make yourself invisible. How?"

I could no more lie to you than tear out my own heart. "I made a wish, and it was granted me."

"By whom?"

"Rather, by what. Your garden holds a wishing tree."

You seize my wrist. “Show it to me.”

I stand firm. "Tell me, Princess Sonatina, if you found such a tree, would you suffer to let it live?"

"I should tear it out by the roots," you say, and I know it is true that you would do anything you thought necessary to guard your secret.

"Then although it pains me to disappoint you, I must refuse your request. The trees serve me because I serve them. I cannot repay their gifts by bringing about their destruction."

Your eyes flash. "You refuse your princess?"

I bow my head in apology. "Because it is my duty as a gardener to the king."

You release my wrist and pull away. You pace in frustration—back and forth, back and forth, your golden-brown curls wilder than ever. "There is nothing to prevent my finding it?"

"It is not concealed," I say.

"If it is fair for you to follow me to find our secret, it is only right that I can follow you to find yours."

"It is not my place to say otherwise."

You come to the garden every day after that—sometimes openly, sometimes skulking behind bushes or trees. Some days, I am sure, you watch from places I cannot see. But I do nothing save my ordinary gardening tasks, and I do not try to follow you at night. If I were the sort of man to make wishes for my own benefit, this would be the perfect way to make me use that gift against you. I love you more than ever because this does not occur to you—either you are too pure-hearted to suspect such villainy, or too trusting to imagine it in me.

Eventually, your constant watch breaks down the barriers between us, and you begin to speak to me. You ask me the names of the flowers I tend, and I tell you of the lilies that bloom by day and by night. The next day, you ask me about the blue flowers in your bouquet, and I tell you of the morning glories that make a gorgeous arch over the path you stand upon. In the days that follow, you pepper me with questions, wanting to know the names of every flower and bush and weed that grows in your father's gardens. And then, at last, one day, the name you ask to know is my own.

"I am called Michael Stargazer," I say, as I hand you a white bloom like a five-pointed star.

"Is it not your true name?"

"The first was written on a slip of paper in the basket where I was found upon a church's doorstep. The second was given to me for daydreaming too much."

You sit upon the edge of a fountain and stroke the petals of the flower. "It suits you," you say. "Michael the guardian."

"And the Stargazer who spends too much time dreaming of what is unreachable?" I ask, feeling the rebuke I deserve.

"No," you say—firmly, kindly. "The one who watches. So he can know what is true. And know what to do with his knowledge."

"You trust that I judge rightly?" I ask.

"I trust you," is all you say.

After that, you are with me in the gardens—not merely watching, but being, doing, helping. You wish to help the flowers grow, so I teach you of spades and trowels, watering cans and fertilizer, pruning and grafting and weeding. We start out hesitant—you uncertain of your tasks, I afraid to put a princess to work—but soon, you work with enthusiastic gusto, and I am glad to let you do what gives you joy.

Every night, you still wear through your dancing shoes, but yours are less ragged than the other eleven pairs, and you are wide awake with me in the gardens every morning. We talk while we work, but we do not even mention wishing trees or diamond groves or the music of enchanted palaces; there are too many other things to discuss in the sunlit world. You tell me of your sisters, of growing up royal, of books you've read and tutors you've teased. I tell you of the village where I was raised, of the dreams I had of one day meeting a princess—though I do not tell you that I've dreamed I will marry one.

One morning, in the height of summer, you are kneeling beside me, in a gown that you borrowed from a serving girl, wearing work gloves you borrowed from the gardener's shed. There are streaks of dirt on your face, and you smile at me in triumph as you dig up a bulb for transplanting.

In that moment, the sun shines full upon you, setting the gold and brown streaks of your hair alight. Suddenly, you are not an ethereal being, too high and fine for me to reach. You are here, with me, laboring in the Earth—and you glow with joy. It is not the blazing joy of your dances in the midnight palace—burning bright and fast and destructive. This joy is gentler, life-giving—like a hearth fire or a candle flame. It warms and nourishes, comforts and caresses. For the first time, I can picture you as a gardener's wife, laboring with me in a cottage, caring for our children, giving life to sons and daughters and helping me to make good things grow.

I nearly speak something of the joy in my own heart—but the words freeze on my tongue when I hear a laugh high above us.

Five of your sisters—Lyra and Cadence, Harmony and Melody, and in the center of them all, elegant, dark-haired Aria—stand on the other side of the flower bed, peering down at us.

"Is this where you sneak off to every morning, Tina?" Lyra laughs. "Grubbing in the dirt with the garden boy?"

You drop the bulb as though it burns you, desperately try to brush the dirt off your skirt, and back as far away from me as possible on the narrow path between flower beds. Your face burns bright red. "No," you stammer. "I was only..."

"What a charming couple you make," Aria sneers.

"You wouldn't have to leave us if you married him," Harmony laughs.

Her twin adds, "You could live in a cottage at the bottom of the park, and you could bring us our flowers every morning!"

"He is nothing!" you snarl at your sisters. You storm toward the palace, and you do not look back.

I do not see you for two days.

On the third day, you and your sisters return to the garden in the company of a prince—yet another who has taken up your father's impossible task. To spare you the horror of seeing me, I keep the white rose in my buttonhole and invisibly tend the wishing trees while you entertain the prince nearby.

Prince Ivan is sterner, more solemn than some of the others. Even I, a lowly gardener, have heard tales of his valor in battle. A thick saber-scar runs from his temple to his chin. He knows the danger he has placed himself in and faces it without flinching. There is something in his eyes that makes me think he welcomes it.

As I watch him, I wonder how he will fare in his quest. Will he reveal your secret or remain in the enchanted world with all the others? For the first time, I question the fate of those other princes. I have assumed they remained by choice, but in such a magical place, can first impressions ever be trusted? For their sake, as well as yours, I must follow you to the dance one more time.

When I reach your chamber in the evening, Prince Ivan is already among you. The twins, Melody and Harmony, focus on flattering him while your sisters tie on the last of their ribbons. His eyes, however, are for the dark-haired, sweet-tempered Princess Melisma. I think she does not dislike the attention.

As you descend the staircase—Melody and Harmony taking the lead with Prince Ivan—Princess Aria keeps Melisma at the end of the line.

"You mustn't encourage him," Aria says. "It might give him reason to follow us back home."

"He is so brave," Melisma says, "and so gentle. Would it be so terrible for me to have him as a husband?"

"If he weds you, he will take you to the Northlands, and we shall never see you again. Is that the life you want?"

Melisma blushes. "No," she whispers.

"Then let him drink," Aria says in a low tone. "He shall be here always, for you to dance with as much as you like. He will be the same brave and gentle prince, but will never take you away from us."

That night at the dance, there is a banquet in honor of the new guest. The tables pile high with delicacies I cannot name, and silent, ghostly servants keep your plates and goblets constantly filled. Prince Ivan looks younger, almost childlike, as he takes in the wonders, and his eyes have lost their haunted look.

"Such a wondrous place!" he breathlessly declares. "All beauty and joy! No sorrow, no politics, no battle."

Aria, seated at his right hand, plies him with red wine, and leads him to speak upon the war he won such honors in. He served with valor and is proud of protecting his people, but he has lost friends and brothers, is haunted by the fields strewn with the bodies of those who died too young.

"I should not speak of such things," Ivan says, putting down another empty goblet. "They are better forgotten."

"Do you not cherish some memories?" Aria asks.

"If I could forget every moment of it, I would," Ivan declares, "and stay always in this dance.

Aria smiles, then takes a golden goblet—the largest and most ornate in the room—from a servant standing at her shoulder. "You may do so," Aria says, "if you only drink this elixir. You shall have no regrets. No duties. No memories of battle. Only the beauties of this world."

Ivan looks to Melisma, seated at his left hand. She squeezes his scarred fingers in her long, delicate ones. "I shall come every night," she says softly.

Ivan takes the goblet from Aria's hand. His face holds the grim determination of a soldier, and the innocent bravery of a child hoping a bitter tonic will bring relief from pain. He drains the cup to its dregs.

When Aria takes the empty goblet, the prince is transformed. His eyes hold the same light of joy as all the other princes, but the honorable nobility of his bearing has drained away, leaving behind an empty imitation, all paper and gold leaf with nothing solid behind. For the rest of the night, he dances every dance with Princess Melisma. She is all joy when she looks in his face, but every time she turns away, she seems close to bursting into tears.

For the rest of the night, I cannot enter into the enchantment of the dance. I see only those princes, and wonder who they were before their will was drained away. I see your sisters dancing, each choosing one partner more than all others, and wonder if they too renounced marriage to someone they admired for the sake of this endless courtship. I travel across the lake in Aria's boat instead of yours, and as her prince hands her off to shore, I see even she seems on the point of asking him to come with her, before dropping his hand and turning resolutely to the diamond forest.

When you alight from your prince's boat, I see no similar love or regret in your eyes. At first I am relieved, and then my anger flares at your heartlessness. I snap off a diamond-spangled branch so fiercely that the sound of its breaking makes your every sister jump.

They glance in all directions, bewildered by the sound. You look directly toward me, your face burning with shame. Though I remain invisible, I know you feel me standing before you.

"What was that?" Melody shrieks in alarm.

"My guardian angel," is all you say, and though your sisters pelt you with questions all the way through the forests and up the staircase, you do not say another word.

When I leave your room, part of me wants to run to the king and tell all, but I cannot let judgment fall upon you without giving you a chance to speak for yourself. The diamond-spangled branch I place in your bouquet is both an accusation and an offer of parley.

You come to me—though you do not know it—when I am tending to the wishing trees, in the most secluded corner of the garden. "You have seen," you say.

"You have witnessed every one and said nothing. I want to know how you can defend yourself."

The innocent confusion in your eyes makes me repent of every crime I imputed to you. "What is there to defend?" you ask. "Every prince chooses to drink. We cannot deny them their choice."

"Do they know what it makes them?" I ask.

"If they do, they don't care," you say.

"Because they have been made incapable of caring for anything but the dance."

"Would you send Ivan back to his wars?" you ask. "Edmund to his awful father? Kristoff to his plague-filled land? They all have horrors they are escaping. It would be cruel to make them remember all the sorrows they were so desperate to forget."

The things that seemed so simple when I stood invisibly at your shoulder are more muddled now that you can look me clear in the face. There is one place in the world untouched by sorrow or strife—can I judge those who have fled for refuge there?

"You have had your wishes granted," you say softly. "Would you deny all of us ours?"

Looking into your innocent, imploring face, I find that I cannot. Your silence, I see now, is not heartlessness, but compassion. Loyalty to your sisters who wish to remain together. Pity for those princes who can find no other peace from their sorrows. There is no simple answer to the riddle that has entangled us all.

"Will you follow us again?" you ask.

"I do not know," I say. "Will you tell your sisters that I do?"

"I do not know," you say.

When you wander at last from the garden, your eyes—and thoughts—are far from me. This game has gone much further than any of us could have predicted. Any bond the two of us have built will break, I think, when pitted against the bond that you share with your sisters.

So that evening, when I pin the rose to my collar and invisibly slip into your room, I am not surprised to find that I am the topic of discussion. You are seated on a trunk in the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of glaring sisters.

"You knew all this time," Aria says, her voice low with anger, "and only now choose to tell us?"

"He vowed to keep the secret," you say. "He could do us no harm."

“Yet now you fear he will speak! He could destroy everything!”

“I told you when I thought you needed to know.”

Aria steps back and smooths her skirts and hair, becoming in one fluid motion the ever-composed crown princess. "There is only one thing we can do," she says. "We hand him over to the king’s justice. He has violated our royal persons by coming uninvited to our bedchamber. He will be hanged before the end of the week."

"No!" you shriek, jumping from your seat.

Your other sisters murmur in surprise—I cannot tell if more of it is directed toward you or Aria.

“There must be some other way,” says soft-hearted Allegra.

“Not if we wish to protect our secret," Aria says. "We have a world of perfection, an escape from all sorrows. We have twenty men who wish to stay there all their lives. We can’t endanger it for the sake of a presumptuous servant.”

You turn to Aria and say, “ He is not the first to know our secret. None of the other princes have had to die.”

Harmony says, "The garden boy is no prince."

Aria gazes thoughtfully at you. "Do you wish us to treat him as one? Let him present himself as a suitor for your hand?"

"I will not marry him,” you say, turning red.

"No one expects you to," Aria soothes. "But he can share the fate of the better-born. Let him dance and dine with us, then, at the end of the night, he will drink and forget there ever was a world above."

Your lips make a thin line, and your face goes white. “He would not like it.”

“Better than death, surely.”

You leave the circle of your sisters, tears in your eyes.

Aria follows you to where you gaze out the window. I could reach out and touch both of you. “Sonatina,” she says, soft and sweet as a mother. “I know you are fond of the garden boy. But you must be realistic. In this world, he can be nothing to you. You cannot marry a servant. He cannot marry a princess. Even friendship between you two can only be a scandal.”

Her words sink into my heart—cold, cruel, yet undeniably true. I have never dared to dream myself worthy of you—but there was, despite all, a small part of me that hoped for the impossible. Yet even if I could wish myself up a name and a title, it would not change who I truly was. Though I will love you to the end of my days, you can never love one such as me.

Aria’s voice becomes brighter, enticing. “But we have another world, where he can be whatever he wishes. You can dance with him every night without shame. You never have to face the impossible choice. You have him, and us, your title, your dances—forever.”

You gaze silently out the window. I stand at your side. I think of the world I would leave behind—the sunlight in the gardens, the wind and the rain and the wonderful flowers—in favor of that underground palace. I think of you laughing in the sun with dirt on your hands, and my wish that we could stay in that moment forever, ‘til death do us part.

It can never be anything more than a wish.

When you assent to your sister’s plan, my fate is sealed. I would risk all to give you the slightest joy. If it is your wish that I drink, I will drink—and gladly.

Your sisters come to me with their proposal, offering to present me to the king. They say nothing of their plan to give me the drink that will keep me forever in the dance. You, pale-faced at the rear of the crowd, say nothing at all. I say nothing of my presence at your midnight council. We are all trapped in the deafening silence of our secrets.

I accept their offer, but ask for time to prepare. Before I present myself at the palace, I make another trip to my faithful rose trees.

"Dress me as a prince," I beg. "Give me clothes fine enough to be seen in any royal court."

The second rose tree sprouts a crimson bloom, every petal as crisp as if cut by a tailor's scissors. When I place it in my buttonhole, my gardening clothes become a suit of black velvet, and a white-feathered cap appears upon my head.

As I stride toward the main doors of the palace, not one set of eyes knows me. Guards do not stop me as a presumptuous garden boy. I present myself before your father and he gives me all the respect due a prince.

When I rise from my bow of greeting, your eyes are riveted to my form. As I follow your father from the throne room, you stop me in the doorway with a hand upon my arm.

"Michael?" you ask, all amazed. "Can it truly be you?"

I bow my head—more garden boy than prince. "You need not be ashamed to be seen with me tonight."

Even so, you keep your distance. In the enchanted lake, I ride in a boat as Aria's guest, not yours. During the dance, your sisters all take their turns with me, from eldest to youngest. At last, I come to offer you my hand, but you seem reluctant to take it.

"Will you not dance with me, Princess Sonatina?" I ask.

"What need have you of my hand," you ask lightly, "when my sisters all treat you as a prince?"

"I want no hand but yours," I say.

You look down, your face drawn.

I bow over your hand and say softly, "Fear not, princess. You shall not be a gardener's wife."

I sweep you into the dance, and it is everything I could have dreamed. You are a wisp, a breath, a butterfly, moving at a touch, at a thought, stepping perfectly with my every unschooled motion. There is an energy between us, and at last you yield to it, looking deeply into my eyes.

In your gaze, I see the princess who I loved from a distance in the gardens, the companion who planted flowers at my side, the friend who defended me from her sisters' threats, and now a woman waiting to doom me to an eternal dance.

In this moment, such a fate does not seem a terror—it seems a gift. Here in this enchanted place, I am no gardener, no nameless, abandoned son. I can dwell here and see you night after night, as worthy as any man, if not to wed you, at least to take you in a dance, and know, if only for a moment, that I am the cause of your joy.

We whirl through the ballroom, through dance after dance after dance, neither able nor wishing to stop. After a time, all your sisters and their partners fall still, watching as we move in flawless harmony, our very heartbeats seeming to move in perfect time.

As the final dance draws to a close, you are silently weeping, tears in crystal rivers streaming down your face.

"Michael," you say. "After dinner—"

There is no need for you to speak what I already know. "Peace," I say. "All will be well."

At the dinner, your sisters flatter me, distracting me with delicacies and drink. Yet, they all seem restless, unsatisfied for once with this perfect palace and their empty-eyed princes.

At last Aria approaches with an ornate golden goblet.

"Garden boy," Aria says. "In the world above, you are a common laborer, unworthy even to gaze upon a princess. Here, you are an honored guest, who could dance with her every night should you choose. With this drink, you may stay here always, without the shame of your birth standing between you. Will you drink, Michael Stargazer, and forget all pain?"

I take the goblet between two work-hardened hands. The wine inside is clear as water and thick as blood. The scent intoxicates me, promising me endless joy in exchange for all memories.

There is much I loved in the world above—I love none of it so well as I love you. I close my eyes and set the cup to my lips.

There is a cry, and the cup is dashed from my hands. It crashes to the marble floor, and the wine oozes out in a thick mass.

Suddenly your arms are around my neck, and your face buried in my shoulder as you weep desperate tears.

"Michael, my love! Don't drink! I will love you beneath the open sky, in sun and rain and wind! I will be a gardener's wife! Let this castle crumble into dust! I would rather lose all the world than lose the man I love!”

My despair—though I did not know it by its true name until this moment—becomes hope, bright and dancing. I gather you in my arms and rain kisses upon your brow. It seems impossible that you love me, which makes it all the more wondrous to find it real.

Around us, the princes wake from their trance, and there is life in their gazes. They are men again, with minds and hearts, and the ones who served as boatmen each take one of your sisters in their arms. Your sisters—even Aria—cry with joy to see their restoration.

Suddenly, the ground shakes beneath us. Shards of colored glass and precious stones rain down from the castle walls.

“What is happening?” you cry.

I bend my head to kiss your brow, then look up at the castle. “You no longer wish for this world,” I say. “It cannot last.”

The other princes are already leading your sisters out the door, with Prince Ivan—Melisma at his side—taking charge of all. Each boatman leads one of your sisters to the water. They pile you into boats, and I help them arrange the transport, until you, your sisters, all the spare princes—and, least of all, myself—are safely across to the other shore.

We race through the forests—jeweled branches shattering as they fall—and clamber up the crumbling staircase. You and I are at the back of the line, hand in hand. As we stand at the base of the stairs, we look back at the crumbling palace, the destruction of a wondrous world of wishes.

“I am sorry,” I say, as the palace sinks into the black water of the lake.

You smile at me. “There is nothing to mourn.”

Laughing with joy, you tug my hand and lead me up the stairs.

In your moonlit bedroom, you and your sisters are as alive and beautiful as you once were in your mornings in the garden—moreso, because every eye is lit with love. Your sisters stand hand-in-hand with the princes who served as their boatmen. No longer empty revelers, they are men—noble, true, devoted—and overjoyed to be back in the world, despite its pain, rather than trapped in the never-ending dance.

Aria comes to us as we emerge from the staircase. She embraces each of us in turn, then closes and locks the wooden door behind us. The door disappears and becomes a blank stone wall once more. A low roar sounds as the tunnel and its staircase crumble.

“It is gone,” Aria says, "and good riddance.”

We gaze at her in astonishment, shocked to hear those words coming from the one who had been the greatest defender of the dance.

“I lost myself in wishes,” she says, “but I have found the truth again.” She takes the hand of her boatman—a dark man with kind eyes who reigns as prince of a far-southern realm. “I feared the future because I feared change. I thought the dance could keep us together—young and careless forever. Blinded by enchantments, I could not see that I kept us all from the possibility of a better world. You saved all of us.”

Your sister embraces you, and then—one of the night’s most astonishing sights—the crown princess of one of the greatest nations in the world kneels before a garden boy and bows over his dirt-stained hand.

You all ask for forgiveness, but there is nothing to forgive. All your princes—even myself—fell to the despair that kept them in the dance. We can forget the dance and its soulless wonders and return to the real, bright world.

But first, we must tell your father.

You all agree that the honor of revealing the secret should fall to me. You give me the three branches I placed in your bouquets, and at first light, still dressed in my princely clothes, I ask for an audience with the king.

Your father needs little convincing to believe my tale—with so many witnesses, and so many lost princes standing before him, there is little room for doubt.

“You have solved the mystery, Michael Stargazer,” the king says, “and have earned the offered prize. Which of my daughters will you have to wife?”

Stepping before all the assembled royalty, I say, “Majesty, I do not wish for a wife that I claim as a prize. I will only take the wife who chooses me freely, with all her heart and mind.”

In the moment of silence that follows, the glimmer of doubt reappears. You declared your love for me in that unreal underground kingdom, but can you do the same in the sunlit world, where your words have real and eternal consequences?

In that dawn-lit room, before all your sisters, your father, and twenty foreign princes, you come to my side and place your hand in mine. “I will be your wife, Michael Stargazer, with all my heart, mind, body and soul, until the end of my days.”

I answer with a kiss upon your brow. “I give you the same, and all my worldly goods, if you will join me in a cottage in the gardens.”

“There’s no need for that,” your father says. “You have helped to save the royal sons of more than fifteen kingdoms. No one would question your right to a title after such service. I can make you a prince, and you and my daughter can have a royal estate as a wedding present.”

After that is a day of rejoicing, your sisters and their princes all celebrating their restoration and my elevation. But before sunset, you and I slip away to the gardens, where I at last show you the two little rose trees that made all of this possible.

“They are beautiful,” you say.

“They have brought me all I could desire,” I say, “but I have one last wish to make.”

In answer to my whispered words, a pink rose blooms on the smallest bush, with a lady’s ring—twined gold and silver, with a diamond at its center—sitting at its heart.

I kneel before you and place it upon your finger. With your ringed hand, you raise me to my feet and pull me into a kiss.

The rose trees are transplanted to a place of honor in the gardens of our new home. You and I tend to them every day, but since we’ve had our three wishes, they grow only ordinary roses.

I am glad.

With you as my wife in such a glorious world, what further need have I of wishes?

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #the twelve dancing princesses #it turns out that finishing this one seemed like less work than starting from scratch #it still took a lot of work #but it's a bit more polished than it would have been if i'd just tried to rush out a new idea

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ratguy-nico · 6 months

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Gente, el perro se desaparece por meses and than came back with two drawings? The audacity.

This is no rendered but in my defense...I'm tired, I've been trying to work on this for too long (Im not been dramatic, its been 2 months)

So, just flat colors, but it looks pretty enough, right? I mean Gene dandolo todo certainly helps XD

This is again a stolen idea, cause creativity its notmy thing apperently XD.

Let's use the word inspire. This is inspired, for the one, the only, the greatest @goldendoodlerlockerlove they draw Gene on his wedding day wearing a beutiful dress with a jungle theme wedding, which wtf, amazing, so good. I may reblog it later. (by the way it is from Feb 16 so yeah, imagine how late I am)

So... cause I don't want to steal I inspire mine Genie in Kimmy's weadding dress.

Who is Kimmy you migh ask? Kimmy Schmidt from one of my favs shows "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" from Netflix. Recommendation, watch it, its hilarious.

I actually loved drawing this, and even though the coloring was hard, I love the yellow in Gene, she looks like Belle, or like we know her in this side on the continent: Bella, and yes she is.

By the way in my head Linda actually made this dress, she didn't sewed a thing, she just glue all to the base dress they bought in a thrift store. And yeah those are actual candy, and there's not one left at the end of the reception.

I realized while drawing this that I really love drawing Gene, been able to draw a beautiful, big, brown skin queen, is not a chance many shows give us. And I thanks Bob's Burger everyday for it.

Also, I know for you gringos (USA people) white is like the norm for wedding dresses (no shade no tea is just not my cup of tea) but ... I was gonna explained but I decided to left it for another post so wait for an alternative version and a little story.

Hope you like it, love you golden. GENE. ON A WEDDING DRESS.

#bob's burgers #my art #bobs burgers #gene belcher #she just belong here #in my heart #and my tumblr #wedding dress #GENE ON A WEDDING DRESS #thats the dream #I think I said everything I wanted on the post so #not much to tag #only wanted to ask you #who you think is the groom or bride?

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niqhtlord01 · 2 years

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Humans are weird: What is art?

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

Alien: *Walking through museum with friends.*

Alien: *Stops at painting*

Alien: What is this picture of?

Human Friend: *Walks over and sees painting*

Human Friend: It is the depiction of the death of Julius Caesar.

Alien: Who is that?

Human Friend: He was a general of the roman republic far back in human history.

Human Friend: This piece is an imagination of the moment he was murdered in the halls of the roman senate.

Alien: Are those around him his enemies?

Human Friend: And his friends as well.

Alien: Why would they seek to murder him?

Human Friend: If I remember correctly this event took place after many years of civil war; Roman fighting Roman across multiple continents with each believing themselves to be in the right until finally Caesar emerged victorious.

Human Friend: But when the war ended many believed Caesar would become a tyrant and rule the people with an iron fist, and so a group of them came together and struck him down to prevent such a thing from happening.

Alien: Why would anyone wish to make such a horrible moment into art?

Alien: Look at him. *Points at Caesar*

Alien: A great man on the floor with his hands up begging for his life while his once friends strike him down.

Alien: Do humans find joy from witnessing such violence?

Human Friend: A misconception you may have is assuming that human art is only meant to inspire the more positive range of emotions.

Human Friend: In reality there are thousands of pieces that are created to inspire feelings of dread, sadness, loneliness, anger and so forth.

Human Friend: Such as this piece. *Points at artwork next to death of Caesar*

Human Friend: This one was painted by one of our peoples greatest artists Vincent Van Gogh.

Alien: Is the human in pain?

Human Friend: Yes.

Human Friend: The picture is often considered to be a reflection of the artist himself during his later years as he became increasingly depressed and saddened.

Alien: This only further proves my point that humans elate themselves on the suffering of others.

Human Friend: What you call suffering we call the human condition.

Human Friend: Look closely at the old man.

Alien: *Leans forward to examine*

Human Friend: Can you not see the detail in the brush strokes? The care he has for figure and form?

Human Friend: Here is a man in the depths of despair and he uses that raw emotion to imbue his art with it; to make it come alive.

Human Friend: Life is not easy. It is full of moments of equal joy and misery in an endless waltz until we finally return to the earth that bore us.

Alien: So what you are saying is that humans use all of their emotions when composing artworks.

Human Friend: Correct.

Human Friend: Some pieces are meant to inspire singular emotions, while others can induce multiple.

Human Friend: In the end though it is still possible that as individuals we may find some entirely different meaning in a particular piece that is in contrast with the more widely accepted ones.

Alien: Then which is right?

Human Friend: All of them.

Alien: That can’t be possible.

Human Friend: What a piece inspires inside you is unique to the individual.

Human Friend: There is no right or wrong way to experience art and that is part of the beauty for it.

Alien: You humans have an apparently overly complex for artistic works.

Human Friend: Just wait until you hear our music.

Human Friend: There’s this genre called pirate metal I want to introduce you to.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans are insane #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

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bunji-enthusiast · 15 days

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Hiii I dunno if you're open but.. would you consider doing some Mael hc's with a female s/o 👉👈

Finally having a little character header… sob sob. Anyway, hope you like your headcanons! :D

Mael's devotion toward you is unwavering, his soft-hearted nature is albeit rarely shown towards others in contrast to his ruthless side, but he has gotten better. His love towards you is genuinely one of his greatest sources of strength, and hopes to forever keep it that way, you garnered a side of him he didn't know he had and Mael wishes he can live the quiet life with you. For however long, he hopes it can be for forever.

Despite maintaining a powerful and intimidating presence due to his previous exploits when he had carried the epithet, 'Angel of Death' -- He cherishes the quiet and tender moments with you, where he can actually truly let his guard down and express his affection through small, meaningful gestures.

He is particularly fond of watching the sun rise with you each morning. Even if he had lost the Grace of Sunshine, it always reminded him of the shared hope and new beginnings, and to leave the idea of death and famine behind. Mael will do anything possible to protect that, even if he is gentler and kinder now, doesn't mean he lost his ability to fight.

The archangel has an unfortunate habit of reflecting on his past actions, manipulated into mutilating innocents who had done no wrong. But it was in due part, lucky even, that you were there to help him through that, finding forgiveness and peace can be difficult. Especially with the life he used to lead.

His fierce protection over you would extend to somewhat of an overbearing responsibility. He'd go to great lengths to ensure your safety, even if meant making personal sacrifices. Even if he was well aware of such behaviors, Mael was too fearful of you being suddenly stolen away from him, talk to him and he'll double down to a bearable extent.

Gifts of light, he is still very much capable of imbuing his own personal hand-made gifts with light - his own light. Quite the magical gift, as it can serve as a reminder of his love and protection even when the two of you are apart, Mael wants you to know that, he hopes you do anyway.

Given Mael's long life, he ended up developing a deep appreciation for the various cultures that stretched across the continent. He is always happy and able to share his knowledges and experiences with you, to acknowledge the beauty and diversity. He's come to appreciate things more often because of it otherwise, though he talks like a librarian, you can't help but laugh sometimes when he has such a fond look on his face when he speaks of the stories he's come to learn.

It's not without its struggles when it comes to having such a stable relationship, but the result reaps it's rewards. Mael has his difficulties of balancing his rather intense love for you and the dark influences of his past history, having your identity and memories twisted (additionally with being strongly manipulated) for so long can be hard on the mind and body. He still appreciates you for still sticking with him regardless of his rather awkward moments of depression.

Of course, his concern always surfaces immediately when you have your bouts of hardness and difficulties. Mael wishes he could just fix it right away, and erase the look from your face, but he knows he can't do such a thing that easily. Still, the archangel still continues to persist to do what you would do for him.

After regaining his memories, Mael’s relationship with you will allow and help him rediscover and embrace his true self, rekindling a sense of romance and hope that had been overshadowed by his past traumas. One step after the other, but frankly he still feels embarrassed you saw such behaviors and a side to him he never wanted you to see.

Mael would be deeply committed to creating a legacy of love and hope, not just through his actions but ensuring you know just how much you mean to him and how much you had helped him heal. Surely, he knows and had faced challenges and adversity where he has to work himself through it, but Mael still wants you to know the mark of his appreciation for you.

In private, Mael would show his vulnerability and share his deepest fears and regrets with you, finding solace and understanding in your presence. In a way, he has such an understanding of what Elizabeth and Meliodas felt toward each other, he is so glad to have crossed paths with you in the first place.

There could be common goals that you two work toward together, perhaps to protect those you care about or fighting for a cause the two of you believe in, at least similarly. Surprisingly though, your mutual affection and partnership around each other grew as a source of inspiration and support to others.

Mael might experience jealousy or insecurity, particularly if you showed interest in others. However, this would lead to personal growth and a deeper understanding of his own worth and the strength of your relationship. He understand's that he needs to have better control of his feelings and be more open to communication, Mael is open to growth and change after all.

When engaged in combat, Mael’s primary motivation would be to protect you and ensure your safety, fighting with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. In some ways or more, this truly had allowed him to be stronger and even sturdier.

Mael might envision a future where he and you build a life together, possibly including the idea of a family. He would cherish the thought of creating a peaceful and loving environment for them to thrive. Though, he much rather would want to wait for your consent first, children or not, he still will continue to love you regardless.

Mael would occasionally surprise you with elaborate, heartfelt gestures, such as recreating a special memory or creating a magical display of light in your honor.

#mael nnt #nnt mael #nnt manga #nnt anime #nanastu no taizai Mael #Mael nanastu no taizai #Mael x reader #4kota #seven deadly sins x reader #seven deadly sins mael #Mael seven deadly sins #7ds #7ds x reader #7DS Mael #what other tags #LOOK AT THAT SMILE THOUGH??#WHY IS HE SO FUCKING ADORABLE AND HANDSOME AT THE SAME TIME

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dgrailwar · 6 months

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Further Servant details under the cut:

ARCHETYPE EARTH:

A beautiful princess of the Moon who hasn't yet tasted blood. In another world, her Class would be 'Funny Vamp'.

She serves as the soul of the Planet, and therefore possesses immense power and purity, raised as a delicate and well-mannered princess. As a Servant she is theoretically much weaker than she would be in her natural state, bound to a Saint Graph rather than the planet itself. Therefore, rather than being able to augment the Earth's rotation and treat continents like pinballs, she's simply only able to create destructive storms and earthquakes with a flick of her fingers.

A version of 'Archetype: Earth' that has retained her innocence, one that being bound to a world of 'Fate' has not met her own. A natural phenomenon in the shape of a girl, a soul who watches over humanity without understanding, an Archetype of the Planet that exists brilliantly and positively, with only the slightest curiosity of when her life will truly begin.

SESSYOIN KIARA:

A Buddhist monk of the Shingon Tachikawa Eiten School. A woman of calm composure and pure veneer.

She is a master Spiritron Hacker, a type of magus from the future that specializes in Code Casts. She thoroughly believes in the value of 'desire', and sees that as her own personal path to truth, making her an entity of unrelenting faith. However, as pure as she may seem, there are no truly perfect souls in the world, and those with seemingly no secrets to hide may hold the most sinister ones of all.

A precise woman, who can see those for who they truly are, while leaving herself an enigma. Like a hungry beast, she stalks her prey, slowly peeling away their layers and exposing their vices before going for the killing strike. While her style of battle is patient, it is exceptionally brutal-- but that's just how matters of the heart are, yes? Reaching that secret flower garden in order to sully it and claim it for yourself.

B.B.:

“Everyone’s favorite kouhai and little devil, B.B.! The beautiful black blossom of the Moon makes her debut, and she has a real nasty cheat skill in order to commemorate! What? There’s something dark and obviously evil mixed into my Spirit Origin? First off, I was already devilish enough, so it was really just a power boost, and also… do you really care that much? I mean, watching our enemies struggle will make any sort of mods worth it, right?”

"Anyways, do I really need to sell myself? Oh, well maybe there are a few people who aren't in the loop, and I'd hate for any potential fans to get FOMO! What do you want to know? My three sizes? My greatest fear? My one true love? Well, that's a big 'nope' to all three! I'm what some people may deem a 'rogue (and powerful) A.I', a scourge on the Moon. A 'Moon Cancer' (obviously), and any sort of digital, quasi-digital, pseudo-digital, or conceptually-digital space is basically my domain! So, you know, if you're looking for winners…"

"Anyways, you know the right choice (It's me, if you didn't realize). I'll ~ be ~ in ~ your ~ care ~! ♡"

GANESHA:

The Great Statue God. The God of Prosperity and Fortune. The Elephant-headed God of Overcoming Obstacles, Ganesha. A mighty Divine Spirit, distilled into a vessel that Ganesha himself thought was suitable- a woman who had her very fate changed on the surface of the Moon.

Vessels are chosen, and often don't volunteer, so this particular soul was rather surprised to end up a Divine Spirit. However, she's willing to step out into the world and give it 110% to represent Lord Ganesha! Do your best~!

"…eh? Seriously?!"

…This Ganesha greatly enjoys living the slow life, not having to worry about combat, danger, or fighting-- however, as a vessel for a god that also represents forward progress and overcoming obstacles, she can’t sit and bide her time forever (despite REALLY wanting to). Finding out when to rest and when to strike… perhaps that’s a lesson that both you and this god’s vessel can learn together.

#team mooncancer #summoning poll

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piecesofeden11 · 8 months

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WIP Wednesday

And now for something completely different. As, after a long hiatus, my DnD campaign has finally picked up again, I have found that much of my worldbuilding has gotten a little outdated by split-second decisions at the table and, frankly, bs I made up on the spot because it felt right in that second, so I'm currently busy revising a lot of the lore for my world. My WIP I offer today to those interested, therefore, is a little snippet into the Divine lore of my homebrew setting, Irion. (@my players. This is all safe for you, as it's knowledge your characters would have more or less :D <3) I'd love to hear what everyone thinks!!! (even if you know nothing of DnD <3)

Myth: As the Ancients ruled what is now Irion (which is, technically speaking, only the Sister Continents and the Islands), there were seven Kingdoms in total. Izmera was Queen of one of them, until a war broke out amongst the Kingdoms.

Ruthless and powerful, Izmera won the war, crowing herself Empress of all of Irion. The cost of the war was great, extinguishing the Ancients from the world or driving them back towards the Worlds beyond the Veil, realms and planes outside of the known cosmos.

Izmera, however, held on to her throne and watched over the new life spreading across her kingdom, elves and dwarves and humans and all manner of other folk starting to settle and she followed their progress with interest.

Those fortunate enough to gaze upon her began to spread word of her divinity, setting up shrines and temples in her name and honor, thus starting her following as a goddess.

Of the Ancient that stayed, Exias was closest to Izmera and they are said to have been lovers. The Elven folk of Irion claim to be the offspring of their union.

That about sums up the bulk of Exias' involvement in the world. He is said to hold no interest in the mortal realm and rarely is his influence felt in the world.

The most involved and beloved of all the divine of Irion must surely be Korien Songbird. Her willingness to sacrifice herself when Exias, in a stroke of cruelty, demanded an offering of 12 children in order to bring rain to Korien's native lands, caught the eye of Izmera. Stories about how exactly this sacrifice happened or was supposed to happen, vary from place to place. In some, she merely offers her death instead of the 12 children, in others she bargained with Exias that the children would have to be his own, born of her own body. Whichever tale is told, the result is always that Izmera, disgusted by Exias' cruelty, stepped in and saved the young princess, elevating her to godhood and preserving her youth and beauty in immortality. Korien accepted the goddess' gift and declared herself the goddess of death. She is said to appear to the sick and dying, be it on their deathbeds or on battlefields, giving them comfort in their last moments and leading them to the city of the dead beyond the veil.

Next came Yara Duskforged, an empress of dwarven descent, who set out to build the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Under her rule, dwarves began to mine under almost every mountain in Irion, creating an unfathomable network of caves and cities below the earth. Her origin is disputed nowadays, with every dwarven clan claiming to be in direct line to her and their city build on top of Yara's legendary empire.

According to legend, Izmera came to Yara on her deathbed and, impressed by her tenacity, offered her immortality.

#WIP Wednesday #my writing #my original writing #dnd #homebrew lore #irion #my wips #and now for something completely different

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avatarmerida · 2 years

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Beautiful

I know that this ask was from the “send me a word and if it’s in my wip I’ll post the sentence it’s in” prompt and I didn’t have a sentence with this word in it but seeing this actually inspired a short little fic so Imma just post it here in response lol. I used google translate for the spanish pls no one hate me i lost my Duolingo streak

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“After this can we go over conjugation again?” Hunter asked as he flipped to an empty page in his notebook.

“Sure,” said Luz. “But you don’t have to take so many notes ya know, there’s not gonna be a test or anything.”

“I know that’s technically true, but something about the look in the eyes of that little owl in the box makes the stakes feel higher.” said Gus with a shudder.

“We have a streak to protect,” added Willow with determination, furiously sharpening her pencil to take notes of her own.

“All right, let’s try translating some basic sentences,” said Luz, writing a new one on the board.

La flor es muy hermosa

“Oh oh oh! I know this one!” announced Amity, eagerly raising her hand.

“I know you do batata, but let’s let someone else try,” said Luz with a wink. “Whatcha got, Gus?”

“I’m not entiiiirely sure what it says, but I’ve gotten really good at rolling my r’s,” said Gus. “Herrrrmosa. See?”

“That is pretty impressive,” marveled Luz. “What about you, Hunter?”

“Well, I know that ‘la’ is a definite article for nouns,” he began, breaking down the sentence piece by piece as he often did. “And ‘muy’ is a common adverb that means ‘very’ or sometimes ‘highly’ so it’s saying ‘something’ is ‘something,’ right?”

“You’re on the right track!” Luz encouraged. “I snuck in two new vocab words to test your ability to use context clues.”

“Boo! You said there were no tests!” said Willow with thumbs down. Hunter contined to stare at the board as if it was one of life’s greatest mysteries.

“Hmmm, ‘la flor es muy hermosa.’ read Hunter aloud. “Can you give me a hint?”

“Hmmm... it’s something in this room,” said Luz, looking towards the corner where Willow’s latest collection of chrysanthemums sat in a pot basking in the sunlight.

“Uh... beanbag?”

“No, uh... oh!’“ said Luz, snapping her fingers with inspiration. “It’s a word you would associate with Willow.”

“Oh, beautiful.” said Hunter as though it couldn’t be more obvious, writing it down with confidence in his notebook.

“Um...” said Luz, taking delight in the smile Willow was obviously trying to suppress as she snuck a glance at the boy beside her. “That’s technically correct. So we’re almost there, ‘flor’ is another word we could associate with Willow.”

“Strong? Brave?” tried Hunter, tapping his chin with his pen. “But... no, ‘la’ signifies the following word would be a noun... is it captain? ‘The captain is very beautiful?’ Or would that be capitalized?”

“Hunter, do you want me to-.”

“No, no I don’t need another hint, I can figure it out,” he insisted. “Beautiful like Willow... what’s beautiful like Willow...?”

“Luz you’re gonna break him,” said Gus playfully as Hunter attempted to do the impossible.

“Oh! The flower is very beautiful!” said Hunter triumphantly.

“Perfecto, mi amigo!” sang Luz. “Is, uh, that what you got too, Willow?”

“Well, I’m more of a visual learner.” smiled Willow, turning her notebook around to share a detailed drawing of a beautiful flower.

“Wow, that is beautiful Captain!” Hunter praised, Willow had truly brought the sentence the life.

“Yeah,” agreed Luz with a grin. “Does that mean you’re gonna draw a picture of Willow in your notebook Hunter?” She teasingly asked the boy who was suddenly made aware of his own words and turned a bright crimson.

“W-what? Why? I-I don’t do that!’ he sputtered, covering the bottom of the his notebook page for some totally unrelated reason.

“Oh! Oh! Teacher, teacher!” said Gus, frantically raising his hand. “How do you say ‘busted’ in Spanish? And please tell me there’s an r in it.”

“Arrestado,” Luz replied.

“Arrrrrestado dude,” said Gus with a smirk to Hunter, who groaned lightly as the rest of the group laughed.

“Okay, okay, there will be plenty of time to tease Hunter after class,” said Luz. “Let’s translate some more adjectives while we’re on a roll. What are other words similar to ‘beautiful?’“

“Oh oh! ‘Amazing!” sang Amity, ready to shine. “Its ‘Increíble’ as in ‘mi novia increíble.”

“Aw! Gracias, batata.” Luz blushed.

“Not impressive, we all know that's like the first thing you learned,” scoffed Gus. “What about ‘totally awesome?’”

“Totalmente asombroso.”

“Gus es totalmente asombroso,” said the boy. “I think we should all work on making this a permanent part of our vocabulary.”

“What about ‘handsome?’” asked Willow.

“Well, you could use guapo.”

“And then muy guapo would be very handsome, right?”

“Correcta!”

“Cool,” said Willow as she added the new phrase to her notebook, her eyes wandering over to Hunter who still stared at his notebook with a face that reminded Willow how she had learned the word rojo. “Muy guapo.”

As Luz moved on, Hunter couldn’t help but feel Willow’s gaze on him and turned his attention away from his vocab to return her dreamy look with inquisitive eyes. “Why are you looking at me?” whispered Hunter, bringing his hand to his cheek worried there was another reason to be embarrassed. “Is there something on my face?”

“Nah, I’m just a visual leaner,” said Willow with a shrug, committing the word to memory for future use.

#huntlow #winter toh #willow park #hunter toh #toh #the owl house #it’s cheesy and cliche but whatever they deserve cheesy and cliche #it’s canon Dana told me

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softquietsteadylove · 1 year

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Thena, in the movie, once said to Sersi that Gil told her „when you love something you protect it. It’s the most natural thing in the world“

We never actually got the scene, only the hint that he once said it to her.

So i thought maybe you could write a little flashback? It would be interesting!

And I’m sure you can write something beautiful!!❤️

"Wow."

Thena looked up at the sky from within Gilgamesh's arms. To those mulling around on the deck of the ship, it may seem like he was just embracing his beloved wife. In reality, he had an inhumanly strong grip to keep her arms bound in case she lost herself and starting swinging a blade in blind rage.

The trip had been long. They took the first boat they could from the coast nearest Tenochtitlan and headed...as far away as possible. From land, and humans...their family. Anywhere that could offer them solitude. Anywhere that promised that she would not be a danger to innocent beings.

She sighed.

"What?" he asked, resting his chin on the top of her head with her arms locked around her.

She didn't answer, focusing on the stars above them and the sound of the ocean desperately hauling the ship towards another continent.

"Hey," he called to her again, nudging her head with his chin. His spirits continued to be light for one travelling with such a dangerous companion.

She wilted against him, and even then, they both knew he couldn't afford to let go of her. "Seasickness."

It was true, she had been quite seasick for much of the journey. He kissed the back of her head, "nice try."

It was worth the attempt. She looked up at the stars again. Her eyes watered, reminded of Sprite. Every woman with children made her think of Ajak. Every plant and flower she thought of Sersi and every man with a needlessly loud voice reminded her of Kingo.

"Thena." His voice was so soft. Just like the rest of him, it was soft, and warm, and perfect for her.

"Why?" she asked before she could stop herself. It was pointless, and she wasn't usually one for such chatter. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the journey, or the ceaseless rocking of the ship getting to her.

"Why what?"

"Why," she repeated more firmly. He knew what she was saying.

"We've come a long way for you to ask me that now." He was right, too. They had managed to leave the Domo, and then to turn their backs on their beloved city. They had managed to get on this godforsaken ship.

Her hands found his, tangling their fingers together as he restrained her. At least being in his arms was pleasant, however forceful it needed to be. "When we find this promised wasteland...you will be free."

He waited for her to finish.

"You can leave me somewhere I won't hurt anyone," she suggested, hoping she didn't sound bereft at just the thought of being without him. "You will have done your duty."

"Is that what you are?" he asked, and she could hear a hard edge in his voice. He didn't like it when she suggested he abandon her. "Another mission for me to complete?"

She sighed again, running her thumb along the skin of his hand. They were hands capable of reaching into iron forges without protection--shaping molten glass and smothering hot coals. But they always felt so soft, to her. "I am no one's burden, Gilgamesh."

"Love is not a burden."

She looked up at the stars, hoping it would keep yet more tears from falling. Even as an Eternal, there was only so much hydration she could afford to lose while out at sea.

"I don't chose to love you when it's convenient for me," Gil whispered against her hair, resting his cheek there. "So I don't know why you think I could just...stop."

She swallowed, forcing up words to conjure her greatest fear, "perhaps it would be for the best."

"Then I have bad news for you."

"Gil," she attempted to insist. "You could be free."

"It's not freedom if you're not with me."

So stubborn, he was. "There will be no one around in need of your protection."

"I didn't come so I could protect other people," he affirmed, and even loosened his hold on her just a little. Thena stiffened in response. "I came to protect you."

She was the Warrior Eternal...perhaps no longer. But she was in need of no one's protection. "It is you who will need protection."

"I can handle myself," he chuckled, always finding something to smile about. It was one of her favourite things about him. He kept her hands in his, but let her turn to face him at least. "But I came because I love you--just you."

She tilted her head at him - her beautiful Gilgamesh with his flowery words - and sighed. She was doing that quite often since boarding the ship. Her hands came up to his cheeks, and she only just noticed that he had released them. She ran her thumb against his cheek, "it's dangerous."

"I'm here," he argued. Whether he meant that he was there to keep her from endangering the other passengers, or that he was there regardless of the danger she posed to just him.

"I am a danger to you," she whispered, ashamed to admit under the open sky that she was more concerned about his life than that of the fragile humans around them.

"Never," he whispered back, relishing her touch as if these hands hadn't tried to run him through a mere fortnight ago.

"Why," she repeated, desperation choking her throat closed. "Why strand yourself with me?"

"Because," he began, and paused just to kiss her lips. She felt his breath against the cold and damp ocean air. "Because when you love something, you protect it."

That was exactly what she was trying to do--not just with him, but with their love. She could not bear the thought of it withering, of him growing tired and resenting her. It would be kinder to take that fist of his and rip her heart from her chest.

Her eyes rose to his. "I love you."

They were loving words, and ones she didn't say often. But he knew that they were no placation; she was attempting to argue him out of staying. But he brought her hand to his chest, letting her feel where his heart was beating the same rhythm as hers.

"I love you, Thena," he professed, and as always, the words made a warmth flow through her, more than the sun or any fire could. They did something to defrost her heart. "So I'm not leaving."

She shook her head, but she had no more arguments. No more points or counters, just the equal hopes that he would leave for his own good and also never, ever leave her.

Her eyes closed and he kissed her again.

Every kiss, she savoured, just in case it was the last one she would get.

"It's the most natural thing in the world."

When she opened her eyes, he was there, still. Him and his smile--the only thing she wanted to see for the rest of Eternity. Her hand ran over his cheek, pulling him in to kiss her again.

Maybe she wasn't ready to let him go, just yet. She would try again; gather her strength to try and summon the mettle to send him away. Until then, she would allow herself this one selfishness.

#Thenamesh AU #just Thena and her sweet Gilgamesh #I've written another scene for this line #but it's a great line #and I couldn't decide which I liked better #so I wrote 'em both!#because why not?#just a man and his wife under the stars #no need to worry about Mahd Wy'ry right now #she will try to send him away again #and every time #he'll tell her that he's here to protect her #from herself and Mahd Wy'ry and being taken away from him #in sickness and in health

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unpun1shable · 1 year

Text

Dreaming in Rouge- Epilogue

A letter from Aemond to Alicent, 1899.

Word Count: 440.

Moulin Rouge AU - Christian!Aemond - Satine!Reader- Not Beta Read.

Next Part.

Read On AO3.

Pentos, June 5th, 1899

Dear Sweet Mother,

Let me start this letter off straight to the point so you don’t pick your nail beds raw. I arrived at Pentos safely. My mind and body are both well. My wallet is intact and spared from both pickpockets and nasty, little thievers.

The free city is as you said it would be: a far cry from our humble Westeros. The streets here melt between noble and bohemian. Motels and cafes brimming with artisans of all varieties. Writers, painters, poets and bards all coming together beneath the Essosi sun.

It is when the moon comes out that the beasts and vermin come to play. For our small street of silk they have an entire district, distinct with red lantern light. Filled to the brim with gambling dens, taverns, and places my sweet mother should not even hear the name of. A city of sin, most call it. No wonder Aegon came to this place.

Speaking of my degenerate brother, I believe I have a lead on his whereabouts. It took a few pieces of silver but a barkeep led me in the direction of the red light district (no surprise there). Right to the very center of the bustle, a place of dancing, music, and debauchery. The blackened heart of the filthy district.

I truly wish I’d been able to come to Essos in better circumstances. Writing this letter now, I sit by the window of my motel and I can see the sunrise. Absolutely gorgeous. Words can not even describe its beauty. Layers upon layers of cascading orange draping the skies like fine silks. Amounting, cotton clouds fluffing the atmosphere of the hot, fiery winds. It’s no wonder this continent was once the birthplace of dragons. If only the view wasn’t tainted by the sight of the Moulin Rouge and its odd, elephant-shaped building in the middle. Why an elephant? I’ve been wondering ever since I set my eyes on it. This mighty den in the middle of the city of sin, and they choose to build an elephant? Out of all animals?

I’m getting ahead of myself. This place seems to be having an effect on my writing. It’s like my mind can not rest unless my fingers are on the page. Perhaps I'll have to return to Pentos once this whole debacle is finished. I think it is stimulating the writer in me- being in the middle of the greatest artistic melting pot on the eastern continent. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll finally write my great “Magnum Opus” that Grandsire’s always testing me about.

Sincerely and always yours,

Your son, Aemond.

#mama’s boy #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #mama’s boy aemond #Dreaming in Rouge

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bookshelf-in-progress · 7 months

Text

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #the farmer's clever daughter #theme: eros #story: complete #this one was *so much fun*#i was grinning throughout the brainstorming process #faith and alistair just *loved* telling me their story #and especially in the first scenes i kept stopping just because i was having so much fun with the lines #maybe it's horribly boring to read but as a writing exercise it was fantastic #i love these two so much #i haven't had this much fun since writing last year's epistolary story

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rockofeye · 2 years

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On Haiti's day of ancestral remembrance, one of my siblings shared this letter with us. It is a monumental letter; it has not been often that Africa has collectively spoken to and about Haiti. It's a sad and beautiful love letter, and speaks some really deep truths. They are right; Haiti is dying right now and it is past time that the international community take responsibility for what hundreds of years of international interference has wrought. I hope this is the impetus for action because the reality of Haiti right now is worse than can accurately be described.

Below is an English translation of the above linked article.

EMBARGO: January 1 , 2023

And especially my body as well as my soul,

be careful not to cross your arms

in the sterile attitude of the spectator,

because life is not a spectacle,

because a sea of pains is not a proscenium,

because a a screaming man is not a dancing bear.

Aimé Césaire, Excerpt from Notebook of a Return to the Native Land (1939).

Captured in the valleys once trodden by Afarensis, or from Zanzibar, Madagascar, Gorée, El Mina, Bimbia, Benguela, Luanda, Cabinda, savannahs and forests, Ségou, Benin, Sokoto, the banks of the Congo or Oubangui, or along other great rivers, Ogooué, Casamance, Niger, Sanaga, having left the cosmogony that still binds them today to the mother of all continents, enslaved Africans arrived centuries ago in the Americas . In the worst forced migration of all time, the transatlantic slave trade took some of these men, women and children to Kiskeya, also known as Hispaniola, the island now shared by Haiti and the Republic Dominican Republic in the Caribbean Sea.

A land immersed in African traditions, Haiti, the "Pearl of the Antilles" or "Mountain Country" in the Taino language, is the nation where black slaves have shown the greatest resilience.

On August 14, 1791 in the forest of Bois Caïman, the voodoo priest Dutty Boukman organized a ceremony with the support of the priestess Cécile Fatiman, a "mambo" who performed sacrifices. On that memorable stormy night, the enslaved participants solemnly swore that servitude would be doomed, taking an oath to fight or die. They will later obey the orders of Toussaint Louverture in the revolt orchestrated by the remarkable leader. His epic – rare, if not unique – victory over one of the worst crimes ever committed against humanity continues to be recounted by many. Toussaint, a Caribbean island strategist and visionary, defeated the stubborn Napoleon, an island native from Corsica. This historic victory has been sung by great poets like Aimé Césaire.

On January 1, 2023, the first black republic celebrates the 219th anniversary of its glorious independence. However, the Pearl of the Antilles is dying.

Haiti was forced to pay a ransom to France as compensation to French slave owners for lost property, or else slavery would be reimposed and Haiti invaded. In May 2022, The New York Times published a well-researched series of articles titled “The Ransom: Haiti Lost Billions” [ The Ransom: Haiti Lost Billions], which recounts this perfidy. Port-au-Prince has so far paid up to $115 billion to France, a staggering sum for Haiti, a ransom that has left the poor country heavily indebted. Poor governance, corruption and invasions add to an already unbearable burden for the Haitian people. In addition, the American military occupation, from 1915 to 1934, had a large New York bank as its main financial backer. Ultimately, all of these factors could only result in a failed state fueled for many decades by the adrenaline of violence and the jolts of anarchy and chaos. The ravages of earthquakes, massive deforestation and the exile of its citizens have worsened the plight of Haiti.

Tormented and neglected, installed in instability, Haiti seems close to shipwreck. The security situation is dire. Famine affects nearly five million people. Shortly after the 2010 earthquake, a cholera epidemic imported by UN peacekeepers broke out in Haiti after no case had been detected there for more than a century. In the face of these accusations, the then United Nations Secretary-General, Ban Ki-moon, had the courage and integrity to issue a formal apology. Today, the resurgence of cholera is causing more deaths. On December 21, 2022, addressing the Security Council, United Nations Deputy Secretary-General Amina J. Mohammed said that “Haiti finds itself in a deepening crisis of a magnitude and unprecedented complexity."

One of the biggest challenges is that much of Port-au-Prince – a capital of nearly 3 million people – is in the hands of gangs. Their names are taken from urban tragedies – 400 Mawazos , Chen mechan , Fire-eaters… . The list of gang leaders includes Barbecue, Gaspiyai… . Their only motivation seems to be financial and criminal. The gangs have taken the country hostage: they kill; they rape; they are flying. Sexual violence is the breeding ground for a future in which society may lack cohesion.

The police are either overwhelmed or complicit. The Haitian army, that not-so-distant Macoute memory, was dismantled by the international community in the 1990s. Demobilized soldiers were never properly reintegrated into society. The judicial system is moribund. To date, the international community has been able to fund less than 20% of Haiti's current humanitarian needs, while elsewhere in the world billions of dollars are generously flowing in to alleviate other humanitarian crises.

Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere is caught in a recurring nightmare, as if the country relives the adventures told in " The Comedians ", a masterpiece published by Graham Greene in 1966. The novel, located under the reign of François "Papa Doc" Duvalier and his Tontons Macoutes, explores the political repression and terrorism that are rampant in Haiti, and particularly in Port-au-Prince.

However, Haiti should not be viewed solely as a tragic and brutal story. The country of Makandal, Toussaint and Dessalines is endowed with magnificent creativity and sustained by remarkable hope. Haiti has always been culturally brilliant and intellectually stimulating.

The iconic Hotel Oloffson in Port-au-Prince once attracted bands such as the Rolling Stones. Afterwards, hellish processions of the Ra-Ra by the "root music" group RAM invaded the hotel. Haiti is also the country of the talented musician Wycleff Jean; the Tabou Combo group; or even the unforgettable Jean Gesner Henry, alias Coupé Cloué or “the African”, the king of kompa mamba, a catchy musical style widespread throughout the world. Writers, playwrights, filmmakers, poets, artists, educators, musicians and artisans abound. The stunning beauty of the countryside is praised in the books of Haitian neurologist, novelist and poet Jean Métellus (1937 – 2014), such as in Jacmel at Dusk. Christophe, tragic king, is immortalized in a masterpiece by Aimé Césaire, the literary giant of neighboring Martinique. For more than a century, Haiti has also given birth to magnificent authors and poets: Joseph Anténor Firmin, Louis Joseph Janvier, Justin Lhérisson, Jean-Price Mars, Félix Morisseau-Leroy, Charles Moravia, Frankétienne, Anthony Phelps, Dany Laferrière , Louis-Philippe Dalembert, Edwige Danticat, René Depestre… and many others.

The biggest tragedies, like the 2010 earthquake, certainly killed and maimed many people, destroying infrastructure. But these dramas have not shaken the soul of this astonishing and endearing country. Like the intrepid Haitian woman, Haiti remains surprisingly upright, and its culture vibrant.

The international community, sub-regional and regional organizations, academics, media, communicators, the private sector, the Haitian comprador bourgeoisie: all have a responsibility towards Haiti. It's not an easy conversation. Migration issues are a hot topic in most Western countries. In September 2021, images of American guards on horseback armed with whips pushing back Haitian migrants at the border with Mexico caused a stir around the world. But these whiplashes from the time of the slave trade cannot rewrite the heroic history that Haitians wrote with their blood, sweat, tears and courage. Haiti is the only slave-led military uprising that was able to overthrow a slave-holding colonial power.

The international community was called upon to step in and fight the gangs. Just as the corrugated iron walls of Haiti's slums will not stop stray bullets, our physical estrangement from Haiti will not prevent tragedy from piercing our souls and our comfort zones. In light of past failures, one can honestly wonder if foreign military intervention in Haiti would provide a lasting solution. Either way, inertia is not an option. Any intervention must revisit history and learn from it, prioritize security, actively promote and support justice while helping to build trust and good governance. The situation must be addressed as a whole, without delay.

What the international community will or will not do is of crucial importance. Nevertheless, we support Haitian citizens who want an end to anarchy and violence, who want justice. To measure the strength and value of a family, one must observe the solidarity with which it protects the most vulnerable of its members. The first black republic, perhaps the most fragile of the family of Nations, lacks food, drinking water, fuel, peace, justice.

We issue this urgent call: let us act now, with a new and genuine benevolence, whatever the risks, and without individual geopolitical intentions. Haitian populations are in danger. History will not be kind to those who remain inactive or who choose to look elsewhere.

It would be non-assistance to a people in danger.

It is difficult to envisage the resolution of this Gordian knot without outside intervention. The Haitian people will only be able to vote and freely choose their leaders if there is security.

A member of the family of nations is held hostage by the contours of historic injustices, recurring bad governance and the brutality of armed gangs: the whole family must step in to free this member from the hostage takers as well as the contingencies of previous failures. Haitians would fly with with their wings towards the heights of human development, we sincerely hope so.

Sitting idly by is not an option.

So let's gather our forces for success in Haiti, and as Césaire predicted, there will be room for everyone at the rendezvous of victory .

Otherwise, we will all be guilty of not having helped this heroic people in danger.

Let us respond to the poetic exhortation of Jean Métellus. From his exile a few decades ago, his poem was a beautiful cry, “ Au pipirite chantant ”. His lament has not aged a bit. This is the plea of

“Haitian peasant who with singing pipirite,

despises memory and makes plans

He revokes the past braided by plagues and smoke

And from daybreak he tells his glory on the fresh galleries

of young shoots”

We stand with the Haitians. Let's act now. For Haiti, for humanity.

(*) Signatories:

Adama Dieng , the initiator of this forum, is a former United Nations Under-Secretary-General. He served in the UN as a former Special Adviser for the Prevention of Genocide and Registrar of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. He is also a former board member of the International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance (IDEA).

Macky Sall , President of Senegal, President of the African Union.

José Ramos-Horta , President of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste; co-recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1996.

Moussa Faki Mahamat , Chairperson of the African Union Commission; Former Prime Minister of Chad.

Alpha Oumar Konaré , former President of Mali; former Chairperson of the African Union Commission; former President of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS).

Goodluck Ebele Azikiwe Jonathan , former President of Nigeria; Mediator of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS).

Catherine Samba-Panza, former Head of State, Central African Republic.

The Right Honorable Michaëlle Jean , former Governor General of Canada; former UNESCO special envoy to support reconstruction efforts in Haiti; former Chancellor of the University of Ottawa; former Secretary General of the International Organization of La Francophonie (OIF).

Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka , former Vice-President of South Africa; former Executive Director of UN Women; Former Co-Chair of the United Nations Descendant Senior Officials Group (UNSAG).

Epsy Alejandra Campbell Barr , former Vice President of Costa Rica; President of the Permanent Forum for People of African Descent.

Graça Machel , President of the Board of the Graça Machel Foundation ( Graça Machel Trust ).

Miguel Ángel Moratinos , former High Representative of the United Nations Alliance of Civilizations; former Chairman-in-Office of the OSCE; former Spanish Minister for Foreign Affairs and Cooperation.

Sir Dennis Byron , former President of the Caribbean Court of Justice; former President of the Commonwealth Judicial Education Institute ; former President of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR); Chairman of the United Nations Internal Justice Council.

Serge Letchimy, President of the Executive Council of Martinique and former member of the French National Assembly.

Mujahid Alam (Retired General), Principal of Lawrence College , Ghora Gali, Murree, Pakistan.

Sonia Maria Barbosa Dias , Education Specialist, São Paulo, Brazil.

Mbaranga Gasarabwe , former Deputy Special Representative of the United Nations Multidimensional Integrated Stabilization Mission in Mali (MINUSMA); former United Nations Resident Coordinator in Mali; former United Nations Under-Secretary-General for Safety and Security.

Souleymane Bachir Diagne , Philosopher; Director of the Institute of African Studies and Professor of French and Philosophy at Columbia University.

Andrew Thompson , Professor of World Imperial History at Oxford University and Full Professor at Nuffield College , Oxford.

Othman Mohamed , former Chief Justice of Tanzania and Chairman of the Commission of Inquiry into the death of Dag Hammarskjöld.

Amadou Lamine Sall , Winner of the 2018 edition of the Tchicaya U Tam'si Prize for African Poetry; Winner in 1991 of the Prize for the influence of French language and literature, awarded by the French Academy.

Sheila Walker, Ph.D. , Author; Cultural anthropologist and documentary filmmaker; Executive Director of Afrodiaspora, Inc.

Jean-Victor Nkolo , former spokesperson for three Presidents of the United Nations General Assembly; Worked in ten UN peacekeeping operations, including in Haiti.

Euzhan Palcy , Director, screenwriter and film producer (Martinique, France).

Bacre Waly Ndiaye , Lawyer at the Bar of Senegal; Former member of the Truth and Justice Commission in Haiti.

Willem Alves Dias , Film Editor, Brazil.

René Lake, Journalist and Expert in international development.

Doudou Diène, Senegalese lawyer; former UN Special Rapporteur on contemporary forms of racism, racial discrimination, xenophobia and related intolerance.

Ben Kioko , Judge, former Vice-President of the African Court on Human and Peoples' Rights.

Aver-Dieng Ndaté , Lawyer at the Geneva Bar, Vice-President of the African Peace Conference.

Akere Tabeng Muna , Lawyer and International Legal Consultant on Governance and Anti-Corruption; former President of the Pan-African Lawyers Union; former President of the Economic, Social and Cultural Council of the African Union (ECOSOCC); former Chair of the Panel of Eminent Persons of the African Peer Review Mechanism (APRM).

Carol Christine Hilaria Pounder-Kone , aka CCH Pounder , Actress and philanthropist; Art collector; HIV/AIDS activist; co-founder of the Boribana museum in Dakar.

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zedpercyfan · 2 years

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PS Week Day 1 - Scuba Diving (Free Day)

What’s up, dudes, dudettes, and others. I’ve been busy with college but here’s Day One of Pokeshipping Wekk while I work on the others for ya.

Seaside Fumbles

MISTY WATERFLOWER blinked and did a doubletake. She wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly. “Could you, um, say that again, Ash?”

The black-haired Trainer raised an eyebrow and gave a silent snort. “I said, ‘would you like to accompany me on an expedition to see a Dhelmise in a wrecked ghost ship outside of Cianwood City?’ and then you went silent on me.”

“Ah, okay. Just wanted to make sure I was hearing correctly,” replied Misty. “But why me?”

“For a start, Goh decided he wanted to go looking for Tauri instead of helping me with this, and-” he gave her a tiny smirk, “I figured that we’d need the greatest Water-type Trainer to assist us on such a dangerous adventure.”

The Ceruluean Gym Leader felt her heart skip a beat, but she suppressed her emotions and smirked right back. “Aww, isn’t that sweet? Finally admitting to what I really am, huh?”

But Misty was wrong. “Well, that was my plan,” explained Ash. “But Wallace was occupied with the Hoenn League, so I just decided to ask the next best Trainer I know.”

“Ash Ketchum, you dirty little liar-”

“Kidding, kidding. I’m kiddin’, Mist!” laughed Ash as he waved his hand at her through the screen. Misty fumed with rage.

“Go jump off a cliff…”

“So, you want to come or nah?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like to go. When is it?”

“About a week from now. I’ll send you the finer details by email. Anyway, I have to get going. I’ll see you at Goldenrod harbor if we can’t call again, oh, and I was still going to call you regardless, I wasn’t going to ask Wallace, okay bye.” And before Misty could answer his sudden incoherent speech, Ash had already hung up.

“Huh,” was all that came out of the girl’s mouth for a minute. Ash’s call had really come out of nowhere. She’d heard recently that he’d become a research assistant at the request of Professor Cerise, a prodigy of Professor Oak’s. Getting called out to help with some research had been very surprising.

“Still,” she said quietly as she yawned and headed off to get herself some dinner, “even if it’s just to go see some Pokémon, it’s nice that we can spend some time together.”

OoOoO

Time passed quickly. Misty’s excitement grew and grew. The thought of seeing a Pokémon rare to the continent was an enticing prospect. She wondered how well the Alolan Pokémon was adapting to its new climate or if there were any more nonnative Pokémon species aboard the ship. That was all well and good, but seeing Ash was a reward enough – not that she’d tell him. They met at the port as arranged and were soon out at sea.

“Ah, this must be the place,” said Ash and Misty together as the boat slowed down and they dropped anchor.

“Right,” said research assistant Chrysa. “We’ll go down with the submersible and use that to check inside the ship. If you two can monitor things from the outside, that’d be a huge help, and in case things go up sticks with Dhelmise.”

“No trouble,” Ash declared. “I choose you, Dracovish!”

“Go my blue sweetheart, Gyarados!”

Ash and Misty took the lead and swam alongside the submersible to the ship. It was large and very much in a sorry state, taken back by nature. Beautiful yet ominous and rife with tension.

“Careful,” Chrysa advised over the two-way radios they had attached to their goggles. “We can’t risk causing any instability with the ship, let alone angering Dhelmise. Let the sub in and stand by. Over.”

“Roger that,” said Misty. “Standing by. Over.”

“Looks like it’s just you and me then, Mist,” said Ash as he pushed the sub toward the hole in the ship before swimming back her.

“Dracovish, Draco?”

“Sorry, buddy. We’re just here to make sure things go right. You might not see any battling today.

Both Gyarados and Dracovish seemed discouraged by that. Misty decided to offer up a different perspective. “Hey, it’s better that things go right instead of wrong, yeah?” The two Pokémon didn’t argue but were still feeling down.

“I know, why don’t we say hello to the native Pokémon?” That cheered them. Misty sighed inwardly; it was always nice how Ash could quickly come up with ways to appeal to Pokémon.

They went off, greeting schools of Goldeen and the traveling Tentacools.

Suddenly there was a commotion from the ship. First a shockwave that felt like an earthquake, followed by a burst from the hole where Ash had let the submersible inside.

“Ash? Misty?” said Chrysa frantically. “There’s trouble. Dhelmise has started to attack the sub! Please go and see what’s wrong. Me and the others are coming to retrieve the sub.”

Ash quickly turned and began swimming to the ghost ship. As he approached, however, part of the hull disappeared and Dhelmise’s anchor shot out in front of him. “Guh! So that’s how it is…” said Ash grimly. “Dracovish, use Ice Fang!”

“Draco!”

“You go too, Gyarados. Crunch!” Both Pokémon went in but then dozens upon dozens of other Water-types like Tentacools and Seels shot out from both in and out of the ship. “I guess this must be their home! They must not want us disturbing them!”

“It’s not like we mean them any harm!” Ash swam quickly out of the way as he said that. “Dracovish, come back!” His Pokémon came over but just then Dhelmise roared from within and more Pokémon emerged from the rocks. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me…”

“Gyarados, Hurricane!” yelled Misty as the Pokémon went for her.

Dracovish meanwhile was taking care of the Pokémon attacking Ash and it. Ash monitored the situation; it was luckily going in their favor. Soon he saw the sight of Goh’s Dewgong, whom he had left at the Cerise Lab for any missions he was needed on, and sighed with relief as that meant help was coming.

Then came some attacks, Ash got hit and as he disturbed some remains of the ship that had drifted away, he got a huge surprise! “MAR!”

“Wow!” yelled Ash as a Mareanie popped out at him from the rubble.

“Mareanie!” It lunged at Ash, hugging his face hard with its spikey tentacles and sent him into a panic. As the Mareanie let go, it had pulled the oxygen mask and goggles off. Ash held his breathe but it went to waste when a drifting Tentacool fired a Poison Sting that shredded a small tear into his gear, piercing his skin, causing him to let all his air out.

Misty heard a commotion, looked over, and panicked on seeing Ash’s situation. She had Gyarados clear a path and swam quickly over to Ash just as he was fumbling the mask back on.

“Oh Mew, oh Mew,” muttered Misty as she helped him, placing the mask’s band back around his head before reattaching his goggles.

Ash groaned oxygen flowed into his lungs. “Ugh… Thanks, Mist.” Just then, Chrysa and the other hired hands arrived on the scene, summoning their own Pokémon to help with the situation.

“You have to get back to the ship for medical aid…”

“I know. Dracovish, look after things here, okay?” He gave a “Draco” in agreement. Then Ash cringed as the poison sent painful signals down his nerves. Misty gave him a gentle push up before informing Chrysa over the radio that Ash was pulling out. With some effort he began to swim back up. Then Misty followed him. “What are…you… Misty, I can make it on my own.”

“I know,” she replied, watching him swim unevenly yet consistently toward the surface, “but I’m helping anyway.”

“You…don’t…have to…”

A shockwave was felt, before they heard the cry of Dhelmise as it was attacked by one of the researcher’s Pokémon. “Come on, before things get ugly,” said Misty, before grabbing Ash around his waist and pulling him up quicker.

“I…told ya…I’m fine…”

“Poison travels up the bloodstream quicker when you move, it’s better this way.”

Ash didn’t answer, he found breathing too hard and just quietly accepted Misty’s help. They reached the surface. Misty pulled Ash into the boat with help from Pikachu before beginning to administer aid. She held Ash’s hand tight when he cringed from the disinfectant touching the wound.

By the time she finished, Ash was pale and breathing hard, but only from the pain. “Jeez,” said Misty, “leave dealing with Poison-types to your Pokémon.”

“It surprised me, that’s all…”

“Just be careful next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind…when the next Beedrill hive chases me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Misty then sat down next to Ash and just stared at him.

“I’ll be fine,” he said upon noticing her. “You should really get back to Chrysa and the others.”

“No. I’m staying here with you.”

“I told you, I’m fine…”

“No!”

“But didn’t you come to see Dhelmise?”

“Compared to making sure you’re okay? You’ve just been poisoned, Ash!”

“It’s your chance though to get a good look at a rare Pokémon in the Johto region!” wheezed Ash. “Remember all the buzz around Harrison? Blaziken was hardly a common sight and…”

“I’m not going.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s why you came along, right?”

Misty paused before muttering in a quiet voice, “I joined because of you.”

Ash faltered when he heard that. He blinked a few times before turning his head toward her. “Me?”

“Yeah. I mean…I was just…y’know… Ugh…when I heard you came home from Alola and joined Professor Cerise’s lab, I thought I’d at least get a few visits from you now that you’re close by. I was just missing you, that’s all.”

“Ah, I…I see…”

“Pikachupi…”

“Sorry. I really must’ve messed things up then by letting this happen to me.”

“You’re one to talk. I seem to remember you going headfirst into a lot of things and ending up injured.”

“Yeah…” said Ash with a tired smirk. “Everyone tells me I should cut that out.”

“You should. Think about what others want of you. You and I barely get much time to talk and here you go putting yourself in danger.” Ash didn’t reply. Misty sighed to herself and allowed herself to be honest. “I miss you a lot sometimes, y’know…”

“I miss you too. You’re not alone in that feeling. How about…when we get back to Kanto, would you like to go to a ramen place with me?”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah!” he said with as much energy as he could through the poison. “To make up for missing out on Dhelmise.”

“His minds on Pokémon as per usual,” Misty said to the sky.

“Mm. But…I do think of you, too,” said Ash. “Really, you’re right, we should be hanging out more. That’s...kinda why I asked for your help, I just wanted to see you, too.” Misty didn’t reply and just stared quietly at Ash. “So…we good to get ramen and hang out?”

“Yes,” she said a bit too quickly, “we are. Even though we’re technically hanging out already.”

“Yeah, yeah, I s’pose we are. I…I just meant, more like a…a…”

She considered for a moment, unsure if she ought to say it, but decided to. “Date…?”

“Yeah, that’s…more or less what I mean.”

“Awesome. Then…we have a date, I suppose.” She felt her cheeks burning red but didn’t stop herself from blushing.

“I…would’ve asked you to go for ramen afterwards anyway,” confessed Ash. “I kinda realized I was thinking of that this morning. Just as an excuse to be with you more beyond just helping with this.”

“Ash Ketchum…you sure have a weird way of saying you want a date.”

The Trainer from Pallet Town just snorted and went red. “You got a problem with that?”

“Well…given that I’ve got a date to look forward to after this…no, not really,” replied Misty softly.

“Awesome.” Ash game a small smile before sighing. “Still, I could’ve done without the poison.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” laughed Misty. She gently poked his shoulder. “Now then, just you hold it together. We’ve got a date coming soon and you better be feeling okay when it’s time – don’t fumble on me like you did back there.”

#Pokeshipping Week 2022 #pokemon #pokeshipping #fanfic #zedpercyfan #Ash Ketchum #Misty

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