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babyflossy · 4 years

Text

eccedentesiast (n)

eccedentesiast (n) someone who hides pain behind a smile

pairing; bodyguard!haechan x reader

summary; haechan is nothing more than someone employed to keep you safe. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. but why is it so hard to just see him as that?

genre/warnings; bodyguard au, angst (?), fluff, violence, a poisoning, half-edited, also i'm sorry that hyunjin is always my go to for another male lead lmao my skz bias is showing

word count; 7k baby

a/n; after nearly 3 months of writer’s block, i humbly offer you body guard haechan. i’m sorry if it sucks, i’m kinda rusty to get back into writing. any feedback is greatly appreciated!

it’s sunny outside, the golden morning rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds and onto your face. they warm the skin they manage to reach and you bask in the calmness, wrapped in soft bedsheets and silk bedclothes. if you squint into the light you can see the dust particles float around the beams, slowly swimming through around the window frame. the first noise you hear is a bird singing softly outside and a thought in the back of your mind reminds you it’s almost too peaceful. there must be a meeting going on downstairs, one you’re not trusted to appear at.

a knock on your door brings you back to reality and a sigh claws its way up your throat. your father’s personal assistant, sasha, pokes her head around the door and smiles slightly at your bed hair and the mismatched socks poking out the bottom of your duvet. “your father wants you downstairs in five minutes.”

“and what if i don’t?” in an attempt at appearing nonchalant you fix your gaze on the dying plant on your windowsill, refusing to meet her eyes.

“there’s someone you need to meet,” sasha says, piquing your interest and you give up on trying to defy your father’s wishes in favour of your curiosity. “so be down in five minutes, okay?”

the door clicks shut quietly and you check the time on your phone. 10:49am.

finally letting your sigh out and pushing your covers off your cold body, you reach for the first garment of clothing you spot. it’s a purple hoodie you stole from one of your exes and you pull it over your head with a strange sense on loneliness. how long had it been since you had contacted your college friends?

right before you leave the safe confines of your bedroom, a voice floats from the kitchen, one you don’t recognise. it strikes another wave of curiosity through you, this time accompanied by something akin to excitement. the hardwood floors of the hallway are slippery under your socks and you hurry down the stairs to the source of your interest.

whoever you had been expecting, none of them come close to the boy stood next to your dining table. a warm mop of hair sits on top of high cheekbones and tanned skin. the air leaves your lungs momentarily when his eyes meet yours, dark and calculating. you expect him to offer you a polite smile as most of your father’s business partners do, but his face remains in a stern mask. in would be unsettling if you had met in any other circumstances, you’re sure.

“y/n,” the voice of your father forces you to switch your gaze to him and you shoot him a questioning look. it holds no warmth, only looking for answers. “this is haechan,” the boy nods slightly in your direction at the mention of his name, “he’s your new bodyguard.”

you can’t help but let your eyebrows raise comically. that was probably the last thing you were expecting this morning. sure, there had been bodyguards in your past, but none of them stayed very long and you thought your parents had given up on finding one. “bodyguard?” there’s almost a mocking tone to your words and you like the way it makes your father sigh. “i thought you gave up after the last one.”

in the corner of your eyes, you see haechan’s brows quirk the slightest amount in what you think could be amusement. clearly, he has a lot to learn if he thinks he’ll last long.

“there’ve been some rather,” haechan focuses on your dad again as he starts speaking and your glad for the break from his eye contact. “unpleasant things being said about our family at the moment, and we think it’s best to keep an eye on you. so don’t do anything stupid.”

ah, you think, so that’s what he’s doing. this isn’t just to keep you safe, this is a way for your parents to monitor what you do and who you see, a glorified babysitter. that fact doesn’t sit well with you and you make a mental promise to make this as hard as possible for your new caretaker.

with a spark in your eyes you nod at your father and muster up the sweetest smile you can. “of course, father. anything for you.” the change in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed and he sends you a challenging glare which you choose to ignore, instead opting to smile at the taller boy and escape back up to your bedroom.

for the rest of the morning, haechan stands guard outside your bedroom door. as you had fled the thick atmosphere in the kitchen he'd followed behind with quick steps and he wasn't happy at being banished to the hallway. you weren't entirely sure what danger he thought would be lurking around your house at midday on a sunday, but he was on edge regardless.

finally free once again from the eyes of your steadily increasing number of babysitters, you let yourself fall onto your bed.

your own father doesn't trust you enough to live your life without the constant supervision of someone he decides is more credible than you. it hurts. it always does whenever he fails to conceal the way his job is more important than you are to him, his own daughter.

it hurts but you can't let it show. there's something powerful about appearing indifferent to things that are supposed to affect you, but maybe that's just founded on years of your parents missing important milestones. your first dance recital, your first win at a science fair, the first day of high school, the moment you found out about your college scholarship. none of it mattered to them, because nothing you ever did matters to them.

maybe this was an opportunity. an opportunity to get them to care about something more than their questionable business deals.

with a new mindset, you pull yourself away from the plush sheets and change into something other than a hoodie and fluffy socks.

"where are we going?" it's technically the first time you've actually heard haechan say anything to you, and his voice is surprisingly smooth. it's honey-like and velvety and way too appealing to listen to.

"shopping." it's stupid, but as you pass him you can't help but try and speed up, pathetically trying to outwalk him on your way to the garage. there's the distinctive sound of a hushed laugh behind you and the sound catches you off guard for a second. why do you like it so much?

a personal chauffeur drives you and haechan sat in the front seat leaving you alone in the back. the air is still and the silence is almost painful. you type away on your phone just to distract yourself from the fact you don't think you've ever been this quiet for this long before. haechan doesn't seem to notice the awkward tension in the car, however, and busies himself glaring at every car that passes.

for a sunday, the mall is busy and you find yourself stealthily dodging people who get in your way. haechan draws some stares as he follows close behind you, must less scared about bumping into people than you are. it's understandable– the all black get-up he's wearing makes him look a lot more menacing than he did in your family kitchen. along with his height and his inability to break eye contact first, it's quite a scary mix.

after a few minutes of walking in silence, you decide to at least try and make conversation. the one sentence he's said to you doesn't seem like enough for people set to spend all day every day together.

"how long have you been doing this?" the attempt is weak, but haechan seems surprised you've said anything to him. the focus of his stare switches to you and you suddenly feel small under it.

"long enough." before you can ask anything else, the surroundings have once again captured his attention and anything you say is drowned out by the indecipherable chatter around you. the scrutiny he puts everything around him under just from his gaze is admirable, and for a bodyguard, he certainly does tick all the boxes.

you're barely able to contain your sigh as you decide to take a different approach to gain his attention.

the first few shops you drag him into are innocent trips to buy clothes; there's a party you've been invited to in a few months and you have yet to find a suitable outfit. every attempt you make is ignored skillfully, every dress, skirt and pair of short shorts you hold up he pays no attention to.

when you've finally had enough, you spot a lingerie store with a wicked sense of delight.

"you can wait outside for this one," you tease with a smirk and an airy wave. at first, you're sure he's about to protest until he sees what shop you're leading him into and complies, stopping by the entrance to the store. as if to rub it in more, you taunt him once more. "unless you're curious what i wear underneath my clothes?" as you turn to head inside, you swear you see the faintest taint of pink over his tanned cheeks.

over the next few weeks, haechan seems to understand why none of your previous bodyguards have lasted long. it's also clear to him you'll do almost anything just to piss off your father, anything to get a reaction from him. in a way he feels sorry for you, having to go to such extremes for attention only to be shouted at by the one person who should care about you the most.

haechan has also learned to not mention your mother at all in any conversation where she's not present, as it without fail turns whatever mood you're in into a worse one. that's a whole other issue he doesn't want to rush into, however, and usually lets you do whatever you want.

after the first week, you'd finally started warming up to the idea of having him around you all the time. as much as you hated to admit, it was quite nice to have someone around whose primary role was to care about you.

it had been a long day, and it vaguely concerns haechan when you rush into your bedroom faster than usual, letting the door slam shut with a bang.

he doesn't hear anything else from you until after night has fallen and crying seeps into the hallway.

on instinct, it fills him with an anxious sort of unease and he knocks on your door. in the silence of the hallway, it's clear you're surprised to be disturbed as you stop sniffling for a second before opening the door slightly.

"are you okay?" you hear something in his voice that you haven't before; concern. every time haechan's shown worry or apprehension so far it's been in response to your surroundings, to the people around you. hearing such blatant worry for nothing other than your mental wellbeing only makes the tears fall faster and he doesn't know what to do.

all of his previous clients have been strictly physical protection, nothing similar to the struggles that are currently troubling you. with no clue what else to do, he slips in through the small crack in your door and envelopes his arms around you. the action is unexpected and you tense in surprise before melting into his embrace.

after a few minutes stood by the door, you let him pull you back to your bed, sitting against the headboard so you can rest your head in his lap. his fingers scrape gently through over your scalp and you can feel yourself being pulled into sleep.

a nagging thought in the back of your mind reminds you this is haechan, your bodyguard. nothing more, nothing less, just someone your father employed to keep you safe. in your fragile mental state, you decide to let yourself ignore that one night and let someone care for you.

in the morning, neither of mention the events that transpired the night before. you'd woken up to an empty bed, something you were eternally grateful for as you don't think you handle seeing him again so soon. the morning seems to drag on and you take your time getting ready as a distraction.

haechan had seen you in your most vulnerable state, and even though you hadn't told him the reason for your breakdown, you were sure he could probably guess. it seemed every day you and your father would fight about more insignificant things. it pained him to watch, but it wasn't his place to say anything.

when you finally emerge from your bedroom, haechan meets your eyes and offers you a fleeting smile before his features settle into their familiar glare.

life goes on, you suppose.

a rare type of excitement pumps through you as you stare at haechan through the mirror of your dressing table. recently he'd been spending more time sat in your bedroom than stood outside it. it was a nice change, and you felt less alone when you sit to do homework into the early hours of the morning.

currently, he flips through a book he'd picked off your desk and he frowns at it in confusion. "you understand this?" he mumbles as he stares at the words on the page.

with a laugh, you realise he's reading your intro to classical mechanics textbook and stand to take it from his hands. "that's up for debate."

he watches you push yourself onto your tiptoes to put it back on the top shelf and averts his gaze when the dress you're wearing rides up your thighs. it was ridiculous how you'd convinced him to take you to this stupid college party he was sure wouldn't end well, but here is he. "are you nearly ready? you said it starts at eight?"

you choke down another laugh as you stare at the clock, "haechan," you start with a smirk, "i have to be fashionably late. it's part of my brand."

"your what?"

"my brand," at his still confused expression, you turn back around from the mirror to face him again, "i have an image to keep up."

"whatever you say, princess." the new name catches you off guard and you feel your stomach flip. careful to keep your expression neutral, you stand and grab your bag, suddenly wanting to be anywhere other than a confined space with haechan.

a party, as it turns out, is exactly what you need.

the moment your feet cross over the doorframe, you can feel your worries slip away, replaced by the hum of the music. quickly, you spot some of your friends from college and make your way over, a cup already being handed to you. a few people stare as you walk in, something you're used to, but today they stare for longer than usual and it takes a moment to realise they're staring at haechan.

as always, he's dressed in all black, only he's swapped his combat boots and tactical jacket for black sneakers and hoodie. for a college party, he looks too well dressed, but it's appreciated by many as he walks through the room.

it's clear to you he's unused to this type of attention and you grab his hand to pull him to where you and your friends stand. he shoots you a look before, as usual, starting to survey the people around.

"is this your boyfriend?" a short girl from your business class asks, you think her name is lily–or maybe laila. haechan doesn't hear and you're grateful as you shake your head and explain he's your bodyguard. she raises her eyebrows and scans his profile again. the action irks something inside you that you desperately push down. "is he single then?"

the emotion that shoots through you is so obviously jealously and yet you try and remain nonchalant, laughing it off and acting like you didn't want her to be swallowed by the ground. haechan's there for you, not for anyone else, and you want her to know that.

after flitting around the room talking to different people you know, some who you meet for the first time, you can feel the drinks start to take their toll. whoever decided a bottomless bar was a good idea for a party like this was horrendously wrong, and your head spins whilst a boy talks to you about an apprenticeship he's been offered.

"of course, i don't need the money, that's not why i'm doing it." haechan doesn't fail to conceal his surprise, eyebrows raising as he eyes you over the rim of your glass. you send back a look that you hope says he's an asshole, but in your state, you can't be sure how well you've achieved it. "i'm doing it for the experience." when it's appropriate, you nod along to what he's saying but it obvious you don't care and he leaves for someone else soon after.

"what's his problem?" haechan murmurs into your ear. you have to suppress a shiver at the proximity and shrug as you don't trust your voice.

"hyunjin, hey!" you shout when you spot a familiar face in the see of people, shooting through throngs of people to the tall boy. somewhere along the way to the bar, haechan loses sight of you, craning his neck to try and find the direction you escaped to.

hyunjin’s smile is wide and you fail to notice the pleased sweep of his eyes over your exposed chest. as you speak, he slowly moves closer to you, his breath hitting your neck and making you squirm. suddenly the music seems louder, he seems closer and you try to escape his grip when his hands settle on your waist.

you try to move away but you feel your head spin harshly and you have to catch the edge of the bar to stop yourself falling into him.

"you drunk enough." a familiar hand reaches to snatch the martini out of your hand, a frown taking over his soft features.

despite the displeasure on his face, you’re grateful to see him. he recognises the relief in the sigh you let out, and eyes you with concern. just as he’s about to ask you what’s wrong, hyunjin turns back around from the bartender and seems shocks to see haechan so close to you. he clearly doesn’t realise the man beside you is your bodyguard and shoots him a glare. “we were just heading out, actually.” hyunjin grabs hold of your wrist and tugs you towards him and you can’t help but yelp at the sudden movement.

“get your hands off her,” haechan’s voice is stony and almost unrecognisable. you chance a glance to his face and you feel a lick of fear at the cold glare on his face. if you thought he looked intimidating staring at strangers, this overpowers it tenfold. something dangerous shines behind his eyes and he encases hyunjin’s wrist in his hand, tightening his hold until he lets go of you.

“hey, what’s your problem?” hyunjin’s voice is cocky and you pray he shuts up before he digs a deeper whole for himself. “she wants to come home with me.”

“you think she’s in any state to go home with you, huh?” at the words, hyunjin seems to realise what he’s said and tries to backtrack, failing miserably. “leave her alone, yeah? before i throw you out of here.”

it's silent as haechan helps you back to the car, his jaw set in a hard line. you want to say something to ease the tension but you don't want to upset him. it's not your fault, but the cold look on his face is engrained behind you eyelids and you feel a wave of fear flush through you. you shouldn't be scared of him, but he looked so ready to kill hyunjin that you can't help but feel a new sense of unease next to him.

"are you okay?" he crouches next to the passenger seat after buckling your seatbelt for you, features settling back into the warmth you're used to. no matter how hard you try to hide your expression, he can easily see the fear in your eyes and sighs, letting his head drop between his arms. "i'm sorry for scaring you," he rests a hand on your thigh that has you heart rate speeding up despite your thoughts less than five minutes ago. "but it's my job to protect you, okay?" you say nothing in response.

"can we get pizza?" the shops whiz past your eyes as haechan drives, the streetlights blurring together. he shoots you a sideways look before sighing and nodding, trying to ignore the way your victorious smile makes him feel.

"we'll get takeout, okay? you wait in the car."

you would've listened to him, you really would have, if you hadn't seen a small knife drop from his pocket and onto the pavement. if you were sober, you would've just told him when he returned to the car, but in your drunken state, that knife seemed like haechan's most prized possession.

you slip out of the car on shaky legs, noticing the empty streets with fleeting anxiety but bend down to pick the knife up. right above the hand grip a tiny l.h. is engraved and you smile slightly. just as you turn to make your way back to the car, something hard hits the back of your head and you yelp.

haechan stands in the empty pizza shop waiting for the workers to finish your order. he can still feel the remaining wisps of anger from his standoff with that boy you were talking to, but tries to ignore it for your sake. the posters on the wall catch his attention and he reads about the movies showing downtown, mentally noting the ones he knows you will eventually drag him to see.

the workers are rushing around behind the counter and he sighs, excited to get back into the warmth of the car and finally get back to the house.

the excitement drains out of him when he hears a scream. a scream that sounds identical to yours.

he's outside in a flash, eyes shooting every direction to see where the noise came from. the empty passenger seat of the car catches his eye and he swears loudly. reaching for his knife, he stills when he feels the pocket empty, instead grabbing the pistol from the inside of his jacket.

a muffled cry escapes an alley next to the shop and he sprints towards the sound, turning the corner and seeing you being pulled further into the darkness. for a fraction of a second, his eyes meet yours and the teary panic he sees is enough to have him seeing red. the man pulling you back hasn't noticed him yet and he uses this to his advantage, pulling his fist back and launching it at your attacker's face. it's masked and you're unable to see the damage, but a crack rings out.

you feel infinitely more sober than you did in the car and you try to pull yourself out of the man's arms but your head feels heavy and you sway dangerously. your eyes shut as you fall forwards, the man's arm around you stopping you from falling. the angle gives haechan the perfect shot and you scream as a bang rings out, echoing through your head painfully. the arms around you disappear and you lurch forwards until something catches you. you scream again and try and get away from whoever's holding you.

"hey, hey, it's me, it's me." haechan's voice is like music to your ears and you allow yourself to go limp in his grip, sobs starting to wrack your body. you can feel him carrying you back to the car, the pizza long forgotten. when he places you down in the passenger seat again, you don't want to let go of him and he has to pry your hands off him. "you're okay," he whispers as he holds you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothing. "we're fine."

even if in that moment, everything feels the polar opposite of fine, something about the way he says it makes you want more than anything to believe him.

the walls of your bedroom muffle the voices from downstairs. haechan had carried you upstairs and settled you into your bed before whispering about a debriefing he had to attend. and now here you sit, alone and shaking, reliving the moments you had thought your life may have been over. there's still a throbbing to your head and you will your eyes to shut and for sleep to overtake you, but every time you try the memories bubble back up to the surface. it's exhausting, but you eventually come to terms with knowing you won't be able to sleep until haechan comes back.

the scariest thing is, every time you think about those last few moments before haechan turned up, you really thought you would never see him again. you thought you would never see the daylight again, and yet your thoughts weren't plagued with messages for your parents, or things you wished you had told your friends. no, the only person you thought of was haechan.

you know what that means, but you try and ignore the feeling growing in your chest, turning over and burrowing your head into your pillows.

for the next hour, you slip in and out of shallow sleep as you wait for the meeting to finish. you're somewhere between the two when you hear the door click and your bed dip beside you. haechan must've known you wouldn't be able to sleep and he sits against your headboard like the last time he was in your bed, pulling your head into his lap gently.

"how're you feeling?" the words are whispered into the air and you hate how much his voice calms you.

"my head hurts." haechan pities the pain in your voice and looks down at the awkward angle of you neck, an internal battle waging in his head.

a few long seconds later and he's slipping further into your bed, pulling you up so your head is resting in the crook of his neck. "c'mere." the position is much more comfortable, and you sigh in contentment, trying to ignore the smell of his cologne that's slowly overtaking your senses.

you bask in the silence for a few minutes, trying to fall back asleep before realising you need to tel him what's plaguing your mind. in the safety of his neck, you mumble to try and conserve the peace in the room. "y'know, i really thought i was gonna die back there–"

"stop." haechan reaches one of his arms around your shoulders and pulls you further into him. the act is so gentle, as if you're made of glass and he mumbles his words into the top of your head. "you don't need to do this."

"but i want you to know," with a sense of desperation, you pull away from his embrace to meet his eyes. they're sad, and you know you probably look like a complete wreck right now, but you can't bring yourself to care. the only thing you can focus on is how much you want him to know his importance in your life. "i didn't think of my parents. i thought of y–"

"stop, really. you'll regret doing this." but you can't imagine regretting telling him anything. you've only known him for a few months, and yet you've never held trust in someone like this before.

sick of watching him avoid your gaze, you bury your face back into his neck and smile at the shiver that rolls down his spine when you speak against his skin. "i never liked them. they never cared about anything i did. i only ever wanted to make them proud, but they wouldn't even listen to me."

haechan's in dangerous territory, and he knows it. he can't sit here and insult his employers, but he's seen the way they treat you. as if you've never done anything worthwhile, but they were never there to see your achievements. he battles his thoughts for a few moments, trying to think of the best response. "they do care for you, they just can't show it well." it's weak, even he can tell, but he needs to say something. he wants nothing more than to shelter you from them, take you away from this house and show you what it's like to have someone be proud of you, to care for you wholeheartedly. but he can't, it's stupid to even entertain that thought.

"you care more than they do," the tone you speak with is bitter, and you pull away once again to look up at him. somewhere in the deep brown of his eyes is an emotion you think is something akin to love, but you think you might be imagining it. haechan's paid to be here, you need to remember. "but then i guess you're paid to."

"hey–" this is exactly where he didn't want the conversation to go, because he can't tell you what he really thinks whilst still in the confines of your house, not where your parents could hear every word.

"i'm not wrong, though, am i? you're only here because they're paying you–"

"i would've left if i didn't care."

you sigh and let yourself fall back into his embrace. "i'm gonna pretend like i believe you, just for tonight." no more words are exchanged, but he leans down to press a delicate kiss to the exposed skin on your forehead. the act is so tender, so familiar, you feel tears line your eyes. it's stupid, to cry at being held like this, but in a desolate horizon, haechan is your beaming spark of hope.

another month floats by and you and haechan continue your relationship than slips so easily between professional and something more than. it leaves you confused a lot of the time, but you try and ignore it, instead deciding to focus on the present.

the present right now leaves you stood in front of a fancy restaurant, a booking for you and one of you childhood friends ready and waiting. "i'll be by the door, scream if you need me, okay?" you chuckle at the serious tone of haechan's voice before hurrying over to your table where jennie sits waiting.

the girl stands when you near her, a wide smile taking over her features as she pulls you into a hug "how have you been? i haven't seen you in years!"

over the first course of food, you catch up about each other's lives, chatting about the various things you’ve been involved in recently. after what jennie deems an appropriate amount of time, she shifts her attention to the boy stood behind you.

"is that your boyfriend." her curious eyes scan over haechan who, as promised, stands by the door, staring at his phone. the sight makes you smile as you realise he's probably playing candy crush or some other stupid game to pass the time.

"no," you chuckle, although you would love more than anything to say yes, to be able to sit and claim him as yours, and no one else's. but you can't lie to jennie, as much as you want to. "it's just haechan, my bodyguard." just haechan sounds wrong coming from your lips.

"bodyguard? your dad's still got a lot of enemies, huh?" jennie shoots you a concerned frown which you try and laugh off. out of all the friends you've ever had, jennie's the only one with a somewhat similar upbringing; moving around a lot, feeling as if your parents are absent for more than half of your childhood. you had bonded over your situations in middle school and had kept in touch even when she moved to new zealand for sixth grade.

just as she's telling you about her new job at a fashion company, you blurt out the question bothering you."does the lemonade taste weird to you?" it's metallic almost on your tongue and it catches you off guard.

"no, i think it's just a bit tangy."

"oh, yeah probably" you laugh airily, but a cold wave on unease washes through you. it's unclear what's causing your anxiety, and you're suddenly confused why you're even on edge. on instinct, you look for haechan and seeing him still leaning on the wall by the door gives you a small sense of calm.

"are you sure? you look a bit–" jennie's words are drowned out in your mind by the wheezing of your throat. it's uncomfortable, as if someone is squeezing your lungs, trapping the air out, and preventing you from taking a full breath in.

"yeah, do you think we could step outside for a sec? i think i need some fresh air." the chair scrapes under you but you ignore it and make a beeline for the side door, clean air the only thought on your mind.

"of course, are you sure you're okay." outside, you fail to find the relief you're looking for and try to swallow down the metallic taste. you find it difficult to, however, and you concentrate on the movement as jennie crouches in front of you. you hadn't even realised you'd sat down.

unable to resist any longer, you give up and speak up in a hoarse voice. "can you go get haechan?" jennie nods and disappears for a minute. in the quiet, the only thing you can hear is your laboured breathing and the distant chatter from inside. it sounds like you're underwater, the voices seem so far away, as if you're sinking.

"what's wrong?" haechan's before you in an instant, hands gripping the sides of your face and eyes scanning your body for any obvious injuries. you try to speak but nothing comes out and you feel your legs give way underneath you, sliding down the wall onto the ground.

"i don't know–" the voice that speaks doesn't sound like you're own. it's hoarse and breathless and you can feel yourself losing the strength to speak again.

"she said the drink tasted weird." haechan's blood runs cold at jennie's words. you don't fail to notice the panic in his eyes and it does nothing to calm your now racing heartbeat. you feel a chill come over you and when you reach your hands up to find haechan's they shake violently.

despite the alarm on his face, his voice is calm and authoritative and it reminds you of the first time you had ever heard him speak. you wish fleetingly to go back to that moment, to be able to meet him for the first time again. "call an ambulance."

"what?" jennie's voice is close by but muffled by your own heartbeat that pounds in your ears.

"call an ambulance and tell them she's been poisoned." you feel his arms gently set you onto your side before his words register in your head. “try and breathe for me, princess.” the action is futile and you try so hard to do as he says but your head feels heavier with every feeble motion of your lungs.

“you’re gonna be fine, baby.” it's the last thing you hear before your hearing gives up on you. haechan's hands finally find you own, skin hot against yours, and you try to squeeze them but you can't get your fingers to move. you feel like a statue, watching the scene in front of play out with no strength to do anything.

black spots start toying at the edge of your vision and you feel the ground beneath your shoulder. you're on your side, you think. but you can't remember moving anymore.

haechan's hands remain in yours and you try to take a breath in, feeling your lungs expand weakly before the last little bit of energy drains out of you. the last thing you see is haechan's face, an expression of terror on his face as he shakes your shoulders. his mouth is moving but you can't hear anything he's saying, instead letting the darkness overcome your senses.

it's calming, almost, the warm embrace of sleep. you feel like you haven't slept in years, maybe never. with an empty feeling settling inside you and haechan’s face burning behind your eyelids, you allow yourself to slip into the blackness.

the first thing you're aware of is a warmth over your arm. and then a beeping. and then painfully bright light shining behind your eyelids. the smell of harsh disinfectant fills your nose and you feel starchy sheets underneath your bare legs. an attempt to breathe in leaves you coughing painfully as you realise your lungs feel like they’re made of sandpaper.

the sound awakens haechan from his light sleep, eyes shooting open to find you squinting down at him. everything is too bright and you try to bring a hand up to cover them before finding it covered in wires. you hand is pushed back down and a cup of water is brought to your lips. it feels heavenly against your dry throat and you try to drink more before it's pulled out of your reach.

"hey, hey, slow down," the familiar tone is a welcome change and you find your mind coming up blank as to where you are. haechan smiles down at you, a soft glimmer to his eyes, one you haven't seen in what feels like so long. "the nurse said you shouldn't drink too much yet."

"what happened?" your voice is scratchy and painful to listen to. the boy before you smiles sadly and sits on the edge of the bed after pushing the barrier down. you've managed to work out you're in a hospital, but you're still unable to place the reason behind your visit.

"you were poisoned." the words trigger something in your brain and your memories come flooding back. the lemonade, the confusion, the darkness. it's the second time you've been close to death, and the second time haechan's been the last thought on your mind. you promise yourself you won't let him slip away, not this time.

"i remember," his fingers interlace with yours, thumb rubbing along the back of your hand. "i thought i was gonna die."

"you nearly did," a new voice enters the room and you turn to see a tall woman in a white coat. "and you would have done if it wasn't for this man's quick thinking." she waves a clipboard in haechan's direction and he looks away, embarrassed to be in the spotlight. "the paramedics knew exactly what they were turning up to, cut a lot of time for treatment.” the words make haechan blush.

the doctor stays for a while longer, explaining your treatment plan and adjusting your medications. she gives you some stronger painkillers and says you should be fine to leave after another night of observation.

as soon as you're alone again, you turn to haechan, only to find he's already staring at you. "you know what i'm gonna say." the words are whispered and you let him move up the bed to lie beside you.

"just say it, get it over with." unlike last time, his voice doesn't sound as hopeless and you wonder if he prepared himself for this conversation. it was inevitable, to be fair.

"you were my last thought." haechan's cologne is strong in your nose as you drop your head onto his shoulder. "i wasn't scared about dying, haechan, i was scared about never seeing you again." the tears fill your eyes and you do nothing to stop them falling onto haechan's hoodie.

his shoulder moves when he sighs, an arm wrapping around your shoulders and your taken back to the last time you were sat like this. "i love you, i need you to know that, okay?" it's all you can hope to hear, but you know he hasn't stopped talking yet. "but i don't know if we can do this."

"why can't we just leave?" your voice is pleading and it pulls at haechan's heartstrings. he wants to badly to give in, but the future would be too uncertain.

"your parents would hunt us down."

"then let's flee the country, i don't care–"

"you can't just leave your parents–"

"where are they?" when you had woken up, you hadn't failed to notice their lack of presence and it didn't hurt as much as it should have anymore. a guilt look passes behind haechan's eyes and he doesn't even need to say it for you to understand.

"on a business trip."

"let's just go, haechan. they don't want us here anymore."

the desperate glimmer in your eyes is enough to convince haechan, who knows he would have agreed to it anyway. he would always agree with you. "if you want to. i'll do anything for you princess."

when you turn to face him, the proximity between your faces is significantly less than what you expected and you find your breath hitching in your throat. it catches him off guard as well and you watch his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up to your eyes quickly. you can’t help but smirk as you lean in, resting your free hand on his chest to push yourself up to meet his lips.

the kiss is warm and comforting and everything you need in that moment. he slips a hand around your waist and pulls you closer to him, using his other one to cup your jaw and tilt your head up. the angle allows you to deepen the kiss and haechan sighs into it. a few seconds pass and your lungs are burning for oxygen.

you break away first, resting your forehead against his and drinking in as much air as you can before leaning back into him. right before your lips meet again, you hear the heart rate monitor speed up and your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

“why is your heart beating so fast?” haechan teases with a laugh.

“shut up.” you huff out before closing the distance one again and meeting his lips with a new sense of hope filling you.

a/n; thank you so much for reading!! it means a lot to me!!

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ichika27 · 3 years

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Mairimashita! Iruma-kun s2 ep16

Guys! Have you already seen the TV size music video for season 2′s OP? avex had just released a music video for “No! No! Satisfaction!” and it has the group DA PUMP in chibi form doing the full dance from the OP and Iruma is also with them! It’s super cute!!

Anyways, the latest episodes got a bunch of stuff happening, huh?

Walter Park is still in chaos due to the monster rampage. Iruma decides he's not gonna sit back and do nothing like everyone else and went to try and save the crying child from earlier. To the amazement of everyone watching, Iruma dodged every large piece of debris that was falling his way all the while carrying a child.

He’s shown this ability way back in season 1 but he’s using it here in this very dire situation all with a child in his arms and both of them are okay. It’s really cool.

When they finally got to a safe space close by, Iruma tells the child to evacuate with everyone else. He then tells his friends that he really had fun the entire day and is very upset at what's happening now. He declares that he would fight back and do something about it. He says goodbye and would do it on his own.

I like the looks of determination on his face. When he was about to leave you can tell he’s nervous but he never voiced it out and still walked on.

Upon hearing his words, the rest of Team Baram decides they would help, too! Azz of course isn’t gonna just leave his Iruma-sama and he’s also upset that he didn’t realize that Iruma is upset. Sabnock on the other hand isn’t just gonna stand there and do nothing when his rival has a plan and he also thinks it’s a good idea. Agares wants to help stop whatever is causing the problem so he could nap peacefully. Sensei of course isn’t gonna leave the kids on their own.

On the other hand, Ronove is dragged with them unwillingly.

Meanwhile, Team Opera is also facing the beast in their area. Opera tells the others to evacuate and says it's his job to protect those dear to Iruma which impressed the kids in their care cause Opera is “a reliable adult”. Opera then battles the monster alone after everyone agreed to leave.

Ameri makes a return in the middle of the fight and tells Opera that she also has a duty to fight as she's the student council president. Opera happily agrees to tag team with her. The two pose back-to-back and were gonna kick ass and be awesome!

Just when they think they have a shot, they see Clara hanging on one of the beast's tail.

Team Kalego is still trying to fight on their end. Camui is commanding a flock of demonic birds nearby to attack the beast as distraction. The others ride a different bird and swoops in close with Lied stealing the beast's hearing.

It is revealed that their current actions are part of Jazz's latest plan. While the beast is freaking out, the boys attack with Goemon defending them. Jazz then uses the opportunity to get to the beast himself.

He uses the Ear-Wrecking Whistle he has which has the power to unleash a powerful soundwave that was given to him by his brother. Lied returns the beast's sense of hearing and Jazz blows on the whistle making the beast pass out.

Side note that it is explained that Jazz’s brother gave him that whistle and said Jazz could use it if he ever gets caught while pickpocketing so he could distract pursuers as he runs away. It’s might be helpful but the brother also mentioned that if Jazz uses it, it means he wasn’t good enough and it’s why he needed it in the first place. Added in the Interval that they made a little bet with Jazz claiming he’d never use the whistle. He is upset when he remembers but I think his reasoning to use it as an offensive weapon instead of a defensive one is pretty cool.

The boys rejoice in their victory with them praising Jazz on his successful plan. Jazz tells them that it wasn't just him but all of them who did really well.

While initially, they only picked Jazz as their leader due to his rank and also cause they don’t want to be on the frontlines, in the end they did respect him. Lied mentioned earlier that they didn’t really think they’d have a chance but hearing Jazz’s plan gave him hope cause it’s just really convincing. They also quickly congratulate and praise him for his plans and it took Jazz himself telling them that they contributed a lot to their victory for them to start praising themselves.

Jazz is pretty humble that he didn’t take all the credit himself even if it was being given to him. Plus it’s very big bro of him when he encouraged and praised them and looked very happy to see them happy about themselves.

Sadly, the win was another temporary one as the beast regain consciousness while they were off-guard. Kalego-sensei quickly went to their defense. As he uses his power to stop the attack aiming for the students, Kalego-sensei tells them they suck at defending and grades them all on their performance. He also mentions that even if they're kind of low, those are passing grades. Sensei then uses Cerberion to defeat the beast.

Kalego-sensei might not be the bestest of all the teachers but he’s not that bad. He let the kids handle things on their own to teach them but he would defend them if the situation is really bad. He actually graded them on their performance and told them what they did wrong and he even gave them passing scores. They all have varying grades depending on what they did which meant he was watching them closely, too.

The group is impressed by Kalego-sensei who then proceeds to place a chair to sit on on the unconscious beast itself. He then tells them that he found that particular event fun and had them take this group photo.

I found this hilarious in a way. He wasn’t having fun at all earlier but did when they had to fight which wasn’t surprising but what he does afterwards is. Who knew sensei likes showing off like this?

At the emergency shelter, Elizabetta and Kerori finds some kids crying which Elizabetta helps to calm down. Upon Kerori sensing everyone else's distress, she decides to change into her demi-dol persona, Kuromu, to try and calm them as well as she says it's her job as an idol to make people happy. She then performs for a cheering crowd.

Kerori is both proud of her work and herself while she also really cares about other people. I like that they showed this side of her character here.

Back at the battle, Ameri uses her bloodline ability: Romanticist. It's the ability to bring out her maximum power once she convinces herself that she's strong. She brings down the beast with it. Opera notes that it is a self-hypnotism magic that relies on the strong will of the user. Kuromu's song plays as very fitting background music while Ameri continues to fight. In the middle of battle, Ameri herself starts singing the song as well as a self-motivator!

It’s awesome how Kuromu’s song suits Ameri. I also found it cool how Ameri starts singing and later on, the two are having a “duet” while in different places. It was fun to watch!

Ameri successfully renders the creature unconscious. Opera is very impressed at this and praises Ameri. Opera then asks if she wants to work for Sullivan after she graduates. Ameri declines as she has already decided that she'd work with her father... at least until realization hit her that if she works for Sullivan, she'd be living under the same roof as Iruma. She then tells Opera that she'll think about the offer cause she might change her mind.

Opera isn’t a teacher but I like what they told Ameri. Ameri says she isn’t that strong yet but Opera tells her that she’s young and not being perfect meant she still has room to grow.

Also, Ameri’s imagination runs wild when she realized that she’d be living with Iruma if she works for them. She’d have to cook for Iruma and it’d be like marriage! So cute!

They also talk to Clara asking why she even came back and the girl answers she wanted to give a weapon if need be. Opera then asks her for a "secret weapon". I wonder what it is and what for? Hmm...

Back to Team Baram, Iruma and Agares have successfully located the trapped kids and are about to help them get out of the rubble. On the other hand, Azz and Sabnock are preparing for battle.

A lot of stuff happened in one episode and by that I meant that even certain scenes have little things in them that is worth mentioning. It’s nice how even with all of these content the episode doesn’t feel rushed or cramped.

Iruma and the gang has to deal with the beast on their end next week since the other two groups have already won their battle. After that, it’d be the threat of the Six Fingers. I’m excited for that and also the main trio seeing Kiriwo-senpai again!

Again, I like how the second season showcases all of the other characters. They have a big cast to work with and it’s nice to see bits and pieces of their abilities and personalities being given the limelight.

Thanks for reading this far!

#Mairimashita! Iruma-kun #welcome to demon school iruma-kun #sana_post

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hereisleo · 4 years

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NEON JUNCTION

w/ k.ys & j.wy

g/ cyberpunk!au, friendship, mild angst

w.c/ 3.8k

a.n/ @moonchildsaurora, here it is finally. from your birthday through christmas, new years and now our one year of friendshipvery, this is long overdue and thank you so much for you patience. ah, time flown hasn’t it. i will forever be grateful of your friendship and reaching out to me first, my lovely 🌹 anon. the incredible talent you have in creativity, you have me absolutely smitten over world building (multiples now) in our convos. you’re such a vibrant person, Sunray, and i adore you dearly from the bottom of my heart. seeing your messages first thing in the morning and at the end of the night is a good way to start and end the day. cheers to more years to come and who knows our dynamics might shift akin to woosang. i love you to pluto and back! here’s to friendship and to our first pieces of the year! (excuse the mistakes you find here pretend they don’t exists).

t.w/ expletives, character death (not the mains)

playlists/ cyberworld | k.ys skates & drones

An illegal virtual world. A damaged psyche.

How far is Yeosang willing to go to find the answers to his questions? Will he put his friendship on the line? Just as how his life is beginning to near its end. The DarkNet is not a place for weaklings and its the only place where he perhaps will get his answers.

A treacherous journey is afoot.

Yeosang knows the DarkNet better than he knows his world, the real world where his body is still on the chair in the attic of his friend’s humble abode. In the net, it’s only his mind and light particles forming his appearance. Dangerous but thrilling. He has come to love the rushing adrenaline, an outlet for him to rid of his pent up frustration. Is he properly armed? Is his supply stocked well? In the old world, this is all a video game played on television. In the current world, the world he lives in, the post-apocalyptic environment, this is his reality. The DarkNet, everything illegal happens here. Credit, fame, information, it doesn’t matter what or who you are in the real world but the DarkNet requires you to build a name for yourself. It has taken so much from him. He’s sore, tired, most definitely overworked although the last is self-imposed for many reasons. He can’t rest until he has answers and the credits needed.

A virus slams his wall of codes, dragging him into a fight, vision blurring slightly from the impact and red lights of warning. His monitor reads a huge output of energy from the wild AI that strikes him. The resounding sound of ‘FIGHT’ reverberates in his ears and his light particle fingers flew across the screen, mind racing and the heartbeat bar on the top right corner shines yellow in warning with how fast his heart is hammering in this ribcage. Not being able to code is akin to a death sentence in his line of work. Talons slam on to his screen, vicious orange lines of codes burning into his memory, a phoenix avatar. He hasn’t seen one in so long after- No, now is not the time, Yeosang. A little character waving a sign appears, the nervous bouncing and worried expression have him refocusing. ‘STAY ALIVE.’ He will and with it comes forth his avatar, roaring at the wild phoenix AI. A sophisticated dragon in black codes emerges, wrestling the phoenix on to the virtual dirt ground. If there’s one thing Yeosang has that is his own, it’ll be willpower. His friend calls it being stubborn but he’ll take stubborn too.

The virtual cheering falls deaf to his ears, the colosseum is a mere replica of past time, almost real, he could almost touch it. Almost. Alas, what’s long gone can never be rebuilt the same way. Yeosang simply doesn’t have the clearance or importance to enter the colosseum in the real world. No, those are for the governmental scums. The reason why he resorts to the DarkNet. Another swipe recalibrates his mind that he’s still in the middle of a deathmatch. He hates phoenix, they’re hard to kill. His neon green French nails dance under the black light of his screen, the pads of his fingers typing codes after codes. ‘TERMINATE’ and his dragon glows from within, orange light peeking between the scales, rumbling with brewing fire. The dragon pins the phoenix to the ground by its neck, the angry screeching of the bird makes Yeosang ground his teeth. Too close to home, the similarity of the screams of survival from that night comes crashing to the forefront of his mind. “End it, Mars!” He yells and his dragon obeys, jaws unhinging and relentless waterfall of flames burn the phoenix to its ashes. ‘VICTORY’ flashes on his screen. He doesn’t stick around for long, his vitals are yellow, caution. It’s time to log out, he taps the green box of ‘EXIT’ on the corner. The tugging sensation of his mind being dragged back into reality has him closing his eyes to diminish the dull ache. Yeosang doesn’t see the ashes trembling as his light apparition disappears from the illegal virtual world.

Disengaging from the DarkNet is proving to be difficult for Yeosang, his consciousness ebbs and flows, brainwaves tangled up in what’s real and what’s not. Wooyoung stands stiffly next to the Meta, feeling sick in his stomach, chest constricting with worry. He’s not averse to the virtual world but it doesn’t mean he likes it the same. He watches the Meta shut down, Yeosang’s vitals and brain activity updated on the glass screen mounted on the wall. The little character Yeosang crafted into the AI system jumps up and down with happy chirps, ‘STABLE.’ Hehetmon, it’s called, a moniker after the old TV show from the gone world. He and Yeosang would binge-watch together occasionally when he’s not swamped from juggling two jobs. Three. Watching over Yeosang is a job in itself. A job he’s willing to sacrifice everything else for.

A groan has Wooyoung almost throwing himself to his friend but he digs his heels and instead he kneels beside the blasted chair and hands reaching to disconnect all the wires attached to Yeosang’s body. He doesn’t know all the names of the cables but he does know the two most important, the EKG and the digital implant. Hehetmon on the screen highlights the different wires that need to be detached first. The cables slither itself back to its ports within the chair. He gingerly touches the base of Yeosang’s neck, the wire attached to the neural digital implant gives into his fingers without a fight. He thinks it’s muscle memory, he does this often enough Hehetmon keeps a record on how fast he could bring Yeosang out of the Meta. (Less than a minute when push comes to shove but usually under two.) They have come so far.

14-year-old Wooyoung was putting his younger brother to sleep, a worn-out storybook clutched between his hand as his brother rested against his chest, the strong thumping of his heart and his voice lulling the younger. He could have used the tablet, everything was in it but they only had one and he didn’t want to take it from his parents. They needed it more and they couldn’t afford another one, they couldn’t afford many things. His parents splurged on a book when they first had him, a treasure for their little treasure. He had read the compiled fairytales from cover to cover, the make-believe of the olden freedom, a taste he can only experience between the pages and in his mind when the house was still. A dream far from reality.

The door creaked open and Wooyoung stiffened. It was the newcomer. “How’s Kyungmin?” Timid. The new addition- Yeosang, his parents scolded him for being impolite by not referring to the other boy by his name. Exhausted, malnourished and was most definitely ill. His parents were apprehensive about Yeosang's sudden appearance but took him in regardless. Wooyoung was reluctant to have a new addition in the place. As if they need another mouth to feed. They were struggling to meet ends. He glanced at the barely one-year-old sleeping on his chest, the high temperature took a toll on the small body. “The fever broke.” He left it at that and Yeosang was understanding enough to let the matter rest. He put the book aside and cradled Kyungmin securely before standing up. Yeosang was shifting from foot to foot by the door, Wooyoung sighed exasperatedly, he was tired enough, “Just lie down somewhere already.” The blonde let out an awkward thanks and shuffled to the bottom bunk bed on the other side of the room. Wooyoung didn’t have the energy to tell him the bed Yeosang occupied was his. He left the room and laid Kyungmin back in his crib in his parents' room.

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung didn’t expect Yeosang to flinch at the question nor did he expect to find the other boy to be curled up on the floor and reading the fairy tales book. Yeosang stood up, the book slipping from his hands and both of them winced when it hit the ground. He picked it up hastily and hung his head, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Wooyoung waved him off, “It’s fine.” Thick silence blanketed the room and neither moved to ease it. Yeosang opened his mouth before closing it again. He managed to string out a sentence after a while, “There were never any books back there.” Back there? Did he mean home? “Do your parents never read you to sleep?” Wooyoung almost apologised, Yeosang flinched at the mention of parents. The blonde shook his head and Wooyoung felt his stomach twist. “Mum used to sing me to sleep.” His chest tightened.

“How did you end up out here, Yeosang?” Wooyoung thought he was a bastard for not calling Yeosang by his name sooner. He never witnessed someone look so surprised by hearing their name. He walked up to his bed and sat down, patting the space next to him. Yeosang hesitated before giving in and sat next to him, posture tense and ready to bolt. “I ran away.”

Yeosang rouses from his ‘sleep’, the warm dark yellow light welcoming him into reality and so does the familiar voice next to him. Wooyoung is reading to him and he recognises the old story immediately. The Ugly Duckling. “It’s getting worse lately.” The pages flutter and Wooyoung keeps reading line after line in soft tandem. The book closes inaudibly. “You slept through dinner.” Yeosang steps into the Meta in the afternoon and for him to wake up at night, it’s getting worse indeed. He’s grateful that he hasn’t started hallucinating though he knows it wouldn’t be far if he keeps going at the pace he’s been putting his psyche through.

“Woo-”

“I know.”

“Wooyoung, I-”

“I know, Yeosang!”

“I know you can’t stop going into the Meta. I know I can’t stop you from fighting in the DarkNet. I know you need answers. But would you please take care of yourself for once!” Wooyoung runs an aggravated hand through his hair, he slumps forward in his seat, elbows digging to his knees and face hidden in his palms. Yeosang falls silent, letting his best friend, who is as close as a brother, gather his bearing. He stands up and his legs give out under him, muscles convulsing, sending him tumbling back to the Meta chair. He feels like puking yet his throat is also closing up, his head spinning and there is ringing in his ears, Wooyoung’s voice sounds so distant even though he is being held against the ravenette. He could make out flashing blue lights through his blurry vision, the health scanner kept handy beeps but he could barely hear it.

It could have been a minute or ten or an hour before Yeosang takes a hold of reality. His heart slams furiously within his ribcage and he’s once again reminded of the sped-up mortality rate of a DarkNet gladiator. The effects the Meta has on a person is damaging and he started to show the symptoms of what they called the bleeding effect. He currently renders more physical than mental and it won’t be long until the latter catches up. For how long he’s been exposed to the Meta, it’ll be sooner than he expects.

He blindly searches for Wooyoung’s hand, grasping it in a vice-like grip. He’s not the only one who’s scared. Yeosang doesn’t want to lose his sanity. He’s exhausted enough but there’s no rest for the wicked. He can’t rest, he can’t sleep with both eyes closed knowing there are answers for him out there and he needs to find it. He’s quite willing to put his psyche on the line even if it means him being thrown into the loony bin. Wooyoung loops his arms around Yeosang, tight enough for the blonde to feel how fast Wooyoung’s heart is racing. There’s a hole of emptiness in his stomach. “Can you stay with me tonight?” His voice is too raspy for either’s liking. There’s not a peep of sound coming from Wooyoung. Action speaks louder than words, especially when it’s Wooyoung. Wooyoung has a lot of words to use and yet he chooses not to, Yeosang knows better than to question it. He trusts the other with his life, his psyche and all that he is. There’s nothing that would err Yeosang to turn his back against Wooyoung. He owes Wooyoung way too much. All the credits in his account couldn’t repay what the other has done for him. It’s never enough and never will be. The seven years that they have known each other and the experiences they go through, Yeosang thinks he could never not trust Wooyoung. His life in reality and the Meta is in Wooyoung’s hands. Others would say their relationship isn’t healthy, that they are too dependent on one another and maybe that’s true. He knows he can’t function in the real world without the other.

“Promise me one thing, Yeosang. Don’t go into the Meta without me.”

Yeosang nuzzles his head into the space between Wooyoung’s shoulder and neck, his hands bunching the fabric of his friend’s shirt. The emptiness settles deeper. It’s not an answer because he knows he can’t keep such a promise. Wooyoung knows it too.

The DarkNet has shifted again. No two places look the same after each login. It changes constantly to avoid detection from the government’s pesky security. The lines of codes forming his apparition in the Net walk on the edge of a skyscraper. Mars languidly flew around the building ready to catch him if he slips. He won’t die necessarily, forcibly exited from the Net with some repercussions but not dead or just as good as dead. He has heard of those who were in comatose or worse. Mars huffs out a flaming breath, a rumbling growl thickening in its throat and Yeosang halts on his track. A stray orange feather twirls into his vision and his hands involuntarily shake, mind racing hundreds of miles an hour and he almost could feel the phantom cold sweat. He sees Mars’s wing slides between him and the feather, the thick lines of codes that formed the dragon burst into a pixelated mess and his ears ring from the explosion and the angry roar of his avatar. In the distance, Yeosang sights a phoenix emerging amongst the skyscrapers.

He sinks to his knees, hands covering his ears trying to block the screaming in his head or maybe he’s the one who is screaming. Mars knocks him into safety, away from the ledge and under its wing. No! No! No! His nails dig into his scalp.

The screeching of a phoenix avatar was the last warning he heard. The last sound to be ingrained to his memory with his mentor, with his brother, with his only friend in the blasted tech conglomerate. Yeosang could make out the silent words of the man across from him, trapped under locking codes and rubbles. Damages sustained in the Meta transferred over to the real world. The red warning signs ‘LOW HEALTH’ flashed before his eyes. His screen lit up with white words and Hehetmon skipped across the coded lines in loading.

- AVATAR TRANSFER IN PROGRESS -

URL: ORTECH://psh.MARS.980403

PREDECESSOR: [loading…]

Yeosang reached out futilely. The orange feathers fluttered around them, singing with heat as they glowed and sparked. Through his heavily cracked screen, he saw a small content yet the regretful smile of his friend. His eyes prickled with tears, dread, no, acceptance of the inevitable sank into him. Why is it always the best one to go first? One of the feathers zinged, a chain reaction of explosions rained upon them and Yeosang couldn’t hear his scream.

“Seonghwa!”

Take care of him, Mars.

- AVATAR TRANSFER COMPLETED -

“Kang Yeosang, get a grip of yourself!”

Yeosang stills at the call of his name. His battle screen is already up and the rectangular box of the communication line is open. Since when? Hehetmon spins in cheers when his eyes locked onto the pair of brown eyes he’s never tired of seeing. The beauty mark under the right eye puts a soothing balm into his mind. Wooyoung. His nails ease from its abuse against his scalp. Fuck, he must look so pathetic right now.

“You little bastard, I told you not to go into the Meta without me!” Guilt tinges in his chest. Yeosang opens his mouth, apology ready at the tip of his tongue. “Keep your ‘sorry’, we got a bird to cook.” Wooyoung never fails to reassure him but he knows it’s merely the calm before the storm. He’ll get his scolding later. Mummy never forgets.

He does what he does best even in trouble, “I’m still taller than you.” There’s still a quiver in his voice but the incredulous look on Wooyoung’s face makes him feel better. “Strip it off its feathers already, dammit! There’s milk on fire here!” Yeosang exhales and rises to his feet, his screen following his movement. The French manicure is chipped but the neon green is still vibrant in contrast to the black light emitting in front of him. He types in a series of battle commands, Mars flies higher and higher into the virtual light blue sky. Blades like armour materialise over the avatar’s claws and thick orange light peeks through between its scales. The phoenix is still far but his screen picks up the avatar’s image, the damages from their previous encounter aren’t fully repaired. What kind of a gladiator does that? Even Wooyoung can do better.

From Yeosang’s view, Mars appears to be a crow, so small up so high. Of course, he never sees the real bird, far extinct in the old world but there’s nothing that couldn’t be found on the Net. His avatar reaches right below the height barrier and takes a sharp nosedive, its weight falling at terminal velocity. Mars jaws unhinged and the fire stokes in the depths of its belly slowly rise to its throat. The screech emitting from the bird is as irritating as he remembers and his fingers tremble. He can’t tell if it’s fear or physical exertion but his head is in the game and mind is surprisingly clear despite the fireballs of feathers that are about to burst. Mars is partly hidden from his eyes with the myriad of singing explosives surrounding the dragon. Yeosang learns the hard way and he’s a learned man as Wooyoung puts it. He activates the defence codes just as the first fireball of many rains upon the black scales. He smirks from his perch, he didn’t spend many sleepless nights perfecting the codes for nothing, the tautness in his shoulders and back are good reminders too. The enraged squawk from the phoenix AI lifts his mood. The crosshair locks into place and the ‘TERMINATE’ sign appears. “Give it a good roast, Mars.” His finger taps the sign and an eruption of fire falls on the ugly big bird. His avatars claws sink into the phoenix broken pixels and glitches are visible around the broken codes. The storm of fire doesn’t relent, damages blooming across the sky and buildings. Surely the surge of energy catches the attention of fellow DarkNet users and government security. Mars doesn’t let up until each code is destroyed beyond repair, its claws tearing the wings apart by the joints. Yeosang slams his fists against the screen and yells when ‘VICTORY’ pops up in vibrant gold. Wooyoung’s cheers fall deaf to his ears over Mars roaring.

He slumps against the ledge, laughing like tomorrow won't come. He can’t believe it. He’s still alive and he supposes revenge is exacted. It feels empty somehow, he doesn’t know how to process the emotions in him at the moment. The event hasn’t hit him yet. “You’re so melodramatic, Yeosang,” Wooyoung chirps from the corner of his screen, “Give it a good roast, Mars!” His friend mimics his words earlier and Yeosang rolls his eyes but he can’t help the smile creeping on his face. Mars lets out a proud huff beside him, the dragon gives him an affectionate nudge and its ember eyes shine with much familiarity. His breath hitches but the avatar disappear with a sharp toothy grin. “Yeosang?” He makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He might have, “I’m alright, Woo. I’m going back now.” Even now you still look after me. Messages and clips of the fight start to spread in the forum. Data from the scrimmage is filed away, he’ll deal with them later. Hehetmon is skipping over the green box of ‘EXIT’ and he lets the mini AI jump on the button. He closes his eyes as the pull on the base of his neck erases his condensed light form from the DarkNet.

“Six months?!”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue as he inspects the nonexistent dirt under his fingernails, “Do you want one year instead? Okay. I’m completely fine with it.” Yeosang frantically refuses the added length, “Six months! Six months! Deal!” He never wants to wipe the shit-eating smirk off his friend's face so much. “Get scrubbing then.” Mummy never forgets indeed. Wooyoung not only scolds him but also gives his ear a good pinch and twist as soon as he is fit to walk around. Now he’s stuck on dishwashing duty under ‘consider it your retribution for breaking your promise.’ Yeosang sighs, he picks up a dirty dish and squirts the washing liquid on the plate. He’ll count himself lucky Wooyoung didn’t put him out there as hall staff.

“Did you process the data from last time?” His hand stops moving at the inquiry. Hell, he didn’t like what he saw on the files and Wooyoung most certainly wouldn’t either. God, he hates this so much. He doesn’t like it when the past comes biting back. “The phoenix URL traces back to ORBIT Tech.” A utensil clatters to the floor and Wooyoung curses like his seventeen-year-old self. “ORBIT Tech? Please tell me it’s a different conglomerate and not the piece of ‘the future is virtual science’ shit of your lunatic father’s!”

Yeosang nods, lips thinning, “Unfortunately, it is. That’s not the worst.” Wooyoung sucks in a breath, the come hither motion gestures him to go on. “I thought the phoenix was a wild AI or someone from the DarkNet was bribed,” he pauses, eyes searching for the dark browns of his friend’s, “It was under Seonghwa’s name.”

“Seonghwa’s dead! He couldn’t possibly-” Wooyoung halts his rant when he notices the unflinching gaze of his seven years companion. It clicks in his mind the inevitable of many other inevitables are descending rapidly on them. At some point, there will be a time where he couldn’t protect Yeosang. There will be a time where his friend has to return from where he comes from. He would be lying if he didn’t lose sleep thinking of this day. The twinkling skyscraper at the centre of the city mocks him. Yeosang doesn’t belong in the nest infested with lies. He’ll be damned, he much rather have Yeosang fights in the DarkNet instead. He’ll take the repercussions. But the chills running down his spine, the pressure in his chest and the unnerving hollowness in his stomach douse him in the harsh reality they live in. The finality of it grips his marrows.

“It’s time for me to stop running.”

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miss-choco-chips · 4 years

Text

College au part 2

Home, a place where I can go to take this off my shoulders- someone take me home (Machine Gun Kelly, X Ambassadors & Bebe Rexha – Home)

They are there for each other, the good and the bad. That’s what family is for, after all.

-.-.-.-.-.-

-I'm so gay -sighed Miguel almost dreamingly, stopping next to Slobo by the doors leading to the backyard.

Blissfully unaware of them, Tim was going through his usual routine of what seemed a mix of gymnastics, various martial arts and parkour, with a side of dancing to spice things up.

His friend snorted without even raising his eyes from the motorcycle engine he was trying to fix. A blasphemy, in Miguel's humble opinion, to have such an amazing view and to not take advantage of it.

-I know.

He dropped to the ground, head resting on Slobo's shoulder, gaze unwavering in his appreciation of slim muscles and perfectly controlled strength. Tamed power to the fullest.

-I mean like, really really gay.

-Yeah, what else is new? Pass me the motor oil.

He blindly patted the ground for it, picking something vaguely shaped like a can and thrusting it to where he thought were the other's hands.

When Tim bends over and starts stretching, Miguel wheezes and drops the can.

-I'm so stupidly, non functionally gay.

Slobo rolled his eyes and picked it up, his other hand going to close Miguel’s jaw.

-Dude that's all old news. Either come here with fresh gossip, be helpful, or leave. I don't need you making a mess of my stuff. You are getting your hormones all over my individual bubble.

Miguel sighed again, eyes almost physically turning into hearts when Tim stretched his arms over his head.

-Fuck, I can’t handle this much inner gay. It’s overwhelming.

-Nothing inner about it, dude. You’re dripping it all over my work station. Can’t you go be a disaster gay somewhere else?

-Tim is here, so no can do.

-Can’t you just ask him out and save us all the pining show and second hand embarrassment?

A few meters away, Tim had taken out the bo staff and was practicing some moves. He accidentally brushed a branch (a thick one, from the pine tree Kon’s grandparents had made him plant upon moving there), and snapped it in half. He seemed kinda sheepish about it, which was both adorable and terrifying. Miguel was scared and horny.

-He’d destroy me.

Slobo hummed, hand reaching up to pat Miguel in the shoulder.

-Sounds like something you’d be kinda into, though.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-This coffee tastes like dirt -complained Tim, while chugging half the pot in one long gulp.

Distantly, Cassie noted there was still steam coming out of the liquid. Hadn’t Tim just brew it? Also, was it completely dark? No sugar?

Like her future?

Despairingly, she let her head fall again on the table.

-Why did I get into politics?

-Your pathological need to fulfill Diana’s expectations -replied Cissie, sitting across from her, long hair in what could have been a bun once upon a time but now looked more like a bird’s nest. That had been hit by lighting. Repeatedly.

It strangely suited her. Or it could be Cassie’s adoration for her friend speaking, who the fuck knows.

-Which, I might add -interjected Tim, not waiting for them to say ‘you may’ before continuing. Because he was a rude bastard like that- you invented by yourself. Diana only hopes you don’t end up in jail. And if it's for the right causes, she might even forgive that.

He dropped to the ground for no discernible reason, back to the cabinets where they kept the fine cutlery they never used. He was staring at the halfway empty pot like it contained the key to conquering mankind.

Knowing Tim, it might actually be true.

-Don’t try to take over the world -she asked, worried he might. Cissie made a confused sound, not privy to Cassie’s internal monologue, but Tim just nodded distractedly, which was all she needed before turning back to her half done paper.

-How are you doing, sis?

-Sis like sister, o Ciss like Cissie? -came Tim’s voice from behind her, probably still sitting on the ground.

-Yes.

-Oh -the girl in front of her blinked- sorry, you were talking to me?

-I mean… Tim is not ‘sis’.

-I resent that, I totally could be. Also, seriously, why does my coffee taste like dirt?

-Don’t drink it then. You were saying, honey?

Cassie rested her chin on a hand, elbow carefully to the side of her paper.

-How are you doing?

-Wondering why did I ever thought studying psychology was a good idea. Why? Who started me on this path, and can I punch them? -her voice raised higher and higher the more distressed she got- Tim? Do you remember?

-Your therapist back in high school got you out of your toxic home life and helped you basically re-build your sense of self worth. Also you like to get into everyone’s business so Kon suggested making a career out of it.

-Remind me to punch him later.

-You could break your hand, and you have an archery competition this friday.

-Kick him, then.

-Got ya.

-Can I just die? -interjected Cassie, phone at hand. Her screen displayed a text sent by a classmate, who updated her on their due date. Apparently, she had calculated wrong and it was way sooner than what she thought- What’s the worst that could happen if I die? I’m sure people would get over it.

-You’d be losing all the progress you made in your career so far -reminded her Cissie.

Tim’s voice joined from behind- Included, but not limited to, that one class you had with the douche professor. Imagine if you lost your progress and had to start over. Imagine having class with him again.

She shivered- That was both incredibly motivational, and unholily terrorizing.

Greta entered the kitchen then. She looked fresh and cute, which was probably due to her having a full night’s sleep.

-Wow, you three have been here the whole night? -she asked, obviously concerned, looking over Cissie’s shoulder at her assignment- Did you guys even make progress? At all? -her eyes discovered Tim’s half assed project, on the place next to where Cissie sat.

If Cassie didn’t love her so much, she would punch her in the face.

Tim sighed.

-I can’t get up. I can’t feel my legs -he admitted. Cassie thinks, she should be worried. Losing sensibility seemed like a serious problem. But, whatever, Greta was here, and she was perfectly well rested. Let her take care of the worrying.

-Tim? Oh my god, are you alright? -she rushed to his side.

-I think the coffee stopped making effect, and my three-on-a-row all nighters caught up to me. Just let me die, Greta. If coffee is not longer working on my body, I might as well let the grim reaper do its thing.

Cassie couldn’t see her any longer, since she was at her back by Tim’s side, but she could still somehow sense her concern growing.

-Tim... Did you use this bag by the coffee maker to brew it?

-I can’t move my head to look up at what you’re pointing, but I guess I did.

-Oh, honey… that is soil for Kon’s vegetable plot. Not coffee grounds.

-...so that’s why it tasted like dirt. Thank god. Excuse me while I faint.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-I think Conner is dead on our living room -announced Miguel entering the kitchen. Slobo, Anita and Greta didn’t even blink, just kept their... poker? game going.

-He’s probably just sleeping -the other man waved a hand dismissively- Did you check his pulse or something?

-Ew, no. What if he’s really dead? I don’t want to touch a corpse. Greta, you go touch it.

-Why me?

-If anyone will need to put their fingerprints in a veritable crime scene, who better than the only one with no criminal record?

-Tim doesn't have it either, go knock on his door and tell him to do it. I’m about to swindle both these jerks.

-There’s a difference between never getting caught by the police, and erasing all virtual proof of your crimes. Tim belongs to the second group. Also, last I checked, he and Bart were working on something on his room. I’m not approaching that danger zone without protective equipment.

-Speaking of -Slobo raised his head, looking around- has anyone bought them food in the last couple of hours?

-Kon, probably.

-He is dead -he reminded them- Cassie and Cissie are still asleep, and I’m not waking them up. Greta?

Out of their group, Conner was Tim and Bart’s official handler (when Tim was not micromanaging them all, at least; little control freak). Many people believed he lifted at the gym to get all the girls; in truth, as the boy had once told Miguel, it was so he could carry both his friends to bed in one trip to tuck them in at the same time, because if he did it separately, the one that got to be second always tried to make a run for it.

In the event he was unavailable, Cassie took over. Her skills with a lasso and years of practice at the rodeo came in handy then, and it never failed to crack him up when he saw how swiftly she caught them both.

And if she wasn’t close or was busy, then Cissie took over for Bart and Greta for Tim, as they could only handle one at the time.

The rest of them were last resource. Second to last was Jason Todd, who as both Tim’s brother and Bart’s TA held a fair amount of power over them.

If Jason told them to fuck off, then Slobo, Miguel and Anita would talk it out among themselves. Slobo would suggest knocking them out. Which, considering Bart’s speed and Tim’s mindblowing ninja training (and where the hell did he learn that, they would never know), wasn’t a very realistic option. Anita suggested drugs; but between Bart’s ADHD medication and Tim’s antibiotics for his lack of spleen and antidepressants, the adverse effects made them all a little uncomfortable with the idea.

Miguel’s own suggestions, which involved a lot of tender care and coddling, where ignored with a few laughs and a shrug.

-Fuck you, I’m not leaving this table so close to cleaning you both up. If you are worried, you go feed them.

Slobo shrugged.

-If they die, I call Tim’s room. Having a roommate is the worst.

-Excuse you -raised an eyebrow Miguel, walking to the fridge for a drink. He might as well watch the game.

-If I have to listen to you practicing your singing before showering one more time...

-If I can deal with you cursing at your phone at five am, you can deal with my melodious voice -Miguel blinked- That’s not poker.

-We are playing Truco.

-What?

-It’s a popular game in Argentina, or so Tim said. He taught us when he was having a coffee break this morning. And by the way: Truco, bitches!

-I’m in! -Slobo yelled back.

Greta looked at her cards impassively, then at the ones laying on the table between the three of them, before raising an eyebrow- I call Re Truco.

Miguel watched them go for a while. He wasn’t sure on the rules, but from the way they kept yelling, he knew it was highly competitive. It also seemed to involve a great amount of deceit, bullshiting and being as poker faced as possible. It made sense that Tim had been the one introducing them to the game. Speaking of…

-Maybe if I knock on the door with a coffee offering, he’ll listen to me without punching my nose in? -he mumbled to himself, aware that the others were ignoring him. Decided to test his luck, he climbed to his feet and readied the coffee maker.

The rest of the afternoon saw Miguel sitting on Tim’s bed, watching from the sidelines how both he and Bart built… something. It had a chainsaw and a mini shield, so maybe a fighting bot? There were some (not very legal) competitions around campus...

It was almost dinner time when he remembered a tiny, small detail.

-Man, I’m so hungry. You guys think dinner is ready? -asked Bart, hand sweeping the sweat off his forehead- Who was in charge of it tonight?

Lightning-like realization hit Miguel.

-Oh, yeah, speaking of that… Kon was probably dead, last time I checked. Maybe we should order a pizza or something?

-Cool, I could do pizza.

-I’m sorry, Kon was what?!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

-You guys need jobs -told them Tim one morning over breakfast. They had just moved in together, and classes were about to start. Nobody seemed willing to talk about responsibility yet, but he felt like they needed the push to do it.

-I have a job -proudly smiled Bart, eyes never leaving the TV where his character was beating Kon’s into a bloody plump. He didn’t elaborate past that, and Tim made a mental note to investigate further later. Bart’s career was enough, they needn't add another unsolved mystery.

-Where is this coming from, though? We have loads of time for that -scoffed Slobo, watching the game intently.

-Classes are starting soon, and people will be getting all the good jobs. I did some calculations, and the money you guys have been saving for living expenses will run out in two, three months tops. Greta has the coffee shop thing and Cassie just got called back from the movie theatre, but the rest of you need to find some money maker. Stat.

-And what about you? -threw Cissie back, internally agreeing with him but despising the reality check.

Tim looked at her, completely deadpan. Silently, he took out his wallet, fishing three cards (one silver, one golden and one black) from it and showing them to her.

-Even before being adopted by a billionaire, I already was a rich trust fund baby. And now that I’ve said it, I’m gonna avoid getting punched by making my exit. Good luck job hunting.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Cassie and Anita’s room was ground floor, along with the kitchen, living room, laundry area, a medium size bathroom with a shower, and a very small one with only the toilet and sink. The second floor housed Bart and Conner’s room, along with Miguel and Slobo’s, and Cissie and Greta’s, plus the biggest bathroom, with both a tub and shower. The attic had been claimed by Tim, who won that right by paying the deposit for the house on top of his part of the rent. It was the biggest room, the size of the entire house without partitions, with only one separation in the form of the small sized bathroom. He loved his room, would pay twice what he coughed up to have it. It was worth it, every cent.

He loved his attic; The bathroom, however, was another thing. It ran out of warm water constantly.

-This is the second time this month. I love you, but you aren’t burrowing our bath -denied Cissie firmly, arms crossed as she waited outside the door for Greta to finish her shower-. If it was any other day I’d say yes, you know I would, but you aren’t the only one that needs to get ready for the movie, and there’s six of us sharing here. Go ask the girls.

Defeated but understanding, he went another floor down, arms full with his skin and hair care products (he had a image to keep, and one never knew when paparazzi would be around; he and his brothers had a steady competition on who got caught in camera being a ugly mess the least, that he wasn’t willing to lose) and clean clothes.

Anita shrugged when she opened the door, still naked except from her towel and hair dripping.

-Yeah, Cassie already took hers. Just remember to lock the door, dude. Since its ground floor bathroom, someone always tries to get in to pee when you’re showering, it’s annoying. Also, don’t come at me with complains about hair in the drain, okay?

Thankful beyond caring, he nodded and hurried towards it.

He wasn’t expecting what he found there. Already halfway to the shower, he stopped to leave his folded clothes on top of the cabinet near the sink when he saw...

-Why are there weapons here? -he couldn't help but scream, clutching a towel to his naked chest. He felt distinctly like a victorian lady preserving her virtue from a foe. It was a very curious feeling.

-I said no judgements!! -Anita yelled back from across the hallway.

-Yeah, regarding hair on the floor! Nobody said anything about weapons!

-So I forgot my katana there after my shower, big deal. Just don’t fall on it, problem solved.

-No, I’m used to seeing your katana, but why the fuck do you girls have cat shaped brass knuckles?

-They are cute and useful! Aren’t you taking a shower, dude? The movie starts soon!

Deciding that this wasn't a battle worth picking, he turned on the warm water. Ahh, nice, wonderful hot water.

-Oh, Tim! -came Cassie’s yell- Don’t lock the door, forget what Anita said! I need to put on my make up and that mirror is better than the one in our room.

-I’m gonna be showering though.

-And?

Yeah, she had a point. Shrugging, he made sure the door was unlocked before stepping under the water and closing the curtain.

He heard her coming in and rummaging through one of the little bags he saw on the sink cabinet. He couldn't help but ask.

-Why do you guys keep weapons here?

-They are for when we are most vulnerable.

-With thighs like yours you’re never vulnerable.

-I love you. But just pretend I have noodle legs, for argument’s sake.

-Mkay.

-Well, name one instance when you’re more weak and exposed than when you’re taking a shower.

-...Yeah, I follow. Still seems a bit excessive, but I do like that pointy needle thing you have by the blow dryer. I need to get my sister one of those, cute and deadly like her.

-That? Oh, honey, no, that’s a hair pin.

-If you put your hair in a bun and use that as an ornament, you’d never be unarmed, that’s all I’m saying. Again, cute and deadly.

-...You’ve opened my eyes.

-You’re welcome. May I borrow your eyeliner?

-Sure, but why? You don’t usually use makeup.

-If I make myself long enough wings, maybe I’ll be able to fly away from my problems. Or look fabulous enough to not care about them.

-In moments like this I’m reminded of my undying love for you. Do my eyes too.

-Gotcha.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He came home five minutes after receiving the text, chest heaving from the run and heart beating furiously for a entirely different reason.

Cassie, phone at hand, was waiting by the door. Her eyes were solemn.

-What happened? -he asked, not bothering with niceties as he stepped in and closed the door behind him.

-Family dinner went wrong -she shrugged-, not that he told me. Bart was playing games when he walked in and he texted Jason, who told him, and then he came to me.

Fuck them, Kon thought uncharitably. The Waynes were both an awesome family, and boarding on toxic. Guessing which kind were they going to be any given week was like playing lottery. It was such a Murphy law thing that they went for shitty this particular weekend, where Tim could have used their love and support the most.

-How is Jason? -he asked, not that he cared too much, but because he knew Tim would want to know sooner or later.

-Bart didn’t say, but he did mention he was hanging out with Kori and Roy, and Artemis said in the family group chat to not bother her tonight, so I’m assuming she’s there too.

-Biz is still at the farm, but three is better than nothing -he sighed, taking off his coat and walking towards the stairs- Bart?

-He just convinced Tim to take a bath in the big tub, so he’s probably standing guard by the door.

A nod, Kon’s steps hurried with purpose now that he had a clear destination in mind.

-The others?

Cassie waved vaguely towards the arch on the wall leading to the living room. Kon could see someone moving there from the corner of his eye, but didn’t turn to check; he wouldn't be derailed from his path.

-Greta went to the attic to clean Tim’s room a bit. You know he doesn't have the strength to do it himself right now, but seeing it like that also makes him feel worse. Cissie and Anita are readying the living room for a movie night, picking up all the pillows and blankets in the house. A pillow fort might be in the making.

They were on the second floor now. Kon could see Bart ahead, back resting against the wall, just by the side of the door.

-Slobo ran to Tim’s favorite pizza place -Cassie kept going, keeping pace with him- and should be back soon; Miguel went to the store to buy comfort food, sweets and stuff. Ice cream too, probably.

Conner nodded again, glad to see everyone was following their protocol for these kind of situations. All their housemates accounted for, he stopped in front of Bart and patted his shoulder comfortingly. He was very empathetic, tended to pick up on everyone’s moods, specially Tim’s, and let himself be influenced by them. The shadows on his eyes were probably a mirror image of how their friend currently taking a bath was doing. Not so hot, apparently.

-I’ll take it from here, you guys go put on your pajamas and help the girls get everything ready -he suggested, eyes going to Cassie’s. She nodded, understanding that her mission now was to calm Bart down. Helping Anita and Cissie would do wonders for him.

On most situations, the group tended to follow Tim’s lead, their indisputable commander in chief; when he couldn’t be there, or was too emotionally compromised, Cassie would take over. However, in this particular scenario, everyone deferred to him for some reason. Maybe because he’s been with Tim for the longest time, maybe because he knew him best. It didn’t matter; all he cared about was that it made his work easier, and they seemed glad to have a task they could focus on, rather than dwelling in concern.

Softly, he rapped his knuckles against the door.

-Tim? I’m coming in, dude -he informed him, voice low as to not spook him if he was dissociating. The last they needed was him slipping in the shower.

When no answer came, he entered the steamy bathroom, door closing behind him. As Cassie had predicted, Tim was sitting in the almost full tub, knees hugged to his chest and chin resting above them. His eyes went to Conner when he approached him though, which was a good enough sign to make him visibly sigh in relief.

Tim’s eyes narrowed, as if he wanted to snap at him that he didn’t need them to take care of him, but then he just deflated and looked ahead again, not nearly strong enough to fight.

Knot growing on his chest, Kon sat by the tub’s edge- Hey there. You’re not looking very cool right now. Have I ever told you I despise like 66% of your family?

-Three out of six is not 66%.

-Three? I only like Alfred and Cass.

-You don’t dislike Jason.

-I mean, it varies from moment to moment. But I’ll give you that since you’re feeling bad, and concede on 50%.

Tim snorted a little, and his eyes didn’t look as dead as they had when Kon first came in, so he gave himself infinite Best Friend points.

-Want to talk about it? -he asked gently, hand on Tim’s wet shoulder. He felt more like saw him shrug.

-Nothing to tell, really… It was more of the same shit. I love them, but sometimes they…

-Don’t make it easy, huh?

-...yeah. I don’t even know why I’m so fucked up over it, I’m used to this.

Kon squeezed his shoulder- Your psychiatrist warned you, this week was gonna be tough even without the family drama. Your body is adjusting to the new medication, and it…

-Yeah, yeah, I know -he sighs, sinking deeper into the water- I just… I just hate this. That my brain works like that, that I worry you all, that I can’t just fucking deal with it alone. You know what Jack used to say about mental illness…

-A stupid bastard’s words shouldn't be taken seriously. And you know we don’t like the J word in this house, it’s one of the rules.

Tim’s smile, small and tentative, was a thing of beauty. It never failed to remind Kon why he put so much effort into making the situation better for his friend, when he saw that it actually did help.

-You guys can’t just erase my father from my memory by sheer force of will and avoidance of the topic.

-Sure we can -he gave his shoulder a light pat-. The boys will be here soon with food, and I heard a movie night is in order. You done with your bath? We could stay here longer if you want to, though.

Tim’s smile grew a little bit, cheeks warming, delighted despite himself at the love and care that was being bestowed upon him. Some time ago, he might have fought them over it; the progress was hard earned, but Kon wouldn't change a single thing about it.

-Yeah, I just have to put conditioner on and comb my hair -he hesitated a bit, glancing down at his arms hugging his legs and probably weighing their strength-. Could you, uh… do it for me?

Kon had already been reaching for the bottle even before he asked.

There was little he could do to help Tim, medical wise. But there were professionals for that, and after many late night talks and specially bad episodes, Tim had gotten better at seeking their help when needed.

What he could do was no less important, though; making sure their home was a safe, supportive, non-toxic place for him to come back to.

That’s what best friends-- what family was there for.

63 notes · View notes

dreamcatcherfication · 5 years

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Like a Dream That You Can’t Quite Place

So this was a fic requested by @burntuakrisp at one point, and even though it took some time to get around to, here it is! This is a mash up of Satisfied from Hamilton, but Anna singing about Kat. Now I didn’t want to do a direct song-to-story format, so I tried something a little different. This is more of a “inspired by” type, so you’ll catch references to Satisfied, but it’s not actually sung at any point. There’s a part of this that might be a little controversial so let’s hope I don’t get cancelled for it. Sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, turns out it’s because I’m a ten year old boy who finds sex jokes funny.

Writing Masterpost

And note: Just because this takes place in the past does not mean I am writing about the actual wives of Henry VIII. These are still the musical characters but set in the past.

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas. Now featuring random asks:

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Random Asks

Trigger Warnings: Vague mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of beheading, Henry VIII

In truth, Anna had not wanted to come to the wedding, nor had she found it appropriate that she had been invited. Who would think it would be anything less than awkward for the former wife of the king to come witness his marriage to the new queen. However, it wasn’t jealousy that made the situation awkward, but rather the groom who now stood between two extremely close women. Or in Katherine’s case, girl.

Anna had not attended the actual ceremony, but she was amongst the dancers in the banquet hall who surrounded the king and his new queen as they feasted. It was strange seeing her dear friend Katherine now wearing a crown of jewels and sitting next to a man three times her size, but Anna could say nothing. She approached the queen and kneeled down. “Your Majesty,” she greeted courtly.

Glancing around uncomfortably, Katherine gently put a hand on Anna’s shoulder. “You do not have to kneel Anna, you were a queen just as I am.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Anna continued to remain formal. If they were in private, Anna would find it absurd to use the royal terms with her former lady in waiting, but she wouldn’t dare cross that line with Henry sitting right next to Katherine. “I’ve come to congratulate you on your marriage.”

Henry clutched his large stomach and forced a smile towards Anna. “How sweet of you, dear sister. Have you brought gifts?”

Nodding, Anna unclasped the locket that she had hanging around her neck. “An antique locket from the House of Cleves. I’m sure her majesty will enjoy it greatly.”

Gasping as she was handed the locket, Katherine admired its beauty. “It’s stunning Anna, thank you so much. Will you help me put it on?”

Realizing he was being forced out of the conversation, Henry cut in. “I can do that, my darling.” He leaned over and grabbed the locket, holding it up to Katherine’s neck. The girl frowned when he fumbled with the clasp, his fat fingers unable to hook it properly. Katherine uncomfortably shifted in the long amount of time it took before Henry finally got the locket in place. “Perfect. It looks radiant on someone as beautiful as you,” he flirted with Katherine, who seemed far too nervous for someone who was married to the man.

Anna started to back away, knowing that Henry had already dismissed her by turning his attention back to Katherine. The girl shot one last longing glance in Anna’s direction before she was forced to return her attention to her husband.

Meanwhile, Anna found herself exiting the hall to go for a walk about the grounds. She could not stand staying in that stifled hall, surrounded by the people who had once ridiculed her. She missed the comfort of Katherine as her lady in waiting, the soft moments they would spend together away from all the horrors of the real world. It was hard for her to see everything they had built together fall apart because of the king. As she traversed the palace grounds, Anna couldn’t help but feel herself start to rewind time, falling into a memory she so clearly remembered.

The sky was bright and the breeze blew through Anna’s hair, the sound of birds chirping almost picture perfect. Of course Anna wasn’t alone (her ladies in waiting were a few feet behind her) but Anna could almost feel free when roaming outside. “Milady,” one of the girls called.

“Yes?”

The lady in waiting made sure there was a wide berth between her and her queen. “The king has requested your presence, he has a new lady in waiting he wishes for you to meet. I believe he has taken rather a,” the girl spoke disdainfully, “liking to this one.”

Sighing, Anna turned away from her freedom and followed her ladies back into the palace where her husband awaited. As much as she disliked her husband, she knew there were far worse men to be wed to. Henry spoke so lowly of her, yet he let her do as she pleased throughout the palace. If he was requesting her presence, then clearly he meant business.

Henry was standing outside of Anna’s bedchambers, his hand on the shoulder of a young girl. The girl was a teenager, and her gaze was thoroughly frightened (although she was doing her best to appear calm). “My wife,” Henry said, his tone a mix between disgust and politeness. “It seems we have received a new lady for you, a one Miss Katherine Howard.”

Katherine was one of the most beautiful girls Anna had ever seen. Sure, she considered herself to be quite beautiful no matter what Henry said, but this girl was a rose, plucked directly from the Garden of Eden. For once, Anna felt something deep in her heart start to stir. “Miss Howard, how kind of you to join us. You must be special if the king has brought you here himself.”

“Oh no,” Katherine spoke and curtseyed. “I am of no importance, but his Grace is most kindly.” Anna had to hide a scoff at that comment. Henry was far from kindly, but he loved hearing praise, something Katherine seemed to understand very well.

Growing bored of the women’s interactions, Henry’s voice drowned out any other conversation. “Well I must return to my duties, and you ladies to your needlework, I assume. It was lovely to meet you Katherine,” Henry gave her a full toothed smile that made all the ladies nervous. He spared a glance to his wife and muttered, “And you do as you will.”

There was a clear tension among the ladies as they realized what was going on. Henry was very clearly showing his wife that he had interests in Katherine, knowing that neither of the girls could do a thing about it. “Hello, my queen,” Katherine cut into the silence, doing her best to retain any semblance of proper court. When the girl looked up and gave Anna that smile, oh the queen could almost forget her name.

Anna dismissed the other ladies and went inside her chambers with Katherine. “Tell me, where is your family from?”

“Unimportant,” Katherine replied, her face flinching. “I am your humble servant, my background does not matter.”

Watching the way she fidgeted, Anna elected not to push further. She knew Katherine probably came from a bad family she did not want Anna to know about (and by acting the way she did, Katherine had unintentionally given that away). Everything about Katherine was so immediately endearing, and Anna knew from the start they were meant to have some sort of connection. Not the kind Henry was trying to form, but the kind that would last.

And that was why Anna tried so hard to stomp it out.

B l i n k i n g back into the present, Anna realized she had come across a small grove of trees and plants in the palace grounds. She vividly remembered the times she would bring Kat out into the grove to practice dancing with her. The two of them rejoiced in the private time they spent in each other’s company. Of all Anna’s servants, she had grown comfortable with Kat, enough that they would forgo appearances when free of any probing eyes.

Now, alone in the grove with only the dark of the night, Anna felt as if the memories were ghosts of a past life. She was no longer the queen, and Katherine was no longer her servant. They were different people than the two who had hidden within the grove.

Humming a low tune, Anna walked in circles around the trees, twirling as she passed rocks and cobblestone. She had her arms up as she so often had in the past, leading Kat through courtly dances. “I feel we would still be together if not for the three truths I’ve realized,” Anna spoke to the empty grove. It was easier for her to tell Kat her feelings when the girl was nowhere near enough to hear her.

“The three fundamental truths,” Anna whispered, mostly to herself. There was a stumble in her dancing before Anna resumed with more vigor than when she started. “One. Henry is the king. No matter how much you or I disagree with him, he can have what he wants. And if he wants you, there’s nothing I can do but try and make it easier for you.” Anna had no choice but to obey the king, but that did not quell her desire to defy him and keep Katherine safe with her.

Continuing to hum her tune, Anna came up next to a gnarled tree. Resting her back against the tree, she mimed pulling her partner closer to her. “Two. Your family is of low status. You’ve never disclosed your upbringing to me, but I can tell by the way you act. If Henry had any idea how close we had grown, he would not allow it. Servants and royalty do not mix, unless it is the king and his mistress. The only way he will allow us to be around each other publically is if you are his wife and I am his sister.”

The image of Katherine standing next to the King wormed its way into Anna’s mind. She wanted to tear the image in half, never to be seen again. But the picture was reality. Anna had no power to rewrite reality. “Three. You’ve always been vague about it, but you confided in me about what had happened in your childhood. What those men had done to you.” A choking sound made its way through Anna’s throat as she realized what she was trying to say. “To tell you that I feel that same connection with you that they did… I cannot do that to you in good conscience. So I will suffer in silence, knowing that I can never be satisfied of this hunger deep within me.”

Her dancing halted as Anna stared at her empty hands. “I hope you will be happy with your groom.”

Inevitably, Anna knew there would be a catch. She tried not to grow close to Katherine, knowing that Henry was pursuing her. Anna and Katherine were being pitted against each other for the title of queen, and Anna would not allow herself to come between Katherine and the most powerful man in England. She didn’t want Henry to marry Katherine, but she also didn’t want to be exiled by the king for fighting back, ultimately resulting in Katherine and Henry’s marriage anyway.

When it came down to it, Anna was helpless to stop Henry.

But if Anna had known Kat’s fate, she would have allowed herself to be exiled a thousand times over, she would’ve put her own head on a chopping block if it gave her the chance to prevent Kat’s death. Henry had known how close the two girls were, so he ordered that none of her servants tell her of the girl’s imprisonment. It was no act of mercy on his part, but rather for efficiency. If Anna knew what he planned to do to Kat, she would have fought tooth and nail to save the girl.

When she received news about Katherine after six months of silence, it was the news of her death. The pain it brought upon Anna was like no sickness she had ever known. Without being conscious of it, Anna made the vow never to be remarried. She would not betray Kat’s memory by moving on and pushing the love she felt for her best friend to the side. She could never feel the love she felt for Kat with another man. For weeks she refused to interact with her servants beyond what was absolutely necessary. She could not forgive them for keeping Katherine’s imprisonment from her.

But the most painful part were her fantasies. The nights where she could still see Katherine’s eyes, the innocent, most beautiful gaze preserved. In the candlelight, Anna could still remember the way Kat had looked at her when they first met. Anna felt her stomach tighten, knowing those eyes would never rest on her again. She had thought that by allowing Kat’s marriage to Henry, she would still be able to see those angel eyes. But Henry had taken that away from her as well.

Standing in the empty ballroom at Richmond only reminded Anna of the time she had with Kat. When the girl was married to Henry, it had been hard to keep their friendship alive, but they had managed as best they could. Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Anna turned around

and came face to face with Katherine in her regal dress. The girl still had the same youthful glint in her eyes, despite now having the status of a queen. The ballroom was alive with dancers and music, the air bright and festive. “It’s been so long Anna.”

Swallowing thickly, Anna nodded. “It has Kat.” Letting her eyes drop, Anna noticed the locket around Katherine’s neck. “You still have it?”

Looking down to confirm what Anna was staring at, Kat smiled. “Yes, I never take it off. You would have to chop my head off like Boleyn to get me to part with it.”

The sick feeling in Anna’s stomach grew exponentially, but she hid it behind a polite smile. “Well then, would you like to dance with me, Your Majesty?” Holding out a hand, Anna watched her darling gracefully take it.

“I would love to.” As it had always been, Anna led the dance. There was nothing special about it, just the swaying to the melodies produced by the lute. The way their hands fit together felt so right, but Anna knew it wouldn’t last. She knew Kat would have to leave. That’s why she danced with her for far longer than was traditionally acceptable in the court.

It was the best moment of her life, the soft, silent comfort of Kat in her arms. It was the most relaxed that Anna had ever seen the queen. Kat needed the comfort of a friend, and that was what Anna would give her. Nothing else. There were far too many reasons why Anna was trapped in her position. But from where she currently stood, her position was not so bad.

The dance was stopped when Anna yawned and stumbled on her feet. “You should get some sleep, it’s very late,” Kat spoke softly, pulling herself away from Anna.

“Wait, don’t leave,” Anna pleaded, reaching out.

The queen frowned but then giggled at the desperate face Anna was making. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I might never see you again,” Anna confessed, remembering the news of Katherine’s death. She was frightened that if Kat left the room, she would never return.

Putting a hand on Anna’s arm, Katherine smiled. “You’re insatiable, just like the king. But I’ll always be here with you. As long as you remember me, I’ll never leave you.” Kat balanced on her tip toes and gave Anna a kiss on the cheek before scurrying out of the room.

“Wait!” Anna called, reaching a hand out, but Katherine was already gone.

The ballroom was once again silent and dark, not a single soul but Anna within. Dropping to her knees, Anna stared up at the ceiling and prayed that Kat had been granted mercy. “She was right,” the woman choked out. “Henry will never be satisfied.”

“I will never be satisfied.”

#six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #katanna #anna of cleves #katherine howard #set in the tudor time era #inspired by satisfied from hamilton #i meant to make it a bit more close #bit this happened and i actually like it a lot #title is a lyric from the song #h*nry viii #also yes i tag h*nry as a trigger warning #he can do that to a person

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yourfaveisyanderematic · 4 years

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damnit ok retyped bcos i dont save shit, f to me 😔 i know ur nge trash so u know the song, butttttt did you know it has a SUPER DOPE preamble in some versions? google 'poets often use many words' and ull find it ANYWAY imagine if like. reader chan *thinks* theyre alone idk stuck w cleaning duty by themselves cos jotaro never does shit, so they sing to make the chore faster but. gasp surprise he was listening and thinks theyre singing to him! (or yan of ur choice) dun dunduuunnn

You are a singer. This is not to say that you are known for your voice, or that you take special pride in songs, or even that you’re particularly good--that you have a place on the stage outside your own private fantasies. You are a singer because it is a function of the soul. It is what human beings do, in the same way birds make nests and bees dance.

You are also a student. Coincidentally: today is your day to clean the classroom. It’s a solitary and cumbersome hassle, made moreso by the fact that it shouldn’t be solitary or cumbersome, but that’s the natural consequence of being partnered with the perpetual absence of Jotaro Kujo. It’s something you have to learn to ignore, papering over misplaced anger and indignation with empty assurances, with ‘I’m-fine’s and spiteful diligence. Their absence exposes an unsettling silence, however. A plaintive loneliness. You have to create a new companion to take its place.

The shape it takes is song. It wobbles, crackly and out of tune, malnourished of confidence, uneven in meter and lack of practice--alright. It's ugly. There, I said it. A weed in the cracks of a sidewalk except it’s a voice. But it's yours. And as the weeks pass, it blooms into something, and with its help your work is lighter and time goes quicker. There’s a certain joy in the transformation, where you are no longer alone with an absence but together with yourself. A grandness in humble passion, in articulating something from the depths of your heart: “But just to be sure that you know what I’m saying, I’ll translate as I go along--”

Today, you had even brought a cassette player, a backing track for your little solo. That might be why you have to fight down something sour, as your friend insists on helping you finish up early, and no amount of ‘Oh it’s fine’ or ‘Really, don’t wait for me’ will dissuade them. The idea puzzles you, as the two of you empty wastebaskets and sweep floors and wipe down the blackboard; fifteen minutes in a high school classroom can’t possibly mean that much to you, that you’re resenting its absence this deeply. You’re going to the arcade after this! Please be normal for a change. Enough of this weird aloofness. Let your tapes of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald languish in your pocket for a day--their grand landscapes of love and feeling will be where you left them.

...your friend’s been saying something. Your broom pauses in its mindless shuffle so the words can reach your ears.

“Your English isn’t bad, y’know? Is that how you practice, with American songs?”

Oh. Your voice shrivels on itself, withering in the heat of another’s attention, and your reply comes out as a pathetic raspy croak. “Um. No, I just--.”

Your friend laughs and playfully hits your shoulder. “We should try karaoke or something sometime! Let you really belt it out, it’ll be great.”

Drinking poison would hurt you less. You say: “Perhaps”, and leave it at that. When you finish making the classroom spotless, it’s in dead silence--not even your footsteps make noise. It’s a silly thing, to be mortified to this extreme, but you can’t make yourself make any noise. When you walk out the door only to bump into a wall of muscle, you can barely find it in you to make a squeak of surprise.

Jotaro. Your obdurately truant helper. Somehow his presence is even worse than his absence, especially with the way he silently stares you down. What’s that glimmer in his eyes? Are you sure you’re not just imagining it?

“Finally felt like coming to help out, Kujo?” You ask. There’s an accusation in your voice, peeking out from the artificial indifference. You try not to wince when you realize he definitely noticed it.

Your friend snickers. “Figures he’d pick the one day someone else decided to you me do his work. Well, we’re done here, but thanks for showing up, I guess.”

What is he even doing here? You figured he’d quit campus the second the last bell rang, vanishing to parts unknown and deaf to everyone’s protests and whispers.

Jotaro doesn’t immediately reply. He’s still standing there, filling the doorway with his overlarge frame. Blocking you in here, and the worst part is that he’s probably not even conscious of doing it. Jotaro’s just...horribly inconsiderate like that. You're apprehensive--like approaching a strange dog--but nonetheless make to move past him, knowing that he won’t move an inch unless he decides he wants to. To your (quickly swallowed; it’s not like he scares you) relief, he does, and you don’t even brush against him as you step into the hallway. Your friend is quick to follow behind you, flipping their hair in obvious contempt, and ushers you down the hallway. No, that’s not right--away from him.

“You know, I heard he’s been hanging around campus more than usual.” They whisper, leaning in. It’s harsh, loud enough that he could easily pick it up even from where he’s standing, and he’s obviously meant to. “Weird, right? Everyone knows he doesn’t care about school.” They throw an exaggerated, suspicious glance over their shoulder at him. A warning rises in your throat--surely they’re smarter than to actively provoke Jotaro--but you don’t have the courage to voice it. Just what is it that you’re afraid of?

“I bet he’s blackmailing someone. Or stealing,” they continue offhandedly, counting on their fingers. “Or stalking. Really, I bet he’ll do anything. I don’t get why he hasn’t just dropped out already. Might be for the best that you don’t stay in a room alone with him, you could be next. I wonder--”

“Don’t joke about it, please,” you interrupt, and your voice is back--as wobbly and shaky and ugly as it was when you first started singing. “I don’t want to think about that stuff.”

“I feel you,” they nod sagely, apparently oblivious to the fact that they’re the source of your distress, “maybe we can talk to the teacher and get you a new cleaning partner?”

The cozy solitude of your classroom is stripped away. You’re back in an ugly, chaotic world full of people who aren’t safe, and your voice can’t protect you from them. It’s a horrible thought, one that sours your overpriced soda and throws you off your game. When you say good-bye and part ways as you head home, your tapes are still forgotten in your pocket; all you can think about is the look on Jotaro’s face when you turned back to look at him.

Your friend doesn’t come to school the next day. Apparently they got into an accident on their way home. They broke both legs.

#by me #mwah @ ok-jjba-writings who has my favorite iteration of Jotaro #I did not know about that prelude verse to Fly Me To the Moon!#it's super cute too omg #Anonymous #this is probably a prequel to a proper fic tbh #the start of something awful

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bluetortoist · 5 years

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Questionnaire 1

Cosmo

What is their name, gender, and age?

And he is a 5yr(26 year old), male tortoiseshell Manx cat

What are three adjectives to describe them?

Well Mannered, Wide-eyed, Free spirited

Do they have a human home or are they a stray? If they have a human home, what is their home life like? If they are a stray, what is life like on the streets?

Technically a stray, but the family of the house he used to live by would give him and his family some scraps and water sometimes.

What is their ‘role’ within the tribe, or what are they known for? (Ex: Tugger is the curious cat/rockstar, Gus is the theatre cat, Mistoffelees is the magician, Munkustrap is the Jellicle Protector, Jelly is seen as a caretaker, etc)

He’ll probably be known as “Cosmo the Swingin’ Cat”. He doesn’t have a role yet, but everyone likes his presence and to hear some of his stories from the country. He is good with the kittens, being sort of a big kitten himself.

Who are their best friends? You can include characters from the show or tag other people’s OC’s. How popular are they?

He's sort of popular. His main friends that he made have been Bastion, Damus, Hayato and Coquette and Marikit. But it's safe to say that he's made friends with nearly everyone, some are interested in him because of his accent and that he lacks a tail.

What is their favorite food? Do they prefer human food or something they’ve hunted?

He likes chicken and eggs, but isnt picky either. He used to live in the backwoods of the country, so he knows how to hunt. But hell get away with a bit of begging when he wants a taste of human food.

Do they have any accessories? Scars? Why or why not?

He wears suspenders and baggy pants along with a newsboy cap hat.

What style of dance do they work best in?

Tap dance and swing

Do they have any sort of magic? Do they fear magic?

He was a little scared at first because he had never seen magic or grew up with it before. But now he is really enchanted by it.

Any fears?

He is of birds. The big ones in particular like hawks and owls. He saw one snatch up an older cat across the street where he used to live one day as a kitten and it has haunted him ever since.

Do they believe in love? If so, what is their “type” and how do they act when they are in love? If not, then why?

He is a romantic at heart, so he believes in love. When he is in love, he tries to hide his face with his hat from how big and goofy he's smiling.

Do they personally know anyone who has gone up to the Heaviside layer? Do they believe in the Heaviside?

No he doesn't. He never even heard about the Heaviside Layer. When he does, he sometimes thinks that his Ma and Pa might be there.

Any passions or hobbies? (Ex: Dance, hunting, etc)

Besides dancing, he likes to do woodwork making all kinds of figures.

If a song was sung about them at the Jellicle Ball, what would it be about?

It would be about Cosmo and his voyage from the states to England and would definitely have swing kind of music. He would sing about his life on the countryside and his adventures going from boats to planes to trains traveling across the sea to where he is now.

What are their thoughts on some of the main characters in the show? (Ex: Tugger, Munk, Jenny, you get to choose!)

It's safe to say he likes nearly everyone. He likes to talk to Skimbleshanks and Jenny; they remind him of his parents. He's friends with Alonzo and Plato and Tumblebrutus. He finds Tugger a little strange, but he doesn't think badly of him.

Do they have any secrets they are hiding?

None

Questionnaire 2

What are they like on the outside?

He’s a polite, happy-go-lucky gentleman who kind of has a flirtatious streak, but is also very curious and adventurous when it comes to new surroundings.

How do others perceive them?

Some might of him as a childish hick or a shameless flirt who knows nothing about the world around him and doesn’t know when he is being taken advantage of.

What are they actually like on the inside? Are they similar to how they are on the outside, or totally different?

he is a little bit of both because in some ways, they way some see him is completely true. But he is actually smarter than he looks and is more sensitive to other's feelings than some think. He knows that some things that he says come out a different kind of way, but he means no harm and thinks anyone should be treated the way he'd want to be treated.

How many cats truly know who they are on the inside? Does your character often show who they truly are?

He is an open book. He doesnt hide anything about him.

What makes your character appealing to other cats? What reason do others have to like them?

A lot of cats like to hear him talk because of his accent and him having no tail is a conversation starter. He will joke about having no tail and make up a story about how he lost it.

What flaws does your character have? Do they give anyone any reason to dislike them?

He is a bit gullible and can be tricked easily when not paying attention to his surroundings. Sometimes things that he says sounds more like flirting than what he thinks is a compliment and that gets him in trouble sometimes.

Can they fight?

He can. But even with how toned he is in some areas, he has a lean build, so he’s not too strong

Do they often get into fights? What do they get into fights over?

No. He tries not to get into fights, but he will if necessary

Who are their parents? Are they alive? Do we know what they are like personality wise? Does your character have any sort of contact with them?

His Ma and Pa have passed away a long time ago of old age, but he knows they’re in a better place.

Do they have any siblings or other relatives?

He has no other siblings, but considers the neighbourhood cats back home part of his family.

(If they have a home) How did they end up in their current home? (If they’re a stray) How did they end up on the streets?

He has no current home as of yet. He has just been sleeping wherever it was dry and safe. Hes been sleeping in a wood box outside of a restaurant for the time being.

What was their childhood like?

He was born a stray living with his Ma' and Pa' in a barn next to wildlife in the American countryside. He was taught how to hunt and dance, but was also taught manners and being a good tom. It was a laidback life on the farm and going into the human town, but out in the woods was pretty tough and you had to always be on your guard.

What was the worst experience they ever had to go through, in their opinion?

2 experiences. one being when he saw the hawk catch his neighbor up as a kid. And the other where he wasn’t paying attention and was nearly stomped on by a farm bull.

Do they potentially have a crush or a mate? Have they ever been in love?

He comes to like Marikit (another friends oc from discord) when he first arrives. He has had a few crushes, but they were from as a kitten. He a little embarrassed by it now, but one time when he was younger he tried to put the moves on a fox whom he thought was another cat. but he soon realized what she was and was kinda interrupting her waiting for someone else.

Who do they look up to?

Besides his parents, he looked up to his neighbor who was an old cat before he was snatched away.

Greatest achievement?

He thinks with how much he has traveled without getting thrown off is a pretty good accomplishment. He also feels kinda proud that he rode on a running horse once (even though him and his claws were the reason it was running in a frenzy)

Do they have any pet peeves?

Not really.

How do they react to a compliment? An insult?

To a compliment, he's pretty humble, but depending on the cat, he’d try not to get too flustered and grin like an idiot. To an insult, he's not one to get too upset about things, but if it does too far and if it's someone else getting the flack, that would be enough to get him pissed off.

What are they best at?

Dancing, Singing, Woodcrafting, Sneaking and Begging

What do they often fail at?

He might take a joke too far or too long, so he ends up apologizing.

What assumptions do others make about them and how does your oc react to them?

Some might label him as a dumb, naive hick while others see him as a very sweet and energetic guy to be around.

How many languages do they speak? Do they have an accent?

He can only speak english. And he has a southern accent.

Do they label their sexuality? (Pan, Gay, straight, etc)

Male, Bisexual

What is their ‘outlet’? How do they express themselves?

Woodwork and working with metal. Besides wood dolls, he has little side projects of sculptures or figures made out of metal. They take a while to make though so he only has a few completed.

Are they secretly worried about anything? (Worried about a friend, the future, family, etc.

He's thinks about the neighbor's and other animal friends back at home and worries about their well being sometimes. He might want to visit back once in a while.

(Extra, for the creator)

Are you currently in a rp with your oc?

yes!

Why did you decide to make an oc?

I thought it would be cute to have a little country bumpkin-like cat from overseas visiting London

How did you pick their name?

No particular reason. Mostly because I thought it sounded funny and fitting for him and his personality

Are they modeled off any specific breed?

Yes! After a tortoiseshell manx cat

Why did you pick that design for them?

Because I wanted to make a cat who would joke around about having no tail.

--- Yup. people are probably sick of it by now, but heres some more Cats oc’s in your face! both questionnares belong to @magical-marvelous-mistoffelees

#cats musical #cats the musical #cats ocs #my ocs #long post

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mirkwoodshewolf · 5 years

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Aladdin Queen fic John Deacon x reader chap. 6; Princess Ali meets Prince John

*Author’s note*

Okay this was probably my most FAV. part to write (next to the magic carpet/a whole new world part that’s coming in the next couple of chapters) cause we get to what helped me win Will over as the Genie. So I hope you all watch the video I have linked below to really set the mood for this chapter. And unfortunately this is where I stop for now until I get the next chapter done (which I hope is soon). Thank you all soooo much for being incredibly patient with these updates for this series and I hope you all enjoy the binge reading that I gave you all ;)

Taglist:

@psychosupernatural

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@geek-and-proud

@queendeakyy

@georgesgentlyweepingguitar

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Play video

Back in the village as usual the day went on as normal, however things started happening. Pyramids of spices began to crumble down, brass and metals began rattling together in a single beat. From the palace that the three kings plus Paul were sitting around having their tea, their cups and fine china began to rattle.

In the Princes’ bedchambers, John and Brian looked up confused from their maps at the distant rumbling while Roger was woken up from his nap due to the thunderous rumbles.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Roger groaned.

From the village, the palace guards were running through the village entrance telling people to clear out of the way. They gathered on each side of the path because soon appearing was an ensemble of horsemen riding on white stallions.

Behind them an entire ensemble of drummers came out lowly chanting, then the horn players came out and played a fanfare as female dancers dressed like peacocks came out expanding the wings on their dresses and fanning them like real wings. It was then an ensemble of guards came marching out as they began to sing.

*Men ensemble*

Make way for Princess Ali *Female ensemble*

Say hey! It's Princess Ali

Freddie soon stood on a flower based float wearing a sparkling blue outfit that matched his genie color with a purple over coat with golden embedding designs and seams. He sung out to the crowd trying to get them hyped up for the arrival of a special guest that has come to grace them.

*Freddie*

Hey! Clear the way in the old bazaar Hey you! Let us through!

It's a brand new star! Oh come, be the first on your block

To meet her eye!

Make way! Here she comes! Ring bells! Bang the drums! You're gonna love this doll!

Princess Ali! Fabulous she!

Ali Ababwa Show some respect,

Darlings don’t be crude!

Down on one knee Now, try your best to stay calm Brush up your Friday salaam Then come and meet her spectacular coterie

The float evaporated just leaving the dancer but soon coming through the archway entrance to the village, Abu as the elephant came pulling in a camel shaped float which carried in her beautiful garb (y/n) in her disguise as Princess Ali.

Freddie continued to sing up a story that Princess Ali was more than just a woman filled with gifts and looks, she was also a warrior who took on armies of men and took them all down just by herself.

*Freddie*

Princess Ali, mighty is she

Ali Ababwa Strong as ten regular men, definitely! She faced the galloping hordes A hundred bad guys with swords Who sent those goons to their lords?

Why, Princess Ali

Darlings what’s she got?

*Men ensemble*

Seventy-five golden camels

*Freddie*

Woo! Uh-huh Now the ladies, talk to me dears

*Female ensemble*

Purple peacocks, she's got fifty-three *Freddie (spoken)*

(Fabulous darlings, love the feathers)

When it comes to exotic-type mammals Darlings help me out! *Ensemble*

(She's got a zoo, I'm telling you) It's a world-class menagerie

Now dressed in drag, Freddie was dancing with a bunch of female dancers along the balcony. Singing about how Princess Ali’s beauty has been known to even turn some girls into loving her.

Like she was a siren of the sea but with a pure heart of gold. The ensemble continued to march and dance along singing of her greatest possessions and kindness. (Y/n) tossed down some gold to the crowd who immediately went right at it.

Until finally they reached just a few feet from the palace gates, where the royal families and court all stood along the balcony observing the entire show.

*Freddie*

Princess Ali! Beauty is she, Ali Ababwa That physique! How can I not,

Turn for her, that lovely darling! So get on out in that square Adjust your veil and prepare To gawk and grovel and stare at Princess Ali

*Ensemble*

She got 95 white Persian monkeys,

*Freddie*

She’s got the monkeys

A bunch of monkeys *Freddie and (Ensemble)*

(And to view them she charges no fee) (She's generous, so generous) (She's got ten thousand servants and flunkies) (Proud to work for her!) (They bow to her whim love serving her) (They're just lousy with loyalty to Ali!

Princess Ali!

Princess—

“We're waiting for you!” Freddie pointed towards the three Kings who looked at the flamboyant young man with interest but pride that he was asking for permission to continue on. “We're not going until you go!” John’s father slowly raised his hand off the railing.

His friends and everyone in the court looked towards him waiting with anticipation.

“You can do it my darling!”

And with that John’s father gently patted the railing. Accepting their entrance.

“There it is!” Freddie exclaimed as he winked up at John’s father. They continued with their song and dance. At hearing his name, John was both embarrassed and annoyed with this and just had about enough as he walked away back towards his room, leaving Brian and Roger to look at each other.

*All*

Princess Ali, amorous she!

Ali Ababwa *Freddie (ensemble)*

Heard of a hot Prince John Deacon!

Where is he? And that, my dears, is why She got all dolled and dropped by With (sixty elephants, llamas galore) For real dears? (With her bears and lions, a brass band and more) Say what? (With her forty fakirs, her cooks, her bakers) (Her birds that warble on key) *All*

Make way

For Princess Ali!

By the end of it all, confetti shot out from everywhere as the entire village cheered. Freddie looked up at his master grinning widely at her and she smiled down at her genie, mouthing out a thank you to him.

*My POV*

Freddie and I now stood in the throne room. The only people who were in the throne room were some of the guards as well someone who looked vaguely familiar but yet not at the same time.

He had short brown hair and a mustache over his upper lip. His cold eyes stared me down as he carried a snake staff and had a parrot sitting on his shoulder. He looked like he was of high authority but not quite a king or prince. But whatever he was, he definitely gave me an uneasy feeling.

Especially since he also couldn’t stop staring at Freddie.

“Where are they?” I whispered.

“Relax darling.” Whispered Freddie back to me. It was then I saw the three kings walk in with each of their sons by their side. “Okay here they come.” I extended my small cane to them and Freddie whispered. “What are you doing?”

“I—I’m presenting to them.”

“Put your arms down.”

“But I’m presenting—”

“I said put your arms down girl!” he softly hissed.

“We welcome you to our humble home gifted to us by your people Princess Ali.” King Arthur spoke to me.

“Tell him it’s a pleasure to meet them.” Freddie advised me.

“It’s—just as much….a pleasure to—meet such regal men such as yourselves.” I said as I tried my best to curtsy, but I kept wobbling.

“You’re crossing your legs like you’re trying to take a piss. Bend your knees outward, not forward.” He said. I wobbled until I stood up properly back up.

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of Ababwa.” The mustached man said. Oh shit. Freddie and I looked at each other before we both spoke at the same time.

“It’s North.”

“It’s South.” Oh great, now we’ve done it, quickly think of something (y/n). “It—has both a North…..and a South kingdom.”

“Yeah see if you just keep traveling you’ll—you’ll find it.” Freddie said.

“It’s there, you just have to look for it.” I snapped at him but tried to be discreate about it.

“The world is changing Paul,” Brian’s father spoke up which caused Paul to nod submissively. “Seems there’s a new country every day.” He joked towards his son.

“May I present to you in person, my son Prince John Deacon.” When I saw John, my heart raced once again. I could barely speak and I just seemed to be in a daze.

Finally seeing him like this in his full regal appearance, that was just a bonus. All I could focus on was his beautiful eyes. It felt like the world was fading away, that was until I felt a nudge into my ribs from Freddie as he whispered to me.

“Tell him we have gifts.”

“Gifts!” I exclaimed which echoed through the walls. “I mean….we’ve brought gifts.” Freddie then exclaimed in Arabic and the doors opened and all the servants he had whipped up for me came in carrying everything known to man. “Yes, here we are with gifts. We have spices, golden camels, and spoons tiny spoons. I mean how do they make them that small?”

“Spoons.” A servant that stood by John trying to encourage my spoon gift. He seemed more kinder than Paul, with warm eyes and a kind soul.

“How do they make them that tiny? We have jams!” I exclaimed.

“Jams?” Paul asked skeptically.

“Jams?” his parrot mimics.

“Yes jams. Yam jams, fig jams, and date jams, spicy….delicious, exotic jams.”

“Move. Away. From the jams.” Freddie sneered through his smile.

“We—we also have uhh….”

“Jewels.”

“We have jewels. We have plenty of those. And uhh, and that! Over there. Covered for…..suspense.” I gestured to a cloth hiding something pretty huge. I heard Freddie exhale like he was just done with me.

I cleared my throat for the servants to pull back the cloth revealing some strange wheel or something. I don’t even know what it was but I tried to play it off like I did know.

“Ta-da. It’s uhh…..very expensive and very priceless.” John looked to Roger and Brian who were equally as confused, as was their servant that stood beside them.

“And just what do you hope to buy with this expensive—thing?” asked John as he turned and looked right at me.

“You.” I said.

Allah I wish I could’ve kicked myself at that point. Why must I be so nervous at this point. Everyone was in shock of what I had just said. I treated John like he was a prized chicken at the marketplace. His brows raised up skeptically almost like he didn’t hear me right.

“Wow.” Freddie muttered softly.

“I-I mean a moment with you!” I tried to save myself. Freddie mimicked the silent sounds of an explosion as I tried to stammer out a better explanation when John spoke again.

“Are you suggesting that I am for sale?”

“Of course.” Damnit there I go again. At this point John looked like he was about to raise hell. “Not! No of course not! I-I-I was trying to say……”

“It’s cold. And-and it’s dark in that lamp. But I prefer that to this right now.” Freddie whispered to me.

“Excuse me. I need to go……find some bread.” John said abruptly before turning around and walked away.

“For the jams.” Prince Brian spoke up as he followed behind John.

“Wait, wait I didn’t mean to…..”

“I get that John can make people nervous but maybe next time think before you speak.” Roger said as he looked at me with sympathy before following behind his friends along with the mustached servant.

“Please I didn’t—”

“Just drop it darling, you didn’t do good.” Freddie muttered to me.

“You will get another chance to speak with my son Princess Ali. When you join us for the annual Harvest our Indian allies hold tonight.” John’s father said. As the three kings walked away I said as I awkwardly bowed once more.

“Of course you’re—serene….selves.” But I could see all three of them shake their heads shamefully and embarrassedly then Paul along with the parrot on his shoulder turned and followed behind the three kings.

“Smooth.” I heard the parrot mock me. As we were now along in the throne room, Freddie turned to me and said.

“In 10,000 years. I have never been that embarrassed.”

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malereader-inserts · 6 years

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Finest Hour

Fandom: Avengers Pairing: Avengers & Male!Reader Summary: The Avengers are in dire need of relaxation, Tony knows exactly what they need Word Count: 1005 Request: “It's almost Lunar New Year here in my country so I would like to request a party (whatever event of your choice) with The Avengers. Have an awesome week, honey 🍯. “ A/n: Happy Lunar New Year, friend!

Tony Stark, a man of parties, threw a party.

He didn’t need an excuse, he could do whatever he wanted. You got a promotion? Meal out for everyone! Peter aced all his test, well I’ll be damned then he’ll rent out a whole cinema just to play Peter’s current favourite film and force the rest of the team to tag along.

Tony and Steve hadn’t argued in the last five hours, that calls a singer to sing for them in the concert hall. Tony didn’t know when to stop, sometimes he did it to spite Steve.

But that’s what you love about Tony.

When he notices everyone tense, he tries to get everyone to relax and what better way than getting absolutely drunk so that when the morning comes you forgot why everyone was so tense in the first place. So, when Tony announced that there will be a party to celebrate the times together, everyone was apprehensive about the idea.

Yet, everyone still attended.

There was no theme of the night other than try and wear colours of red, orange, pink or white. You never questioned Tony’s thought process to why, but you have never sported a red suit before. Though it was more burgundy than red and you hoped that Tony wasn’t going to scowl at you for not wearing correct colours.

“Looking good, (Y/n)!”

You smiled, accepting the complimented as you weave through the crowd of people - a mixture of everyone’s friends, some you haven’t met properly and some that you were vaguely introduced before. You search for your team, all enjoying the night despite protesting about it, days beforehand.

Thor was keen in wearing red because it was always his colour in Asgard so he favoured it much so. Bruce was wearing a sunset shade of orange, something that draws too much attention but something that was loud for him, he was getting fidgety with the compliments he was receiving.

Bucky looked good in pink, under his rough and dark exterior, he was a man that loved pink. He says that he feels manlier because a true man would wear pink. You chuckle and say “You do you, Bucks.”

Peter was hanging around with MJ and Ned, trying to eat as many marshmallows under ten seconds. Steve and Bucky stuck side by side, talking with Thor as they mingled with Rhodey’s friends. Though Rhodey and Pepper were engaged in an interesting topic.

Bruce was gushing over his science project to local scientists that have been invited, all looking ecstatic with each other’s project and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the nerds.

Clint and Sam were at the bar, trying to out drink each other. You would see Clint mischievously suggest ten shots of vodka each, you knew that someone will be cleaning their mess. Natasha was the one serving them, as much as she wasn’t a people person, she was certainly fond of watching her friends making mistakes for the night.

“My bets are on Sam!” She exclaims as Clint looked offended.

“What about me?” Clint asked, hurt, “I’m your best friend!”

“And I’ve seen you throw up after the third shot, Clint, you’re not that good.”

“I’ve built tolerance!”

“You’re going down, my fellow bird.” Sam interrupted, holding up the first shot and gulping it in one, slamming the glass down.

You chuckled as you spun on your heel, noticing Wanda and Vision having a moment together. It had taken Vision a while to express himself to Wanda and now they’re almost inseparable.

“Hey, kid!” Tony greeted, his arm over you and patting you on the shoulder, “Here.”

You looked down at his hand and see him offering you a glass of alcohol, you gladly take the iced beverage as you take a sip.

“Hey, Tony, nice party,” You complimented, you were waiting for your friends to come to the party - you know they weren’t going to bail out on a Tony Stark party no matter how much they wanted to stay in and binge watch a television show.

“I know,” Tony grinned with a cocky smile, “It’s my party.”

“Ever so humble, friend,” You chuckled as Tony throws his arm off you and snatches a drink off a waiter’s tray.

The two engage into a conversation, refusing to talk about work. You could tell that the party was also beneficial to the host, you had been noticing how much he and Bruce were in dire need of a rest and relaxation, stuck in one room for days on end were not healthy.

“Have you heard of Scott lately?” You questioned, “I swear I never see him.”

“Probably getting it on with Hope,” Tony commented, “That or he’s looking after the little girl, she seems like a sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Still trying to convince Peps in giving you a child?”

“It’s a working process.”

You shake your head, sighing. You stare out into the party once again. Watching how the music started to blare and everyone was out to embarrass each other with their dance moves. You watch Pepper grab your companion next to you for a dance.

Tony jokingly mimes for help as he willingly goes with her partner. Steve and Bucky were busting out the only 1930s dance moves as Bruce was trying to conceal himself and his god awful dad dance moves. You were sure that Clint was too drunk to function and the dance moves that he may consider as “Hip Hop,” might result in him breaking his neck or kicking someone in the face.

You noticed how Peter and Ned try doing dance moves from recent generation, trying to the cringe at the videogame dance moves - hoping soon that they would get over that game, it was a curse in the tower between Peter and Sam sometimes.

You stand on the side, like a wallflower, but you can’t help but smile like an idiot.

This was your team, your family, a group you wouldn’t trade for another.

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dfroza · 3 years

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Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs and book of Psalms

for September 8 of 2021 with Proverbs 8 and Psalm 8, accompanied by Psalm 81 for the 81st day of Astronomical Summer and Psalm 101 for day 251 of the year (now with the consummate book of 150 Psalms in its 2nd revolution this year)

[Proverbs 8]

[Wisdom Calling]

Can’t you hear the voice of Wisdom?

From the top of the mountains of influence

she speaks into the gateways of the glorious city.

At the place where pathways merge,

at the entrance of every portal,

there she stands, ready to impart understanding,

shouting aloud to all who enter,

preaching her sermon to those who will listen.

“I’m calling to you, sons of Adam,

yes, and to you daughters as well.

Listen to me and you will be prudent and wise.

For even the foolish and feeble can receive an understanding heart

that will change their inner being.

The meaning of my words will release within you revelation

for you to reign in life.

My lyrics will empower you to live by what is right.

For everything I say is unquestionably true,

and I refuse to endure the lies of lawlessness—

my words will never lead you astray.

All the declarations of my mouth can be trusted;

they contain no twisted logic or perversion of the truth.

All my words are clear and straightforward to everyone

who possesses spiritual understanding.

If you have an open mind, you will receive revelation-knowledge.

My wise correction is more valuable than silver or gold.

The finest gold is nothing compared to the revelation-knowledge

I can impart.”

Wisdom is so priceless that it exceeds the value of any jewel.

Nothing you could wish for can equal her.

“For I am Wisdom, and I am shrewd and intelligent.

I have at my disposal living-understanding

to devise a plan for your life.

Wisdom pours into you

when you begin to hate every form of evil in your life,

for that’s what worship and fearing God is all about.

Then you will discover

that your pompous pride and perverse speech

are the very ways of wickedness that I hate!”

[The Power of Wisdom]

“You will find true success when you find me,

for I have insight into wise plans that are designed just for you.

I hold in my hands living-understanding, courage, and strength.

I empower kings to reign and rulers to make laws that are just.

I empower princes to rise and take dominion,

and generous ones to govern the earth.

I will show my love to those who passionately love me.

For they will search and search continually until they find me.

Unending wealth and glory

come to those who discover where I dwell.

The riches of righteousness and a long, satisfying life

will be given to them.

What I impart has greater worth than gold and treasure,

and the increase I bring benefits more than a windfall of income.

I lead you into the ways of righteousness

to discover the paths of true justice.

Those who love me gain great wealth and a glorious inheritance,

and I will fill their lives with treasures.”

[Wisdom in the Beginning]

“In the beginning I was there,

for God possessed me even before he created the universe.

From eternity past I was set in place,

before the world began.

I was anointed from the beginning.

Before the oceans depths were poured out,

and before there were any glorious fountains

overflowing with water,

I was there, dancing!

Even before one mountain had been sculpted

or one hill raised up,

I was already there, dancing!

When he created the earth, the fields,

even the first atom of dust,

I was already there.

When he hung the tapestry of the heavens

and stretched out the horizon of the earth,

when the clouds and skies were set in place

and the subterranean fountains began to flow strong,

I was already there.

When he set in place the pillars of the earth

and spoke the decrees of the seas,

commanding the waves

so that they wouldn’t overstep their boundaries,

I was there, close to the Creator’s side as his master artist.

Daily he was filled with delight in me

as I playfully rejoiced before him.

I laughed and played,

so happy with what he had made,

while finding my delight in the children of men.”

[Wisdom Worth Waiting For]

“So listen, my sons and daughters, to everything I tell you,

for nothing will bring you more joy than following my ways.

Listen to my counsel,

for my instruction will enlighten you.

You’ll be wise not to ignore it.

If you wait at wisdom’s doorway,

longing to hear a word for every day,

joy will break forth within you as you listen for what I’ll say.

For the fountain of life pours into you every time that you find me,

and this is the secret of growing in the delight

and the favor of the Lord.

But those who stumble and miss me will be sorry they did!

For ignoring what I have to say will bring harm to your own soul.

Those who hate me are simply flirting with death!”

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 8 (The Passion Translation)

[Psalm 8]

For the worship leader. A song of David accompanied by the harp.

O Eternal, our Lord,

Your majestic name is heard throughout the earth;

Your magnificent glory shines far above the skies.

From the mouths and souls of infants and toddlers, the most innocent,

You have decreed power to stop Your adversaries

and quash those who seek revenge.

When I gaze to the skies and meditate on Your creation—

on the moon, stars, and all You have made,

I can’t help but wonder why You care about mortals—

sons and daughters of men—

specks of dust floating about the cosmos.

But You placed the son of man just beneath God

and honored him like royalty, crowning him with glory and honor.

You ordained him to govern the works of Your hands,

to nurture the offspring of Your divine imagination;

You placed everything on earth beneath his feet:

All kinds of domesticated animals,

even the wild animals in the fields and forests,

The birds of the sky and the fish of the sea,

all the multitudes of living things that travel the currents of the oceans.

O Eternal, our Lord,

Your majestic name is heard throughout the earth.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 8 (The Voice)

[Psalm 81]

For the worship leader. A song of Asaph accompanied by the harp.

Sing with joy to God, our strength, our fortress.

Raise your voices to the True God of Jacob.

Sing and strike up a melody;

sound the tambourine,

strum the sweet lyre and the harp.

Blow the trumpet to announce the new moon,

the full moon, the day of our feast.

For this is prescribed for Israel,

a rule ordained by the True God of Jacob.

A precept established by God in Joseph

during His journey in Egypt.

I hear it said in a language foreign to me:

“I removed the burden from your shoulders;

I removed heavy baskets from your hands.

You cried out to Me, I heard your distress, and I delivered you;

I answered you from the secret place, where clouds of thunder roll.

I tested you at the waters of Meribah.

[pause]

“O My people, hear Me; I will rebuke you.

Israel, Israel! If you would only listen to Me.

Do not surround yourselves with other gods

or bow down to strange gods.

I am the Eternal, your True God.

I liberated you from slavery, led you out from the land of Egypt.

If you open your mouth wide, I will fill it.

“But My own people did not hear My voice!

Israel refused to obey Me.

So I freed them to follow their hard hearts,

to do what they thought was best.

If only My people would hear My voice

and Israel would follow My direction!

Then I would not hesitate to humble their enemies

and defeat their opposition Myself.

Those who hate the Eternal will cower in His presence, pretending to submit;

they secretly loathe Him, yet their doom is forever.

But you—I will feed you the best wheat

and satisfy you with honey out of the rock.”

The Book of Psalms, Poem 81 (The Voice)

[Psalm 101]

Integrity

David’s poetic praise

Lord, I will sing about your faithful love for me.

My song of praise will have your justice as its theme.

I’m trying my best to walk in the way of integrity,

especially in my own home.

But I need your help!

I’m wondering, Lord, when will you appear?

I refuse to gaze on that which is vulgar.

I despise works of evil people

and anything that moves my heart away from you.

I will not let evil hold me in its grip.

Every perverse and crooked way I have put away from my heart,

for I will have nothing to do with the deeds of darkness.

I will silence those who secretly want to slander my friends,

and I will not tolerate the proud and arrogant.

My innermost circle will only be those

who I know are pure and godly.

They will be the only ones I allow to minister to me.

There’s no room in my home for hypocrites,

for I can’t stand chronic liars who flatter and deceive.

At each and every sunrise I will awake to do what’s right

and put to silence those who love wickedness,

freeing God’s people from their evil grip.

I will do all of this because of my great love for you!

The Book of Psalms, Poem 101 (The Passion Translation)

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247hana · 6 years

Text

the manager (pt. 1) | yhn

MARCH 1992

after numerous failed auditions, i think i finally got my biggest break ever!!! ah, i am so happy i could dance like a crazy person on the streets right now!!! but i do have to stop myself from doing so, of course. that won’t be a good image to be associated with my name when i’m finally on the front page of newspapers. hahaha is that a bit conceited? ah, never mind about that! i do have to go now because i’m about to meet MY manager to discuss about my CAREER. who knew that taking up that job at the jazz club could actually lead me to my dream? this universe really works in mysterious ways~

“Hana! Hey, we’re over here! Oh, my god! I missed you so much!”

Under the dim lights and crooning jazz music, Hana turned her head towards the familiar voice and smiled. She made way past the red-clothed tables and towards the ecstatic woman, giving her a hug as tight as the other as if she had longed for her as well. Hugs and kisses were showered on her. Everyone at the table gushed at her appearance. After all, she is Yoo Hana, the sweet girl next door they met in a foreign land. A beacon of light when everything seemed to be dark. That’s her to them, but she is not. After setting down the excitement in the air, she has finally taken a spot on one of the velvet love seats together with Baekhee, the giddy girl earlier and also her former college roommate.

“I still can’t believe when I got that text from you, Hana! I’ve always thought that you will never leave that place ever. But it’s okay! I’m now here with my best friend which is probably the best thing that has happened so far in this damned city,” Baekhee said as she clinked her cocktail glass with Hana’s.

"I just thought that I've been away for so long so I decided to come back," she took a sip from her sweet fruity drink. Its twist arrived sooner after that as she felt some hot sensation swimming in her insides. "And you came back for me," a tipsy Baekhee squeezed Hana with a tight hug. She has always been a touchy person, too dependent for affection and appreciation from her peers. A person with a lot of daddy issues, she discovered. The action was unwelcome, but her face showed a contradicting expression as she hugged her back.

The lively chatter went on, catching up with each other. Interesting anecdotes and inside jokes were made. Their group was the loudest among the patrons of the club, but the staff never mind as long as they keep on getting the orders in. The spotlight was on Hana, a situation she always hated. However, that wasn't how they met her. She was a huge contrast on who she was back at Cheongnam. They were unaware about her past and the faux persona she acclimated to when she first stepped on the American soil is what they were exposed to. Their Hana is sweet as candy, not sharp as a knife.

The band stopped from playing and a slender woman (or was it a man? Hana can't see well because of the distance) went up on the stage. The gems on her red dress sparkled and shined as they hit the lights. All eyes are on her, and she loved the attention.

"Good evening, ladies, gents, and anyone in between!" Her charisma was empowering. Not a single person dared to dart their gaze away from her. "Tonight is a very special night. Each month we open our doors for our dear customers who desire to be under the spotlight, to be as charming as our band members," she gestured to the crew, who played a brief piece in return. "To be as brilliant as our performers," the hostess then pointed to the singers who belted out a few notes, earning a few whistles from the crowd. "And to be as beautiful as me. Well, you wish." The audience laughed at her quip and her red-painted lips stretched to display an almost comical grin. "The stage is all yours! And if you embarrass us, we'll call the security for you. Enjoy the night everyone!" She gracefully walked off like a ballerina after she introduced the first performer who started playing the saxophone.

"Hana, you have to sing up there!" Baekhee shouted with excitement and glee after the announcement. Hana looked at her with alarm, and vehemently denied the request from her old roommate. "Oh, no time to be humble! I heard you sing from the shower too many times. I would've complained if it was like a screeching bird, but I never did! You have a beautiful voice, Hana!" The rest of the group started to chime in, urging her to be next person to perform. Baekhee was a marketing major back at the U.S. and the skills she acquired seemed to be useful as everyone in the jazz club started chanting her name.

"Okay, okay. Just one song," she stood up and the people cheered. Hana sheepishly walked towards the elevated stage. The lights were too bright, but it was helpful enough not seeing the whole audience.

A man entered the hall and she secretly smiled. She turned around and told the band a few instructions before she went back to the microphone and sang a jazz classic. It was her first time doing such a thing like this, but it felt natural. As if someone from up above was guiding her. She liked the idea that it was her mother. Despite of it all, it was only an unfounded hope for she had other plans for tonight and she knew Yoo Jian won't approve of it and have already left her realm.

The crowd gave a booming applause after her impromptu solo performance. Before she head back to their table, the man who entered earlier approached her.

"You're a very talented lady," he smiled at her, almost hungrily. She gave him a polite smile and quietly thanked him, but she knew he won't let her go just yet. "I believe that kind of skill is meant to be shown to the world, not in this dingy place. I'm a talent manager from KS Star Entertainment. I'm sure you've heard of it?"

She wondered how her own mother must have felt when the same man walked up to her and gave such tempting words years ago. He has a silver tongue, and anyone with a dream to become famous would deem him as a preacher from the heavens. A god-sent opportunity that no one in their sane mind would avoid. "I'm sorry. I'm not really interested. I already have a job," she took a few steps away from him but he immediately caught up with her. "Just think about it, okay? Here, take my card. Give me a call when you decide that you want to be on the stage where you truly belong."

A small white cardboard paper was shoved in her hands before the man scampered back to his table. Hana looked at the words etched on the card. The victory looming its head from the distance. "I finally found you, Byun Junho," Hana muttered to herself as she cast a final glance to the man. She smirked and returned to her college friends. The mask she was wearing never fell and she's not planning to take it off anytime.

#.spr #r;etribution #[ dun dun dun dunnnnn she's on the move i repeat yoo hana is on the move!!!!!! ]

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

The Willows

Algernon Blackwood (1907)

After leaving Vienna, and long before you come to Budapest, the Danube enters a region of singular loneliness and desolation, where its waters spread away on all sides regardless of a main channel, and the country becomes a swamp for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low willow-bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is painted in a fluffy blue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks, and across it may be seen in large straggling letters the word Sumpfe, meaning marshes.

In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle-beds, and willow-grown islands is almost topped by the water, but in normal seasons the bushes bend and rustle in the free winds, showing their silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving plain of bewildering beauty. These willows never attain to the dignity of trees; they have no rigid trunks; they remain humble bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying on slender stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind; supple as grasses, and so continually shifting that they somehow give the impression that the entire plain is moving and alive. For the wind sends waves rising and falling over the whole surface, waves of leaves instead of waves of water, green swells like the sea, too, until the branches turn and lift, and then silvery white as their underside turns to the sun.

Happy to slip beyond the control of the stern banks, the Danube here wanders about at will among the intricate network of channels intersecting the islands everywhere with broad avenues down which the waters pour with a shouting sound; making whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; tearing at the sandy banks; carrying away masses of shore and willow-clumps; and forming new islands innumerably which shift daily in size and shape and possess at best an impermanent life, since the flood-time obliterates their very existence.

Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the river's life begins soon after leaving Pressburg, and we, in our Canadian canoe, with gipsy tent and frying-pan on board, reached it on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July. That very same morning, when the sky was reddening before sunrise, we had slipped swiftly through still-sleeping Vienna, leaving it a couple of hours later a mere patch of smoke against the blue hills of the Wienerwald on the horizon; we had breakfasted below Fischeramend under a grove of birch trees roaring in the wind; and had then swept on the tearing current past Orth, Hainburg, Petronell (the old Roman Carnuntum of Marcus Aurelius), and so under the frowning heights of Thelsen on a spur of the Carpathians, where the March steals in quietly from the left and the frontier is crossed between Austria and Hungary.

Racing along at twelve kilometers an hour soon took us well into Hungary, and the muddy waters—sure sign of flood—sent us aground on many a shingle-bed, and twisted us like a cork in many a sudden belching whirlpool before the towers of Pressburg (Hungarian, Poszony) showed against the sky; and then the canoe, leaping like a spirited horse, flew at top speed under the grey walls, negotiated safely the sunken chain of the Fliegende Brucke ferry, turned the corner sharply to the left, and plunged on yellow foam into the wilderness of islands, sandbanks, and swamp-land beyond—the land of the willows.

The change came suddenly, as when a series of bioscope pictures snaps down on the streets of a town and shifts without warning into the scenery of lake and forest. We entered the land of desolation on wings, and in less than half an hour there was neither boat nor fishing-hut nor red roof, nor any single sign of human habitation and civilization within sight. The sense of remoteness from the world of humankind, the utter isolation, the fascination of this singular world of willows, winds, and waters, instantly laid its spell upon us both, so that we allowed laughingly to one another that we ought by rights to have held some special kind of passport to admit us, and that we had, somewhat audaciously, come without asking leave into a separate little kingdom of wonder and magic—a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others who had a right to it, with everywhere unwritten warnings to trespassers for those who had the imagination to discover them.

Though still early in the afternoon, the ceaseless buffetings of a most tempestuous wind made us feel weary, and we at once began casting about for a suitable camping-ground for the night. But the bewildering character of the islands made landing difficult; the swirling flood carried us in shore and then swept us out again; the willow branches tore our hands as we seized them to stop the canoe, and we pulled many a yard of sandy bank into the water before at length we shot with a great sideways blow from the wind into a backwater and managed to beach the bows in a cloud of spray. Then we lay panting and laughing after our exertions on the hot yellow sand, sheltered from the wind, and in the full blaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless blue sky above, and an immense army of dancing, shouting willow bushes, closing in from all sides, shining with spray and clapping their thousand little hands as though to applaud the success of our efforts.

"What a river!" I said to my companion, thinking of all the way we had traveled from the source in the Black Forest, and how he had often been obliged to wade and push in the upper shallows at the beginning of June.

"Won't stand much nonsense now, will it?" he said, pulling the canoe a little farther into safety up the sand, and then composing himself for a nap.

I lay by his side, happy and peaceful in the bath of the elements—water, wind, sand, and the great fire of the sun—thinking of the long journey that lay behind us, and of the great stretch before us to the Black Sea, and how lucky I was to have such a delightful and charming traveling companion as my friend, the Swede.

We had made many similar journeys together, but the Danube, more than any other river I knew, impressed us from the very beginning with its aliveness. From its tiny bubbling entry into the world among the pinewood gardens of Donaueschingen, until this moment when it began to play the great river-game of losing itself among the deserted swamps, unobserved, unrestrained, it had seemed to us like following the grown of some living creature. Sleepy at first, but later developing violent desires as it became conscious of its deep soul, it rolled, like some huge fluid being, through all the countries we had passed, holding our little craft on its mighty shoulders, playing roughly with us sometimes, yet always friendly and well-meaning, till at length we had come inevitably to regard it as a Great Personage.

How, indeed, could it be otherwise, since it told us so much of its secret life? At night we heard it singing to the moon as we lay in our tent, uttering that odd sibilant note peculiar to itself and said to be caused by the rapid tearing of the pebbles along its bed, so great is its hurrying speed. We knew, too, the voice of its gurgling whirlpools, suddenly bubbling up on a surface previously quite calm; the roar of its shallows and swift rapids; its constant steady thundering below all mere surface sounds; and that ceaseless tearing of its icy waters at the banks. How it stood up and shouted when the rains fell flat upon its face! And how its laughter roared out when the wind blew up-stream and tried to stop its growing speed! We knew all its sounds and voices, its tumblings and foamings, its unnecessary splashing against the bridges; that self-conscious chatter when there were hills to look on; the affected dignity of its speech when it passed through the little towns, far too important to laugh; and all these faint, sweet whisperings when the sun caught it fairly in some slow curve and poured down upon it till the steam rose.

It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before the great world knew it. There were places in the upper reaches among the Swabian forests, when yet the first whispers of its destiny had not reached it, where it elected to disappear through holes in the ground, to appear again on the other side of the porous limestone hills and start a new river with another name; leaving, too, so little water in its own bed that we had to climb out and wade and push the canoe through miles of shallows.

And a chief pleasure, in those early days of its irresponsible youth, was to lie low, like Brer Fox, just before the little turbulent tributaries came to join it from the Alps, and to refuse to acknowledge them when in, but to run for miles side by side, the dividing line well marked, the very levels different, the Danube utterly declining to recognize the newcomer. Below Passau, however, it gave up this particular trick, for there the Inn comes in with a thundering power impossible to ignore, and so pushes and incommodes the parent river that there is hardly room for them in the long twisting gorge that follows, and the Danube is shoved this way and that against the cliffs, and forced to hurry itself with great waves and much dashing to and fro in order to get through in time. And during the fight our canoe slipped down from its shoulder to its breast, and had the time of its life among the struggling waves. But the Inn taught the old river a lesson, and after Passau it no longer pretended to ignore new arrivals.

This was many days back, of course, and since then we had come to know other aspects of the great creature, and across the Bavarian wheat plain of Straubing she wandered so slowly under the blazing June sun that we could well imagine only the surface inches were water, while below there moved, concealed as by a silken mantle, a whole army of Undines, passing silently and unseen down to the sea, and very leisurely too, lest they be discovered.

Much, too, we forgave her because of her friendliness to the birds and animals that haunted the shores. Cormorants lined the banks in lonely places in rows like short black palings; grey crows crowded the shingle-beds; storks stood fishing in the vistas of shallower water that opened up between the islands, and hawks, swans, and marsh birds of all sorts filled the air with glinting wings and singing, petulant cries. It was impossible to feel annoyed with the river's vagaries after seeing a deer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise and swim past the bows of the canoe; and often we saw fawns peering at us from the underbrush, or looked straight into the brown eyes of a stag as we charged full tilt round a corner and entered another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere haunted the banks, tripping daintily among the driftwood and disappearing so suddenly that it was impossible to see how they managed it.

But now, after leaving Pressburg, everything changed a little, and the Danube became more serious. It ceased trifling. It was half-way to the Black Sea, within seeming distance almost of other, stranger countries where no tricks would be permitted or understood. It became suddenly grown-up, and claimed our respect and even our awe. It broke out into three arms, for one thing, that only met again a hundred kilometers farther down, and for a canoe there were no indications which one was intended to be followed.

"If you take a side channel," said the Hungarian officer we met in the Pressburg shop while buying provisions, "you may find yourselves, when the flood subsides, forty miles from anywhere, high and dry, and you may easily starve. There are no people, no farms, no fishermen. I warn you not to continue. The river, too, is still rising, and this wind will increase."

The rising river did not alarm us in the least, but the matter of being left high and dry by a sudden subsidence of the waters might be serious, and we had consequently laid in an extra stock of provisions. For the rest, the officer's prophecy held true, and the wind, blowing down a perfectly clear sky, increased steadily till it reached the dignity of a westerly gale.

It was earlier than usual when we camped, for the sun was a good hour or two from the horizon, and leaving my friend still asleep on the hot sand, I wandered about in desultory examination of our hotel. The island, I found, was less than an acre in extent, a mere sandy bank standing some two or three feet above the level of the river. The far end, pointing into the sunset, was covered with flying spray which the tremendous wind drove off the crests of the broken waves. It was triangular in shape, with the apex up stream.

I stood there for several minutes, watching the impetuous crimson flood bearing down with a shouting roar, dashing in waves against the bank as though to sweep it bodily away, and then swirling by in two foaming streams on either side. The ground seemed to shake with the shock and rush, while the furious movement of the willow bushes as the wind poured over them increased the curious illusion that the island itself actually moved. Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great river descending upon me; it was like looking up the slope of a sliding hill, white with foam, and leaping up everywhere to show itself to the sun.

The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to make walking pleasant, but I made the tour, nevertheless. From the lower end the light, of course, changed, and the river looked dark and angry. Only the backs of the flying waves were visible, streaked with foam, and pushed forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon them from behind. For a short mile it was visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and then disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, which closed about it like a herd of monstrous antediluvian creatures crowding down to drink. They made me think of gigantic sponge-like growths that sucked the river up into themselves. They caused it to vanish from sight. They herded there together in such overpowering numbers.

Altogether it was an impressive scene, with its utter loneliness, its bizarre suggestion; and as I gazed, long and curiously, a singular emotion began to stir somewhere in the depths of me. Midway in my delight of the wild beauty, there crept, unbidden and unexplained, a curious feeling of disquietude, almost of alarm.

A rising river, perhaps, always suggests something of the ominous; many of the little islands I saw before me would probably have been swept away by the morning; this resistless, thundering flood of water touched the sense of awe. Yet I was aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far than the emotions of awe and wonder. It was not that I felt. Nor had it directly to do with the power of the driving wind—this shouting hurricane that might almost carry up a few acres of willows into the air and scatter them like so much chaff over the landscape. The wind was simply enjoying itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape to stop it, and I was conscious of sharing its great game with a kind of pleasurable excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do with the wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress I experienced, that it was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with it accordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do with my realization of our utter insignificance before this unrestrained power of the elements about me. The huge-grown river had something to do with it too—a vague, unpleasant idea that we had somehow trifled with these great elemental forces in whose power we lay helpless every hour of the day and night. For here, indeed, they were gigantically at play together, and the sight appealed to the imagination.

But my emotion, so far as I could understand it, seemed to attach itself more particularly to the willow bushes, to these acres and acres of willows, crowding, so thickly growing there, swarming everywhere the eye could reach, pressing upon the river as though to suffocate it, standing in dense array mile after mile beneath the sky, watching, waiting, listening. And, apart quite from the elements, the willows connected themselves subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind insidiously somehow by reason of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way or other to represent to the imagination a new and mighty power, a power, moreover, not altogether friendly to us.

Great revelations of nature, of course, never fail to impress in one way or another, and I was no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountains overawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own. But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on intimately with human life and human experience. They stir comprehensible, even if alarming, emotions. They tend on the whole to exalt.

With this multitude of willows, however, it was something far different, I felt. Some essence emanated from them that besieged the heart. A sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe touched somewhere by a vague terror. Their serried ranks, growing everywhere darker about me as the shadows deepened, moving furiously yet softly in the wind, woke in me the curious and unwelcome suggestion that we had trespassed here upon the borders of an alien world, a world where we were intruders, a world where we were not wanted or invited to remain—where we ran grave risks perhaps!

The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning entirely to analysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing into menace. Yet it never left me quite, even during the very practical business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of wind and building a fire for the stew-pot. It remained, just enough to bother and perplex, and to rob a most delightful camping-ground of a good portion of its charm. To my companion, however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoid of imagination. In the first place, I could never have explained to him what I meant, and in the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me if I had.

There was a slight depression in the center of the island, and here we pitched the tent. The surrounding willows broke the wind a bit.

"A poor camp," observed the imperturbable Swede when at last the tent stood upright, "no stones and precious little firewood. I'm for moving on early tomorrow—eh? This sand won't hold anything."

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us many devices, and we made the cozy gipsy house as safe as possible, and then set about collecting a store of wood to last till bed-time. Willow bushes drop no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply. We hunted the shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the rising flood tore at them and carried away great portions with a splash and a gurgle.

"The island's much smaller than when we landed," said the accurate Swede. "It won't last long at this rate. We'd better drag the canoe close to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment's notice. I shall sleep in my clothes."

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank, and I heard his rather jolly laugh as he spoke.

"By Jove!" I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to see what had caused his exclamation. But for the moment he was hidden by the willows, and I could not find him.

"What in the world's this?" I heard him cry again, and this time his voice had become serious.

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. He was looking over the river, pointing at something in the water.

"Good heavens, it's a man's body!" he cried excitedly. "Look!"

A black thing, turning over and over in the foaming waves, swept rapidly past. It kept disappearing and coming up to the surface again. It was about twenty feet from the shore, and just as it was opposite to where we stood it lurched round and looked straight at us. We saw its eyes reflecting the sunset, and gleaming an odd yellow as the body turned over. Then it gave a swift, gulping plunge, and dived out of sight in a flash.

"An otter, by gad!" we exclaimed in the same breath, laughing.

It was an otter, alive, and out on the hunt; yet it had looked exactly like the body of a drowned man turning helplessly in the current. Far below it came to the surface once again, and we saw its black skin, wet and shining in the sunlight.

Then, too, just as we turned back, our arms full of driftwood, another thing happened to recall us to the river bank. This time it really was a man, and what was more, a man in a boat. Now a small boat on the Danube was an unusual sight at any time, but here in this deserted region, and at flood time, it was so unexpected as to constitute a real event. We stood and stared.

Whether it was due to the slanting sunlight, or the refraction from the wonderfully illumined water, I cannot say, but, whatever the cause, I found it difficult to focus my sight properly upon the flying apparition. It seemed, however, to be a man standing upright in a sort of flat-bottomed boat, steering with a long oar, and being carried down the opposite shore at a tremendous pace. He apparently was looking across in our direction, but the distance was too great and the light too uncertain for us to make out very plainly what he was about. It seemed to me that he was gesticulating and making signs at us. His voice came across the water to us shouting something furiously, but the wind drowned it so that no single word was audible. There was something curious about the whole appearance—man, boat, signs, voice—that made an impression on me out of all proportion to its cause.

"He's crossing himself!" I cried. "Look, he's making the sign of the Cross!"

"I believe you're right," the Swede said, shading his eyes with his hand and watching the man out of sight. He seemed to be gone in a moment, melting away down there into the sea of willows where the sun caught them in the bend of the river and turned them into a great crimson wall of beauty. Mist, too, had begun to ruse, so that the air was hazy.

"But what in the world is he doing at nightfall on this flooded river?" I said, half to myself. "Where is he going at such a time, and what did he mean by his signs and shouting? D'you think he wished to warn us about something?"

"He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits probably," laughed my companion. "These Hungarians believe in all sorts of rubbish; you remember the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us that no one ever landed here because it belonged to some sort of beings outside man's world! I suppose they believe in fairies and elementals, possibly demons, too. That peasant in the boat saw people on the islands for the first time in his life," he added, after a slight pause, "and it scared him, that's all."

The Swede's tone of voice was not convincing, and his manner lacked something that was usually there. I noted the change instantly while he talked, though without being able to label it precisely.

"If they had enough imagination," I laughed loudly—I remember trying to make as much noise as I could—"they might well people a place like this with the old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted all this region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves and elemental deities."

The subject dropped and we returned to our stew-pot, for my friend was not given to imaginative conversation as a rule. Moreover, just then I remember feeling distinctly glad that he was not imaginative; his stolid, practical nature suddenly seemed to me welcome and comforting. It was an admirable temperament, I felt; he could steer down rapids like a red Indian, shoot dangerous bridges and whirlpools better than any white man I ever saw in a canoe. He was a grand fellow for an adventurous trip, a tower of strength when untoward things happened. I looked at his strong face and light curly hair as he staggered along under his pile of driftwood (twice the size of mine!), and I experienced a feeling of relief. Yes, I was distinctly glad just then that the Swede was—what he was, and that he never made remarks that suggested more than they said.

"The river's still rising, though," he added, as if following out some thoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This island will be under water in two days if it goes on."

"I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't care a fig for the river."

The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we could get off at ten minutes' notice, and the more water the better we liked it. It meant an increasing current and the obliteration of the treacherous shingle-beds that so often threatened to tear the bottom out of our canoe.

Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not go down with the sun. It seemed to increase with the darkness, howling overhead and shaking the willows round us like straws. Curious sounds accompanied it sometimes, like the explosion of heavy guns, and it fell upon the water and the island in great flat blows of immense power. It made me think of the sounds a planet must make, could we only hear it, driving along through space.

But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and soon after supper the full moon rose up in the east and covered the river and the plain of shouting willows with a light like the day.

We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking, listening to the noises of the night round us, and talking happily of the journey we had already made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread in the door of the tent, but the high wind made it hard to study, and presently we lowered the curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight was enough to smoke and see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew about overhead like fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river gurgled and hissed, and from time to time a heavy splash announced the falling away of further portions of the bank.

Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the faraway scenes and incidents of our first camps in the Black Forest, or of other subjects altogether remote from the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the actual moment more than was necessary—almost as though we had agreed tacitly to avoid discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter nor the boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single mention, though ordinarily these would have furnished discussion for the greater part of the evening. They were, of course, distinct events in such a place.

The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep the fire going, for the wind, that drove the smoke in our faces wherever we sat, helped at the same time to make a forced draught. We took it in turn to make some foraging expeditions into the darkness, and the quantity the Swede brought back always made me feel that he took an absurdly long time finding it; for the fact was I did not care much about being left alone, and yet it always seemed to be my turn to grub about among the bushes or scramble along the slippery banks in the moonlight. The long day's battle with wind and water—such wind and such water!—had tired us both, and an early bed was the obvious program. Yet neither of us made the move for the tent. We lay there, tending the fire, talking in desultory fashion, peering about us into the dense willow bushes, and listening to the thunder of wind and river. The loneliness of the place had entered our very bones, and silence seemed natural, for after a bit the sound of our voices became a trifle unreal and forced; whispering would have been the fitting mode of communication, I felt, and the human voice, always rather absurd amid the roar of the elements, now carried with it something almost illegitimate. It was like talking out loud in church, or in some place where it was not lawful, perhaps not quite safe, to be overheard.

The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a million willows, swept by a hurricane, and surrounded by hurrying deep waters, touched us both, I fancy. Untrodden by man, almost unknown to man, it lay there beneath the moon, remote from human influence, on the frontier of another world, an alien world, a world tenanted by willows only and the souls of willows. And we, in our rashness, had dared to invade it, even to make use of it! Something more than the power of its mystery stirred in me as I lay on the sand, feet to fire, and peered up through the leaves at the stars. For the last time I rose to get firewood.

"When this has burnt up," I said firmly, "I shall turn in," and my companion watched me lazily as I moved off into the surrounding shadows.

For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed unusually receptive that night, unusually open to suggestion of things other than sensory. He too was touched by the beauty and loneliness of the place. I was not altogether pleased, I remember, to recognize this slight change in him, and instead of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way to the far point of the island where the moonlight on plain and river could be seen to better advantage. The desire to be alone had come suddenly upon me; my former dread returned in force; there was a vague feeling in me I wished to face and probe to the bottom.

When I reached the point of sand jutting out among the waves, the spell of the place descended upon me with a positive shock. No mere "scenery" could have produced such an effect. There was something more here, something to alarm.

I gazed across the waste of wild waters; I watched the whispering willows; I heard the ceaseless beating of the tireless wind; and, one and all, each in its own way, stirred in me this sensation of a strange distress. But the willows especially; for ever they went on chattering and talking among themselves, laughing a little, shrilly crying out, sometimes sighing—but what it was they made so much to-do about belonged to the secret life of the great plain they inhabited. And it was utterly alien to the world I knew, or to that of the wild yet kindly elements. They made me think of a host of beings from another plane of life, another evolution altogether, perhaps, all discussing a mystery known only to themselves. I watched them moving busily together, oddly shaking their big bushy heads, twirling their myriad leaves even when there was no wind. They moved of their own will as though alive, and they touched, by some incalculable method, my own keen sense of the horrible.

There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast army surrounding our camp, shaking their innumerable silver spears defiantly, formed all ready for an attack.

The psychology of places, for some imaginations at least, is very vivid; for the wanderer, especially, camps have their "note" either of welcome or rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, because the busy preparations of tent and cooking prevent, but with the first pause—after supper usually—it comes and announces itself. And the note of this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me; we were interlopers, trespassers; we were not welcomed. The sense of unfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We touched the frontier of a region where our presence was resented. For a night's lodging we might perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged and inquisitive stay—No! by all the gods of the trees and wilderness, no! We were the first human influences upon this island, and we were not wanted. The willows were against us.

Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies, borne I know not whence, found lodgment in my mind as I stood listening. What, I thought, if, after all, these crouching willows proved to be alive; if suddenly they should rise up, like a swarm of living creatures, marshaled by the gods whose territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps, booming overhead in the night—and then settle down! As I looked it was so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, retreated a little, huddled together in masses, hostile, waiting for the great wind that should finally start them a-running. I could have sworn their aspect changed a little, and their ranks deepened and pressed more closely together.

The melancholy shrill cry of a night-bird sounded overhead, and suddenly I nearly lost my balance as the piece of bank I stood upon fell with a great splash into the river, undermined by the flood. I stepped back just in time, and went on hunting for firewood again, half laughing at the odd fancies that crowded so thickly into my mind and cast their spell upon me. I recalled the Swede's remark about moving on next day, and I was just thinking that I fully agreed with him, when I turned with a start and saw the subject of my thoughts standing immediately in front of me. He was quite close. The roar of the elements had covered his approach.

"You've been gone so long," he shouted above the wind, "I thought something must have happened to you."

But there was that in his tone, and a certain look in his face as well, that conveyed to me more than his usual words, and in a flash I understood the real reason for his coming. It was because the spell of the place had entered his soul too, and he did not like being alone.

"River still rising," he cried, pointing to the flood in the moonlight, "and the wind's simply awful."

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for companionship that gave the real importance to his words.

"Lucky," I cried back, "our tent's in the hollow. I think it'll hold all right." I added something about the difficulty of finding wood, in order to explain my absence, but the wind caught my words and flung them across the river, so that he did not hear, but just looked at me through the branches, nodding his head.

"Lucky if we get away without disaster!" he shouted, or words to that effect; and I remember feeling half angry with him for putting the thought into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself. There was disaster impending somewhere, and the sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon me.

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it up with our feet. We took a last look round. But for the wind the heat would have been unpleasant. I put this thought into words, and I remember my friend's reply struck me oddly: that he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July weather, than this "diabolical wind."

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned over beside the tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the provision sack hanging from a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes removed to a safe distance from the fire, all ready for the morning meal.

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then turned in. The flap of the tent door was up, and I saw the branches and the stars and the white moonlight. The shaking willows and the heavy buffetings of the wind against our taut little house were the last things I remembered as sleep came down and covered all with its soft and delicious forgetfulness.

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering from my sandy mattress through the door of the tent. I looked at my watch pinned against the canvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that it was past twelve o'clock—the threshold of a new day—and I had therefore slept a couple of hours. The Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind howled as before; something plucked at my heart and made me feel afraid. There was a sense of disturbance in my immediate neighborhood.

I sat up quickly and looked out. The trees were swaying violently to and fro as the gusts smote them, but our little bit of green canvas lay snugly safe in the hollow, for the wind passed over it without meeting enough resistance to make it vicious. The feeling of disquietude did not pass, however, and I crawled quietly out of the tent to see if our belongings were safe. I moved carefully so as not to waken my companion. A curious excitement was on me.

I was half-way out, kneeling on all fours, when my eye first took in that the tops of the bushes opposite, with their moving tracery of leaves, made shapes against the sky. I sat back on my haunches and stared. It was incredible, surely, but there, opposite and slightly above me, were shapes of some indeterminate sort among the willows, and as the branches swayed in the wind they seemed to group themselves about these shapes, forming a series of monstrous outlines that shifted rapidly beneath the moon. Close, about fifty feet in front of me, I saw these things.

My first instinct was to waken my companion, that he too might see them, but something made me hesitate—the sudden realization, probably, that I should not welcome corroboration; and meanwhile I crouched there staring in amazement with smarting eyes. I was wide awake. I remember saying to myself that I was not dreaming.

They first became properly visible, these huge figures, just within the tops of the bushes—immense, bronze-colored, moving, and wholly independent of the swaying of the branches. I saw them plainly and noted, now I came to examine them more calmly, that they were very much larger than human, and indeed that something in their appearance proclaimed them to be not human at all. Certainly they were not merely the moving tracery of the branches against the moonlight. They shifted independently. They rose upwards in a continuous stream from earth to sky, vanishing utterly as soon as they reached the dark of the sky. They were interlaced one with another, making a great column, and I saw their limbs and huge bodies melting in and out of each other, forming this serpentine line that bent and swayed and twisted spirally with the contortions of the wind-tossed trees. They were nude, fluid shapes, passing up the bushes, within the leaves almost—rising up in a living column into the heavens. Their faces I never could see. Unceasingly they poured upwards, swaying in great bending curves, with a hue of dull bronze upon their skins.

I stared, trying to force every atom of vision from my eyes. For a long time I thought they must every moment disappear and resolve themselves into the movements of the branches and prove to be an optical illusion. I searched everywhere for a proof of reality, when all the while I understood quite well that the standard of reality had changed. For the longer I looked the more certain I became that these figures were real and living, though perhaps not according to the standards that the camera and the biologist would insist upon.

Far from feeling fear, I was possessed with a sense of awe and wonder such as I have never known. I seemed to be gazing at the personified elemental forces of this haunted and primeval region. Our intrusion had stirred the powers of the place into activity. It was we who were the cause of the disturbance, and my brain filled to bursting with stories and legends of the spirits and deities of places that have been acknowledged and worshipped by men in all ages of the world's history. But, before I could arrive at any possible explanation, something impelled me to go farther out, and I crept forward on the sand and stood upright. I felt the ground still warm under my bare feet; the wind tore at my hair and face; and the sound of the river burst upon my ears with a sudden roar. These things, I knew, were real, and proved that my senses were acting normally. Yet the figures still rose from earth to heaven, silent, majestically, in a great spiral of grace and strength that overwhelmed me at length with a genuine deep emotion of worship. I felt that I must fall down and worship—absolutely worship.

Perhaps in another minute I might have done so, when a gust of wind swept against me with such force that it blew me sideways, and I nearly stumbled and fell. It seemed to shake the dream violently out of me. At least it gave me another point of view somehow. The figures still remained, still ascended into heaven from the heart of the night, but my reason at last began to assert itself. It must be a subjective experience, I argued—none the less real for that, but still subjective. The moonlight and the branches combined to work out these pictures upon the mirror of my imagination, and for some reason I projected them outwards and made them appear objective. I knew this must be the case, of course. I took courage, and began to move forward across the open patches of sand. By Jove, though, was it all hallucination? Was it merely subjective? Did not my reason argue in the old futile way from the little standard of the known?

I only know that great column of figures ascended darkly into the sky for what seemed a very long period of time, and with a very complete measure of reality as most men are accustomed to gauge reality. Then suddenly they were gone!

And, once they were gone and the immediate wonder of their great presence had passed, fear came down upon me with a cold rush. The esoteric meaning of this lonely and haunted region suddenly flamed up within me, and I began to tremble dreadfully. I took a quick look round—a look of horror that came near to panic—calculating vainly ways of escape; and then, realizing how helpless I was to achieve anything really effective, I crept back silently into the tent and lay down again upon my sandy mattress, first lowering the door-curtain to shut out the sight of the willows in the moonlight, and then burying my head as deeply as possible beneath the blankets to deaden the sound of the terrifying wind.

As though further to convince me that I had not been dreaming, I remember that it was a long time before I fell again into a troubled and restless sleep; and even then only the upper crust of me slept, and underneath there was something that never quite lost consciousness, but lay alert and on the watch.

But this second time I jumped up with a genuine start of terror. It was neither the wind nor the river that woke me, but the slow approach of something that caused the sleeping portion of me to grow smaller and smaller till at last it vanished altogether, and I found myself sitting bolt upright—listening.

Outside there was a sound of multitudinous little patterings. They had been coming, I was aware, for a long time, and in my sleep they had first become audible. I sat there nervously wide awake as though I had not slept at all. It seemed to me that my breathing came with difficulty, and that there was a great weight upon the surface of my body. In spite of the hot night, I felt clammy with cold and shivered. Something surely was pressing steadily against the sides of the tent and weighing down upon it from above. Was it the body of the wind? Was this the pattering rain, the dripping of the leaves? The spray blown from the river by the wind and gathering in big drops? I thought quickly of a dozen things.

Then suddenly the explanation leaped into my mind: a bough from the poplar, the only large tree on the island, had fallen with the wind. Still half caught by the other branches, it would fall with the next gust and crush us, and meanwhile its leaves brushed and tapped upon the tight canvas surface of the tent. I raised a loose flap and rushed out, calling to the Swede to follow.

But when I got out and stood upright I saw that the tent was free. There was no hanging bough; there was no rain or spray; nothing approached.

A cold, grey light filtered down through the bushes and lay on the faintly gleaming sand. Stars still crowded the sky directly overhead, and the wind howled magnificently, but the fire no longer gave out any glow, and I saw the east reddening in streaks through the trees. Several hours must have passed since I stood there before watching the ascending figures, and the memory of it now came back to me horribly, like an evil dream. Oh, how tired it made me feel, that ceaseless raging wind! Yet, though the deep lassitude of a sleepless night was on me, my nerves were tingling with the activity of an equally tireless apprehension, and all idea of repose was out of the question. The river I saw had risen further. Its thunder filled the air, and a fine spray made itself felt through my thin sleeping shirt.

Yet nowhere did I discover the slightest evidence of anything to cause alarm. This deep, prolonged disturbance in my heart remained wholly unaccounted for.

My companion had not stirred when I called him, and there was no need to waken him now. I looked about me carefully, noting everything; the turned-over canoe; the yellow paddles—two of them, I'm certain; the provision sack and the extra lantern hanging together from the tree; and, crowding everywhere about me, enveloping all, the willows, those endless, shaking willows. A bird uttered its morning cry, and a string of duck passed with whirring flight overhead in the twilight. The sand whirled, dry and stinging, about my bare feet in the wind.

I walked round the tent and then went out a little way into the bush, so that I could see across the river to the farther landscape, and the same profound yet indefinable emotion of distress seized upon me again as I saw the interminable sea of bushes stretching to the horizon, looking ghostly and unreal in the wan light of dawn. I walked softly here and there, still puzzling over that odd sound of infinite pattering, and of that pressure upon the tent that had wakened me. It must have been the wind, I reflected—the wind bearing upon the loose, hot sand, driving the dry particles smartly against the taut canvas—the wind dropping heavily upon our fragile roof.

Yet all the time my nervousness and malaise increased appreciably.

I crossed over to the farther shore and noted how the coast-line had altered in the night, and what masses of sand the river had torn away. I dipped my hands and feet into the cool current, and bathed my forehead. Already there was a glow of sunrise in the sky and the exquisite freshness of coming day. On my way back I passed purposely beneath the very bushes where I had seen the column of figures rising into the air, and midway among the clumps I suddenly found myself overtaken by a sense of vast terror. From the shadows a large figure went swiftly by. Someone passed me, as sure as ever man did….

It was a great staggering blow from the wind that helped me forward again, and once out in the more open space, the sense of terror diminished strangely. The winds were about and walking, I remember saying to myself, for the winds often move like great presences under the trees. And altogether the fear that hovered about me was such an unknown and immense kind of fear, so unlike anything I had ever felt before, that it woke a sense of awe and wonder in me that did much to counteract its worst effects; and when I reached a high point in the middle of the island from which I could see the wide stretch of river, crimson in the sunrise, the whole magical beauty of it all was so overpowering that a sort of wild yearning woke in me and almost brought a cry up into the throat.

But this cry found no expression, for as my eyes wandered from the plain beyond to the island round me and noted our little tent half hidden among the willows, a dreadful discovery leaped out at me, compared to which my terror of the walking winds seemed as nothing at all.

For a change, I thought, had somehow come about in the arrangement of the landscape. It was not that my point of vantage gave me a different view, but that an alteration had apparently been effected in the relation of the tent to the willows, and of the willows to the tent. Surely the bushes now crowded much closer—unnecessarily, unpleasantly close. They had moved nearer.

Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, drawing imperceptibly nearer by soft, unhurried movements, the willows had come closer during the night. But had the wind moved them, or had they moved of themselves? I recalled the sound of infinite small patterings and the pressure upon the tent and upon my own heart that caused me to wake in terror. I swayed for a moment in the wind like a tree, finding it hard to keep my upright position on the sandy hillock. There was a suggestion here of personal agency, of deliberate intention, of aggressive hostility, and it terrified me into a sort of rigidity.

Then the reaction followed quickly. The idea was so bizarre, so absurd, that I felt inclined to laugh. But the laughter came no more readily than the cry, for the knowledge that my mind was so receptive to such dangerous imaginings brought the additional terror that it was through our minds and not through our physical bodies that the attack would come, and was coming.

The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly it seemed, the sun came up over the horizon, for it was after four o'clock, and I must have stood on that little pinnacle of sand longer than I knew, afraid to come down to close quarters with the willows. I returned quietly, creepily, to the tent, first taking another exhaustive look round and—yes, I confess it—making a few measurements. I paced out on the warm sand the distances between the willows and the tent, making a note of the shortest distance particularly.

I crawled stealthily into my blankets. My companion, to all appearances, still slept soundly, and I was glad that this was so. Provided my experiences were not corroborated, I could find strength somehow to deny them, perhaps. With the daylight I could persuade myself that it was all a subjective hallucination, a fantasy of the night, a projection of the excited imagination.

Nothing further came in to disturb me, and I fell asleep almost at once, utterly exhausted, yet still in dread of hearing again that weird sound of multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the pressure upon my heart that had made it difficult to breathe.

The sun was high in the heavens when my companion woke me from a heavy sleep and announced that the porridge was cooked and there was just time to bathe. The grateful smell of frizzling bacon entered the tent door.

"River still rising," he said, "and several islands out in mid-stream have disappeared altogether. Our own island's much smaller."

"Any wood left?" I asked sleepily.

"The wood and the island will finish tomorrow in a dead heat," he laughed, "but there's enough to last us till then."

I plunged in from the point of the island, which had indeed altered a lot in size and shape during the night, and was swept down in a moment to the landing-place opposite the tent. The water was icy, and the banks flew by like the country from an express train. Bathing under such conditions was an exhilarating operation, and the terror of the night seemed cleansed out of me by a process of evaporation in the brain. The sun was blazing hot; not a cloud showed itself anywhere; the wind, however, had not abated one little jot.

Quite suddenly then the implied meaning of the Swede's words flashed across me, showing that he no longer wished to leave post-haste, and had changed his mind. "Enough to last till tomorrow"—he assumed we should stay on the island another night. It struck me as odd. The night before he was so positive the other way. How had the change come about?

Great crumblings of the banks occurred at breakfast, with heavy splashings and clouds of spray which the wind brought into our frying-pan, and my fellow-traveler talked incessantly about the difficulty the Vienna-Pesth steamers must have to find the channel in flood. But the state of his mind interested and impressed me far more than the state of the river or the difficulties of the steamers. He had changed somehow since the evening before. His manner was different—a trifle excited, a trifle shy, with a sort of suspicion about his voice and gestures. I hardly know how to describe it now in cold blood, but at the time I remember being quite certain of one thing—that he had become frightened?

He ate very little breakfast, and for once omitted to smoke his pipe. He had the map spread open beside him, and kept studying its markings.

"We'd better get off sharp in an hour," I said presently, feeling for an opening that must bring him indirectly to a partial confession at any rate. And his answer puzzled me uncomfortably: "Rather! If they'll let us."

"Who'll let us? The elements?" I asked quickly, with affected indifference.

"The powers of this awful place, whoever they are," he replied, keeping his eyes on the map. "The gods are here, if they are anywhere at all in the world."

"The elements are always the true immortals," I replied, laughing as naturally as I could manage, yet knowing quite well that my face reflected my true feelings when he looked up gravely at me and spoke across the smoke:

"We shall be fortunate if we get away without further disaster."

This was exactly what I had dreaded, and I screwed myself up to the point of the direct question. It was like agreeing to allow the dentist to extract the tooth; it had to come anyhow in the long run, and the rest was all pretence.

"Further disaster! Why, what's happened?"

"For one thing—the steering paddle's gone," he said quietly.

"The steering paddle gone!" I repeated, greatly excited, for this was our rudder, and the Danube in flood without a rudder was suicide. "But what—"

"And there's a tear in the bottom of the canoe," he added, with a genuine little tremor in his voice.

I continued staring at him, able only to repeat the words in his face somewhat foolishly. There, in the heat of the sun, and on this burning sand, I was aware of a freezing atmosphere descending round us. I got up to follow him, for he merely nodded his head gravely and led the way towards the tent a few yards on the other side of the fireplace. The canoe still lay there as I had last seen her in the night, ribs uppermost, the paddles, or rather, the paddle, on the sand beside her.

"There's only one," he said, stooping to pick it up. "And here's the rent in the base-board."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I had clearly noticed two paddles a few hours before, but a second impulse made me think better of it, and I said nothing. I approached to see.

There was a long, finely made tear in the bottom of the canoe where a little slither of wood had been neatly taken clean out; it looked as if the tooth of a sharp rock or snag had eaten down her length, and investigation showed that the hole went through. Had we launched out in her without observing it we must inevitably have foundered. At first the water would have made the wood swell so as to close the hole, but once out in mid-stream the water must have poured in, and the canoe, never more than two inches above the surface, would have filled and sunk very rapidly.

"There, you see an attempt to prepare a victim for the sacrifice," I heard him saying, more to himself than to me, "two victims rather," he added as he bent over and ran his fingers along the slit.

I began to whistle—a thing I always do unconsciously when utterly nonplussed—and purposely paid no attention to his words. I was determined to consider them foolish.

"It wasn't there last night," he said presently, straightening up from his examination and looking anywhere but at me.

"We must have scratched her in landing, of course," I stopped whistling to say. "The stones are very sharp."

I stopped abruptly, for at that moment he turned round and met my eye squarely. I knew just as well as he did how impossible my explanation was. There were no stones, to begin with.

"And then there's this to explain too," he added quietly, handing me the paddle and pointing to the blade.

A new and curious emotion spread freezingly over me as I took and examined it. The blade was scraped down all over, beautifully scraped, as though someone had sand-papered it with care, making it so thin that the first vigorous stroke must have snapped it off at the elbow.

"One of us walked in his sleep and did this thing," I said feebly, "or—or it has been filed by the constant stream of sand particles blown against it by the wind, perhaps."

"Ah," said the Swede, turning away, laughing a little, "you can explain everything."

"The same wind that caught the steering paddle and flung it so near the bank that it fell in with the next lump that crumbled," I called out after him, absolutely determined to find an explanation for everything he showed me.

"I see," he shouted back, turning his head to look at me before disappearing among the willow bushes.

Once alone with these perplexing evidences of personal agency, I think my first thoughts took the form of "One of us must have done this thing, and it certainly was not I." But my second thought decided how impossible it was to suppose, under all the circumstances, that either of us had done it. That my companion, the trusted friend of a dozen similar expeditions, could have knowingly had a hand in it, was a suggestion not to be entertained for a moment. Equally absurd seemed the explanation that this imperturbable and densely practical nature had suddenly become insane and was busied with insane purposes.

Yet the fact remained that what disturbed me most, and kept my fear actively alive even in this blaze of sunshine and wild beauty, was the clear certainty that some curious alteration had come about in his mind—that he was nervous, timid, suspicious, aware of goings on he did not speak about, watching a series of secret and hitherto unmentionable events—waiting, in a word, for a climax that he expected, and, I thought, expected very soon. This grew up in my mind intuitively—I hardly knew how.

I made a hurried examination of the tent and its surroundings, but the measurements of the night remained the same. There were deep hollows formed in the sand I now noticed for the first time, basin-shaped and of various depths and sizes, varying from that of a tea-cup to a large bowl. The wind, no doubt, was responsible for these miniature craters, just as it was for lifting the paddle and tossing it towards the water. The rent in the canoe was the only thing that seemed quite inexplicable; and, after all, it was conceivable that a sharp point had caught it when we landed. The examination I made of the shore did not assist this theory, but all the same I clung to it with that diminishing portion of my intelligence which I called my "reason." An explanation of some kind was an absolute necessity, just as some working explanation of the universe is necessary—however absurd—to the happiness of every individual who seeks to do his duty in the world and face the problems of life. The simile seemed to me at the time an exact parallel.

I at once set the pitch melting, and presently the Swede joined me at the work, though under the best conditions in the world the canoe could not be safe for traveling till the following day. I drew his attention casually to the hollows in the sand.

"Yes," he said, "I know. They're all over the island. But you can explain them, no doubt!"

"Wind, of course," I answered without hesitation. "Have you never watched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirl everything into a circle? This sand's loose enough to yield, that's all."

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit. I watched him surreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he was watching me. He seemed, too, to be always listening attentively to something I could not hear, or perhaps for something that he expected to hear, for he kept turning about and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and out across the water where it was visible through the openings among the willows. Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and held it there for several minutes. He said nothing to me, however, about it, and I asked no questions. And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with the skill and address of a red Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in the work, for there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of the changed aspect of the willows. And, if he had noticed that, my imagination could no longer be held a sufficient explanation of it.

III

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.

"Queer thing," he added in a hurried sort of voice, as though he wanted to say something and get it over. "Queer thing. I mean, about that otter last night."

I had expected something so totally different that he caught me with surprise, and I looked up sharply.

"Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are awfully shy things—"

"I don't mean that, of course," he interrupted. "I mean—do you think—did you think it really was an otter?"

"What else, in the name of Heaven, what else?"

"You know, I saw it before you did, and at first it seemed—so much bigger than an otter."

"The sunset as you looked up-stream magnified it, or something," I replied.

He looked at me absently a moment, as though his mind were busy with other thoughts.

"It had such extraordinary yellow eyes," he went on half to himself.

"That was the sun too," I laughed, a trifle boisterously. "I suppose you'll wonder next if that fellow in the boat—"

I suddenly decided not to finish the sentence. He was in the act again of listening, turning his head to the wind, and something in the expression of his face made me halt. The subject dropped, and we went on with our caulking. Apparently he had not noticed my unfinished sentence. Five minutes later, however, he looked at me across the canoe, the smoking pitch in his hand, his face exceedingly grave.

"I did rather wonder, if you want to know," he said slowly, "what that thing in the boat was. I remember thinking at the time it was not a man. The whole business seemed to rise quite suddenly out of the water."

I laughed again boisterously in his face, but this time there was impatience, and a strain of anger too, in my feeling.

"Look here now," I cried, "this place is quite queer enough without going out of our way to imagine things! That boat was an ordinary boat, and the man in it was an ordinary man, and they were both going down-stream as fast as they could lick. And that otter was an otter, so don't let's play the fool about it!"

He looked steadily at me with the same grave expression. He was not in the least annoyed. I took courage from his silence.

"And, for Heaven's sake," I went on, "don't keep pretending you hear things, because it only gives me the jumps, and there's nothing to hear but the river and this cursed old thundering wind."

"You fool!" he answered in a low, shocked voice, "you utter fool. That's just the way all victims talk. As if you didn't understand just as well as I do!" he sneered with scorn in his voice, and a sort of resignation. "The best thing you can do is to keep quiet and try to hold your mind as firm as possible. This feeble attempt at self-deception only makes the truth harder when you're forced to meet it."

My little effort was over, and I found nothing more to say, for I knew quite well his words were true, and that I was the fool, not he. Up to a certain stage in the adventure he kept ahead of me easily, and I think I felt annoyed to be out of it, to be thus proved less psychic, less sensitive than himself to these extraordinary happenings, and half ignorant all the time of what was going on under my very nose. He knew from the very beginning, apparently. But at the moment I wholly missed the point of his words about the necessity of there being a victim, and that we ourselves were destined to satisfy the want. I dropped all pretence thenceforward, but thenceforward likewise my fear increased steadily to the climax.

"But you're quite right about one thing," he added, before the subject passed, "and that is that we're wiser not to talk about it, or even to think about it, because what one thinks finds expression in words, and what one says, happens."

That afternoon, while the canoe dried and hardened, we spent trying to fish, testing the leak, collecting wood, and watching the enormous flood of rising water. Masses of driftwood swept near our shores sometimes, and we fished for them with long willow branches. The island grew perceptibly smaller as the banks were torn away with great gulps and splashes. The weather kept brilliantly fine till about four o'clock, and then for the first time for three days the wind showed signs of abating. Clouds began to gather in the south-west, spreading thence slowly over the sky.

This lessening of the wind came as a great relief, for the incessant roaring, banging, and thundering had irritated our nerves. Yet the silence that came about five o'clock with its sudden cessation was in a manner quite as oppressive. The booming of the river had everything in its own way then; it filled the air with deep murmurs, more musical than the wind noises, but infinitely more monotonous. The wind held many notes, rising, falling always beating out some sort of great elemental tune; whereas the river's song lay between three notes at most—dull pedal notes, that held a lugubrious quality foreign to the wind, and somehow seemed to me, in my then nervous state, to sound wonderfully well the music of doom.

It was extraordinary, too, how the withdrawal suddenly of bright sunlight took everything out of the landscape that made for cheerfulness; and since this particular landscape had already managed to convey the suggestion of something sinister, the change of course was all the more unwelcome and noticeable. For me, I know, the darkening outlook became distinctly more alarming, and I found myself more than once calculating how soon after sunset the full moon would get up in the east, and whether the gathering clouds would greatly interfere with her lighting of the little island.

With this general hush of the wind—though it still indulged in occasional brief gusts—the river seemed to me to grow blacker, the willows to stand more densely together. The latter, too, kept up a sort of independent movement of their own, rustling among themselves when no wind stirred, and shaking oddly from the roots upwards. When common objects in this way be come charged with the suggestion of horror, they stimulate the imagination far more than things of unusual appearance; and these bushes, crowding huddled about us, assumed for me in the darkness a bizarre grotesquerie of appearance that lent to them somehow the aspect of purposeful and living creatures. Their very ordinariness, I felt, masked what was malignant and hostile to us. The forces of the region drew nearer with the coming of night. They were focusing upon our island, and more particularly upon ourselves. For thus, somehow, in the terms of the imagination, did my really indescribable sensations in this extraordinary place present themselves.

I had slept a good deal in the early afternoon, and had thus recovered somewhat from the exhaustion of a disturbed night, but this only served apparently to render me more susceptible than before to the obsessing spell of the haunting. I fought against it, laughing at my feelings as absurd and childish, with very obvious physiological explanations, yet, in spite of every effort, they gained in strength upon me so that I dreaded the night as a child lost in a forest must dread the approach of darkness.

The canoe we had carefully covered with a waterproof sheet during the day, and the one remaining paddle had been securely tied by the Swede to the base of a tree, lest the wind should rob us of that too. From five o'clock onwards I busied myself with the stew-pot and preparations for dinner, it being my turn to cook that night. We had potatoes, onions, bits of bacon fat to add flavor, and a general thick residue from former stews at the bottom of the pot; with black bread broken up into it the result was most excellent, and it was followed by a stew of plums with sugar and a brew of strong tea with dried milk. A good pile of wood lay close at hand, and the absence of wind made my duties easy. My companion sat lazily watching me, dividing his attentions between cleaning his pipe and giving useless advice—an admitted privilege of the off-duty man. He had been very quiet all the afternoon, engaged in re-caulking the canoe, strengthening the tent ropes, and fishing for driftwood while I slept. No more talk about undesirable things had passed between us, and I think his only remarks had to do with the gradual destruction of the island, which he declared was not fully a third smaller than when we first landed.

The pot had just begun to bubble when I heard his voice calling to me from the bank, where he had wandered away without my noticing. I ran up.

"Come and listen," he said, "and see what you make of it." He held his hand cupwise to his ear, as so often before.

"Now do you hear anything?" he asked, watching me curiously.

We stood there, listening attentively together. At first I heard only the deep note of the water and the hissings rising from its turbulent surface. The willows, for once, were motionless and silent. Then a sound began to reach my ears faintly, a peculiar sound—something like the humming of a distant gong. It seemed to come across to us in the darkness from the waste of swamps and willows opposite. It was repeated at regular intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound of a bell nor the hooting of a distant steamer. I can liken it to nothing so much as to the sound of an immense gong, suspended far up in the sky, repeating incessantly its muffled metallic note, soft and musical, as it was repeatedly struck. My heart quickened as I listened.

"I've heard it all day," said my companion. "While you slept this afternoon it came all round the island. I hunted it down, but could never get near enough to see—to localize it correctly. Sometimes it was overhead, and sometimes it seemed under the water. Once or twice, too, I could have sworn it was not outside at all, but within myself—you know—the way a sound in the fourth dimension is supposed to come."

I was too much puzzled to pay much attention to his words. I listened carefully, striving to associate it with any known familiar sound I could think of, but without success. It changed in the direction, too, coming nearer, and then sinking utterly away into remote distance. I cannot say that it was ominous in quality, because to me it seemed distinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a distressing feeling that made me wish I had never heard it.

"The wind blowing in those sand-funnels," I said determined to find an explanation, "or the bushes rubbing together after the storm perhaps."

"It comes off the whole swamp," my friend answered. "It comes from everywhere at once." He ignored my explanations. "It comes from the willow bushes somehow—"

"But now the wind has dropped," I objected. "The willows can hardly make a noise by themselves, can they?"

His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly, because I knew intuitively it was true.

"It is because the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned before. It is the cry, I believe, of the—"

I dashed back to my fire, warned by the sound of bubbling that the stew was in danger, but determined at the same time to escape further conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of views. I dreaded, too, that he would begin about the gods, or the elemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep myself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another night to be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there was no knowing yet what it might bring forth.

"Come and cut up bread for the pot," I called to him, vigorously stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both, and the thought made me laugh.

He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon the ground-sheet at his feet.

"Hurry up!" I cried; "it's boiling."

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It was forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless.

"There's nothing here!" he shouted, holding his sides.

"Bread, I mean."

"It's gone. There is no bread. They've taken it!"

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf.

The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the sound of my laughter also made me understand his. The stain of psychical pressure caused it—this explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us; it was an effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary safety-valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.

"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to be consistent and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a loaf at Pressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of my head, and I must have left it lying on the counter or—"

"The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning," the Swede interrupted.

Why in the world need he draw attention to it? I thought angrily.

"There's enough for tomorrow," I said, stirring vigorously, "and we can get lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be miles from here."

"I hope so—to God," he muttered, putting the things back into the sack, "unless we're claimed first as victims for the sacrifice," he added with a foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, for safety's sake, I suppose, and I heard him mumbling to himself, but so indistinctly that it seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words.

Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, and we ate it almost in silence, avoiding one another's eyes, and keeping the fire bright. Then we washed up and prepared for the night, and, once smoking, our minds unoccupied with any definite duties, the apprehension I had felt all day long became more and more acute. It was not then active fear, I think, but the very vagueness of its origin distressed me far more that if I had been able to ticket and face it squarely. The curious sound I have likened to the note of a gong became now almost incessant, and filled the stillness of the night with a faint, continuous ringing rather than a series of distinct notes. At one time it was behind and at another time in front of us. Sometimes I fancied it came from the bushes on our left, and then again from the clumps on our right. More often it hovered directly overhead like the whirring of wings. It was really everywhere at once, behind, in front, at our sides and over our heads, completely surrounding us. The sound really defies description. But nothing within my knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled humming rising off the deserted world of swamps and willows.

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing every minute greater. The worst feature of the situation seemed to me that we did not know what to expect, and could therefore make no sort of preparation by way of defense. We could anticipate nothing. My explanations made in the sunshine, moreover, now came to haunt me with their foolish and wholly unsatisfactory nature, and it was more and more clear to us that some kind of plain talk with my companion was inevitable, whether I liked it or not. After all, we had to spend the night together, and to sleep in the same tent side by side. I saw that I could not get along much longer without the support of his mind, and for that, of course, plain talk was imperative. As long as possible, however, I postponed this little climax, and tried to ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences he flung into the emptiness.

Some of these sentences, moreover, were confoundedly disquieting to me, coming as they did to corroborate much that I felt myself; corroboration, too—which made it so much more convincing—from a totally different point of view. He composed such curious sentences, and hurled them at me in such an inconsequential sort of way, as though his main line of thought was secret to himself, and these fragments were mere bits he found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them by uttering them. Speech relieved him. It was like being sick.

"There are things about us, I'm sure, that make for disorder, disintegration, destruction, our destruction," he said once, while the fire blazed between us. "We've strayed out of a safe line somewhere."

And, another time, when the gong sounds had come nearer, ringing much louder than before, and directly over our heads, he said as though talking to himself:

"I don't think a gramophone would show any record of that. The sound doesn't come to me by the ears at all. The vibrations reach me in another manner altogether, and seem to be within me, which is precisely how a fourth dimensional sound might be supposed to make itself heard."

I purposely made no reply to this, but I sat up a little closer to the fire and peered about me into the darkness. The clouds were massed all over the sky, and no trace of moonlight came through. Very still, too, everything was, so that the river and the frogs had things all their own way.

"It has that about it," he went on, "which is utterly out of common experience. It is unknown. Only one thing describes it really; it is a non-human sound; I mean a sound outside humanity."

Having rid himself of this indigestible morsel, he lay quiet for a time, but he had so admirably expressed my own feeling that it was a relief to have the thought out, and to have confined it by the limitation of words from dangerous wandering to and fro in the mind.

The solitude of that Danube camping-place, can I ever forget it? The feeling of being utterly alone on an empty planet! My thoughts ran incessantly upon cities and the haunts of men. I would have given my soul, as the saying is, for the "feel" of those Bavarian villages we had passed through by the score; for the normal, human commonplaces; peasants drinking beer, tables beneath the trees, hot sunshine, and a ruined castle on the rocks behind the red-roofed church. Even the tourists would have been welcome.

Yet what I felt of dread was no ordinary ghostly fear. It was infinitely greater, stranger, and seemed to arise from some dim ancestral sense of terror more profoundly disturbing than anything I had known or dreamed of. We had "strayed," as the Swede put it, into some region or some set of conditions where the risks were great, yet unintelligible to us; where the frontiers of some unknown world lay close about us. It was a spot held by the dwellers in some outer space, a sort of peep-hole whence they could spy upon the earth, themselves unseen, a point where the veil between had worn a little thin. As the final result of too long a sojourn here, we should be carried over the border and deprived of what we called "our lives," yet by mental, not physical, processes. In that sense, as he said, we should be the victims of our adventure—a sacrifice.

It took us in different fashion, each according to the measure of his sensitiveness and powers of resistance. I translated it vaguely into a personification of the mightily disturbed elements, investing them with the horror of a deliberate and malefic purpose, resentful of our audacious intrusion into their breeding-place; whereas my friend threw it into the unoriginal form at first of a trespass on some ancient shrine, some place where the old gods still held sway, where the emotional forces of former worshippers still clung, and the ancestral portion of him yielded to the old pagan spell.

At any rate, here was a place unpolluted by men, kept clean by the winds from coarsening human influences, a place where spiritual agencies were within reach and aggressive. Never, before or since, have I been so attacked by indescribable suggestions of a "beyond region," of another scheme of life, another revolution not parallel to the human. And in the end our minds would succumb under the weight of the awful spell, and we should be drawn across the frontier into their world.

Small things testified to the amazing influence of the place, and now in the silence round the fire they allowed themselves to be noted by the mind. The very atmosphere had proved itself a magnifying medium to distort every indication: the otter rolling in the current, the hurrying boatman making signs, the shifting willows, one and all had been robbed of its natural character, and revealed in something of its other aspect—as it existed across the border to that other region. And this changed aspect I felt was now not merely to me, but to the race. The whole experience whose verge we touched was unknown to humanity at all. It was a new order of experience, and in the true sense of the word unearthly.

"It's the deliberate, calculating purpose that reduces one's courage to zero," the Swede said suddenly, as if he had been actually following my thoughts. "Otherwise imagination might count for much. But the paddle, the canoe, the lessening food—"

"Haven't I explained all that once?" I interrupted viciously.

"You have," he answered dryly; "you have indeed."

He made other remarks too, as usual, about what he called the "plain determination to provide a victim"; but, having now arranged my thoughts better, I recognized that this was simply the cry of his frightened soul against the knowledge that he was being attacked in a vital part, and that he would be somehow taken or destroyed. The situation called for a courage and calmness of reasoning that neither of us could compass, and I have never before been so clearly conscious of two persons in me—the one that explained everything, and the other that laughed at such foolish explanations, yet was horribly afraid.

Meanwhile, in the pitchy night the fire died down and the wood pile grew small. Neither of us moved to replenish the stock, and the darkness consequently came up very close to our faces. A few feet beyond the circle of firelight it was inky black. Occasionally a stray puff of wind set the willows shivering about us, but apart from this not very welcome sound a deep and depressing silence reigned, broken only by the gurgling of the river and the humming in the air overhead.

We both missed, I think, the shouting company of the winds.

At length, at a moment when a stray puff prolonged itself as though the wind were about to rise again, I reached the point for me of saturation, the point where it was absolutely necessary to find relief in plain speech, or else to betray myself by some hysterical extravagance that must have been far worse in its effect upon both of us. I kicked the fire into a blaze, and turned to my companion abruptly. He looked up with a start.

"I can't disguise it any longer," I said; "I don't like this place, and the darkness, and the noises, and the awful feelings I get. There's something here that beats me utterly. I'm in a blue funk, and that's the plain truth. If the other shore was—different, I swear I'd be inclined to swim for it!"

The Swede's face turned very white beneath the deep tan of sun and wind. He stared straight at me and answered quietly, but his voice betrayed his huge excitement by its unnatural calmness. For the moment, at any rate, he was the strong man of the two. He was more phlegmatic, for one thing.

"It's not a physical condition we can escape from by running away," he replied, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing some grave disease; "we must sit tight and wait. There are forces close here that could kill a herd of elephants in a second as easily as you or I could squash a fly. Our only chance is to keep perfectly still. Our insignificance perhaps may save us."

I put a dozen questions into my expression of face, but found no words. It was precisely like listening to an accurate description of a disease whose symptoms had puzzled me.

"I mean that so far, although aware of our disturbing presence, they have not found us—not 'located' us, as the Americans say," he went on. "They're blundering about like men hunting for a leak of gas. The paddle and canoe and provisions prove that. I think they feel us, but cannot actually see us. We must keep our minds quiet—it's our minds they feel. We must control our thoughts, or it's all up with us."

"Death, you mean?" I stammered, icy with the horror of his suggestion.

"Worse—by far," he said. "Death, according to one's belief, means either annihilation or release from the limitations of the senses, but it involves no change of character. You don't suddenly alter just because the body's gone. But this means a radical alteration, a complete change, a horrible loss of oneself by substitution—far worse than death, and not even annihilation. We happen to have camped in a spot where their region touches ours, where the veil between has worn thin"—horrors! he was using my very own phrase, my actual words—"so that they are aware of our being in their neighborhood."

"But who are aware?" I asked.

I forgot the shaking of the willows in the windless calm, the humming overhead, everything except that I was waiting for an answer that I dreaded more than I can possibly explain.

He lowered his voice at once to reply, leaning forward a little over the fire, an indefinable change in his face that made me avoid his eyes and look down upon the ground.

"All my life," he said, "I have been strangely, vividly conscious of another region—not far removed from our own world in one sense, yet wholly different in kind—where great things go on unceasingly, where immense and terrible personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes compared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, the destinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are all as dust in the balance; vast purposes, I mean, that deal directly with the soul, and not indirectly with more expressions of the soul—"

"I suggest just now—" I began, seeking to stop him, feeling as though I was face to face with a madman. But he instantly overbore me with his torrent that had to come.

"You think," he said, "it is the spirit of the elements, and I thought perhaps it was the old gods. But I tell you now it is—neither. These would be comprehensible entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are now about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it is mere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch our own."

The mere conception, which his words somehow made so convincing, as I listened to them there in the dark stillness of that lonely island, set me shaking a little all over. I found it impossible to control my movements.

"And what do you propose?" I began again.

"A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by distracting them until we could get away," he went on, "just as the wolves stop to devour the dogs and give the sleigh another start. But—I see no chance of any other victim now."

I stared blankly at him. The gleam in his eye was dreadful. Presently he continued.

"It's the willows, of course. The willows mask the others, but the others are feeling about for us. If we let our minds betray our fear, we're lost, lost utterly." He looked at me with an expression so calm, so determined, so sincere, that I no longer had any doubts as to his sanity. He was as sane as any man ever was. "If we can hold out through the night," he added, "we may get off in the daylight unnoticed, or rather, undiscovered."

"But you really think a sacrifice would—"

That gong-like humming came down very close over our heads as I spoke, but it was my friend's scared face that really stopped my mouth.

"Hush!" he whispered, holding up his hand. "Do not mention them more than you can help. Do not refer to them by name. To name is to reveal; it is the inevitable clue, and our only hope lies in ignoring them, in order that they may ignore us."

"Even in thought?" He was extraordinarily agitated.

"Especially in thought. Our thoughts make spirals in their world. We must keep them out of our minds at all costs if possible."

I raked the fire together to prevent the darkness having everything its own way. I never longed for the sun as I longed for it then in the awful blackness of that summer night.

"Were you awake all last night?" he went on suddenly.

"I slept badly a little after dawn," I replied evasively, trying to follow his instructions, which I knew instinctively were true, "but the wind, of course—"

"I know. But the wind won't account for all the noises."

"Then you heard it too?"

"The multiplying countless little footsteps I heard," he said, adding, after a moment's hesitation, "and that other sound—"

"You mean above the tent, and the pressing down upon us of something tremendous, gigantic?"

He nodded significantly.

"It was like the beginning of a sort of inner suffocation?" I said.

"Partly, yes. It seemed to me that the weight of the atmosphere had been altered—had increased enormously, so that we should have been crushed."

"And that," I went on, determined to have it all out, pointing upwards where the gong-like note hummed ceaselessly, rising and falling like wind. "What do you make of that?"

"It's their sound," he whispered gravely. "It's the sound of their world, the humming in their region. The division here is so thin that it leaks through somehow. But, if you listen carefully, you'll find it's not above so much as around us. It's in the willows. It's the willows themselves humming, because here the willows have been made symbols of the forces that are against us."

I could not follow exactly what he meant by this, yet the thought and idea in my mind were beyond question the thought and idea in his. I realized what he realized, only with less power of analysis than his. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him at last about my hallucination of the ascending figures and the moving bushes, when he suddenly thrust his face again close into mine across the firelight and began to speak in a very earnest whisper. He amazed me by his calmness and pluck, his apparent control of the situation. This man I had for years deemed unimaginative, stolid!

"Now listen," he said. "The only thing for us to do is to go on as though nothing had happened, follow our usual habits, go to bed, and so forth; pretend we feel nothing and notice nothing. It is a question wholly of the mind, and the less we think about them the better our chance of escape. Above all, don't think, for what you think happens!"

"All right," I managed to reply, simply breathless with his words and the strangeness of it all; "all right, I'll try, but tell me one more thing first. Tell me what you make of those hollows in the ground all about us, those sand-funnels?"

"No!" he cried, forgetting to whisper in his excitement. "I dare not, simply dare not, put the thought into words. If you have not guessed I am glad. Don't try to. They have put it into my mind; try your hardest to prevent their putting it into yours."

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he finished, and I did not press him to explain. There was already just about as much horror in me as I could hold. The conversation came to an end, and we smoked our pipes busily in silence.

Then something happened, something unimportant apparently, as the way is when the nerves are in a very great state of tension, and this small thing for a brief space gave me an entirely different point of view. I chanced to look down at my sand-shoe—the sort we used for the canoe—and something to do with the hole at the toe suddenly recalled to me the London shop where I had bought them, the difficulty the man had in fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting but practical operation. At once, in its train, followed a wholesome view of the modern skeptical world I was accustomed to move in at home. I thought of roast beef, and ale, motor-cars, policemen, brass bands, and a dozen other things that proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility. The effect was immediate and astonishing even to myself. Psychologically, I suppose, it was simply a sudden and violent reaction after the strain of living in an atmosphere of things that to the normal consciousness must seem impossible and incredible. But, whatever the cause, it momentarily lifted the spell from my heart, and left me for the short space of a minute feeling free and utterly unafraid. I looked up at my friend opposite.

"You damned old pagan!" I cried, laughing aloud in his face. "You imaginative idiot! You superstitious idolater! You—"

I stopped in the middle, seized anew by the old horror. I tried to smother the sound of my voice as something sacrilegious. The Swede, of course, heard it too—the strange cry overhead in the darkness—and that sudden drop in the air as though something had come nearer.

He had turned ashen white under the tan. He stood bolt upright in front of the fire, stiff as a rod, staring at me.

"After that," he said in a sort of helpless, frantic way, "we must go! We can't stay now; we must strike camp this very instant and go on—down the river."

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words dictated by abject terror—the terror he had resisted so long, but which had caught him at last.

"In the dark?" I exclaimed, shaking with fear after my hysterical outburst, but still realizing our position better than he did. "Sheer madness! The river's in flood, and we've only got a single paddle. Besides, we only go deeper into their country! There's nothing ahead for fifty miles but willows, willows, willows!"

He sat down again in a state of semi-collapse. The positions, by one of those kaleidoscopic changes nature loves, were suddenly reversed, and the control of our forces passed over into my hands. His mind at last had reached the point where it was beginning to weaken.

"What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" he whispered with the awe of genuine terror in his voice and face.

I crossed round to his side of the fire. I took both his hands in mine, kneeling down beside him and looking straight into his frightened eyes.

"We'll make one more blaze," I said firmly, "and then turn in for the night. At sunrise we'll be off full speed for Komorn. Now, pull yourself together a bit, and remember your own advice about not thinking fear!"

He said no more, and I saw that he would agree and obey. In some measure, too, it was a sort of relief to get up and make an excursion into the darkness for more wood. We kept close together, almost touching, groping among the bushes and along the bank. The humming overhead never ceased, but seemed to me to grow louder as we increased our distance from the fire. It was shivery work!

We were grubbing away in the middle of a thickish clump of willows where some driftwood from a former flood had caught high among the branches, when my body was seized in a grip that made me half drop upon the sand. It was the Swede. He had fallen against me, and was clutching me for support. I heard his breath coming and going in short gasps.

"Look! By my soul!" he whispered, and for the first time in my experience I knew what it was to hear tears of terror in a human voice. He was pointing to the fire, some fifty feet away. I followed the direction of his finger, and I swear my heart missed a beat.

There, in front of the dim glow, something was moving.

I saw it through a veil that hung before my eyes like the gauze drop-curtain used at the back of a theater—hazily a little. It was neither a human figure nor an animal. To me it gave the strange impression of being as large as several animals grouped together, like horses, two or three, moving slowly. The Swede, too, got a similar result, though expressing it differently, for he thought it was shaped and sized like a clump of willow bushes, rounded at the top, and moving all over upon its surface—"coiling upon itself like smoke," he said afterwards.

"I watched it settle downwards through the bushes," he sobbed at me. "Look, by God! It's coming this way! Oh, oh!"—he gave a kind of whistling cry. "They've found us."

I gave one terrified glance, which just enabled me to see that the shadowy form was swinging towards us through the bushes, and then I collapsed backwards with a crash into the branches. These failed, of course, to support my weight, so that with the Swede on top of me we fell in a struggling heap upon the sand. I really hardly knew what was happening. I was conscious only of a sort of enveloping sensation of icy fear that plucked the nerves out of their fleshly covering, twisted them this way and that, and replaced them quivering. My eyes were tightly shut; something in my throat choked me; a feeling that my consciousness was expanding, extending out into space, swiftly gave way to another feeling that I was losing it altogether, and about to die.

An acute spasm of pain passed through me, and I was aware that the Swede had hold of me in such a way that he hurt me abominably. It was the way he caught at me in falling.

But it was the pain, he declared afterwards, that saved me; it caused me to forget them and think of something else at the very instant when they were about to find me. It concealed my mind from them at the moment of discovery, yet just in time to evade their terrible seizing of me. He himself, he says, actually swooned at the same moment, and that was what saved him.

I only know that at a later date, how long or short is impossible to say, I found myself scrambling up out of the slippery network of willow branches, and saw my companion standing in front of me holding out a hand to assist me. I stared at him in a dazed way, rubbing the arm he had twisted for me. Nothing came to me to say, somehow.

"I lost consciousness for a moment or two," I heard him say. "That's what saved me. It made me stop thinking about them."

"You nearly broke my arm in two," I said, uttering my only connected thought at the moment. A numbness came over me.

"That's what saved you!" he replied. "Between us, we've managed to set them off on a false tack somewhere. The humming has ceased. It's gone—for the moment at any rate!"

A wave of hysterical laughter seized me again, and this time spread to my friend too—great healing gusts of shaking laughter that brought a tremendous sense of relief in their train. We made our way back to the fire and put the wood on so that it blazed at once. Then we saw that the tent had fallen over and lay in a tangled heap upon the ground.

We picked it up, and during the process tripped more than once and caught our feet in sand.

"It's those sand-funnels," exclaimed the Swede, when the tent was up again and the firelight lit up the ground for several yards about us. "And look at the size of them!"

All round the tent and about the fireplace where we had seen the moving shadows there were deep funnel-shaped hollows in the sand, exactly similar to the ones we had already found over the island, only far bigger and deeper, beautifully formed, and wide enough in some instances to admit the whole of my foot and leg.

Neither of us said a word. We both knew that sleep was the safest thing we could do, and to bed we went accordingly without further delay, having first thrown sand on the fire and taken the provision sack and the paddle inside the tent with us. The canoe, too, we propped in such a way at the end of the tent that our feet touched it, and the least motion would disturb and wake us.

In case of emergency, too, we again went to bed in our clothes, ready for a sudden start.

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night and watch, but the exhaustion of nerves and body decreed otherwise, and sleep after a while came over me with a welcome blanket of oblivion. The fact that my companion also slept quickened its approach. At first he fidgeted and constantly sat up, asking me if I "heard this" or "heard that." He tossed about on his cork mattress, and said the tent was moving and the river had risen over the point of the island, but each time I went out to look I returned with the report that all was well, and finally he grew calmer and lay still. Then at length his breathing became regular and I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring—the first and only time in my life when snoring has been a welcome and calming influence.

This, I remember, was the last thought in my mind before dozing off.

A difficulty in breathing woke me, and I found the blanket over my face. But something else besides the blanket was pressing upon me, and my first thought was that my companion had rolled off his mattress on to my own in his sleep. I called to him and sat up, and at the same moment it came to me that the tent was surrounded. That sound of multitudinous soft pattering was again audible outside, filling the night with horror.

I called again to him, louder than before. He did not answer, but I missed the sound of his snoring, and also noticed that the flap of the tent was down. This was the unpardonable sin. I crawled out in the darkness to hook it back securely, and it was then for the first time I realized positively that the Swede was not here. He had gone.

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful agitation, and the moment I was out I plunged into a sort of torrent of humming that surrounded me completely and came out of every quarter of the heavens at once. It was that same familiar humming—gone mad! A swarm of great invisible bees might have been about me in the air. The sound seemed to thicken the very atmosphere, and I felt that my lungs worked with difficulty.

But my friend was in danger, and I could not hesitate.

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint whitish light spread upwards over the clouds from a thin strip of clear horizon. No wind stirred. I could just make out the bushes and river beyond, and the pale sandy patches. In my excitement I ran frantically to and fro about the island, calling him by name, shouting at the top of my voice the first words that came into my head. But the willows smothered my voice, and the humming muffled it, so that the sound only traveled a few feet round me. I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way and that among the preventing branches.

Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the island's point and saw a dark figure outlined between the water and the sky. It was the Swede. And already he had one foot in the river! A moment more and he would have taken the plunge.

I threw myself upon him, flinging my arms about his waist and dragging him shorewards with all my strength. Of course he struggled furiously, making a noise all the time just like that cursed humming, and using the most outlandish phrases in his anger about "going inside to Them," and "taking the way of the water and the wind," and God only knows what more besides, that I tried in vain to recall afterwards, but which turned me sick with horror and amazement as I listened. But in the end I managed to get him into the comparative safety of the tent, and flung him breathless and cursing upon the mattress where I held him until the fit had passed.

I think the suddenness with which it all went and he grew calm, coinciding as it did with the equally abrupt cessation of the humming and pattering outside—I think this was almost the strangest part of the whole business perhaps. For he had just opened his eyes and turned his tired face up to me so that the dawn threw a pale light upon it through the doorway, and said, for all the world just like a frightened child:

"My life, old man—it's my life I owe you. But it's all over now anyhow. They've found a victim in our place!"

Then he dropped back upon his blankets and went to sleep literally under my eyes. He simply collapsed, and began to snore again as healthily as though nothing had happened and he had never tried to offer his own life as a sacrifice by drowning. And when the sunlight woke him three hours later—hours of ceaseless vigil for me—it became so clear to me that he remembered absolutely nothing of what he had attempted to do, that I deemed it wise to hold my peace and ask no dangerous questions.

He woke naturally and easily, as I have said, when the sun was already high in a windless hot sky, and he at once got up and set about the preparation of the fire for breakfast. I followed him anxiously at bathing, but he did not attempt to plunge in, merely dipping his head and making some remark about the extra coldness of the water.

"River's falling at last," he said, "and I'm glad of it."

"The humming has stopped too," I said.

He looked up at me quietly with his normal expression. Evidently he remembered everything except his own attempt at suicide.

"Everything has stopped," he said, "because—"

He hesitated. But I knew some reference to that remark he had made just before he fainted was in his mind, and I was determined to know it.

"Because 'They've found another victim'?" I said, forcing a little laugh.

"Exactly," he answered, "exactly! I feel as positive of it as though—as though—I feel quite safe again, I mean," he finished.

He began to look curiously about him. The sunlight lay in hot patches on the sand. There was no wind. The willows were motionless. He slowly rose to feet.

"Come," he said; "I think if we look, we shall find it."

He started off on a run, and I followed him. He kept to the banks, poking with a stick among the sandy bays and caves and little back-waters, myself always close on his heels.

"Ah!" he exclaimed presently, "ah!"

The tone of his voice somehow brought back to me a vivid sense of the horror of the last twenty-four hours, and I hurried up to join him. He was pointing with his stick at a large black object that lay half in the water and half on the sand. It appeared to be caught by some twisted willow roots so that the river could not sweep it away. A few hours before the spot must have been under water.

"See," he said quietly, "the victim that made our escape possible!"

And when I peered across his shoulder I saw that his stick rested on the body of a man. He turned it over. It was the corpse of a peasant, and the face was hidden in the sand. Clearly the man had been drowned, but a few hours before, and his body must have been swept down upon our island somewhere about the hour of the dawn—at the very time the fit had passed.

"We must give it a decent burial, you know."

"I suppose so," I replied. I shuddered a little in spite of myself, for there was something about the appearance of that poor drowned man that turned me cold.

The Swede glanced up sharply at me, an undecipherable expression on his face, and began clambering down the bank. I followed him more leisurely. The current, I noticed, had torn away much of the clothing from the body, so that the neck and part of the chest lay bare.

Halfway down the bank my companion suddenly stopped and held up his hand in warning; but either my foot slipped, or I had gained too much momentum to bring myself quickly to a halt, for I bumped into him and sent him forward with a sort of leap to save himself. We tumbled together on to the hard sand so that our feet splashed into the water. And, before anything could be done, we had collided a little heavily against the corpse.

The Swede uttered a sharp cry. And I sprang back as if I had been shot.

At the moment we touched the body there rose from its surface the loud sound of humming—the sound of several hummings—which passed with a vast commotion as of winged things in the air about us and disappeared upwards into the sky, growing fainter and fainter till they finally ceased in the distance. It was exactly as though we had disturbed some living yet invisible creatures at work.

My companion clutched me, and I think I clutched him, but before either of us had time properly to recover from the unexpected shock, we saw that a movement of the current was turning the corpse round so that it became released from the grip of the willow roots. A moment later it had turned completely over, the dead face uppermost, staring at the sky. It lay on the edge of the main stream. In another moment it would be swept away.

The Swede started to save it, shouting again something I did not catch about a "proper burial"—and then abruptly dropped upon his knees on the sand and covered his eyes with his hands. I was beside him in an instant.

I saw what he had seen.

For just as the body swung round to the current the face and the exposed chest turned full towards us, and showed plainly how the skin and flesh were indented with small hollows, beautifully formed, and exactly similar in shape and kind to the sand-funnels that we had found all over the island.

"Their mark!" I heard my companion mutter under his breath. "Their awful mark!"

And when I turned my eyes again from his ghastly face to the river, the current had done its work, and the body had been swept away into mid-stream and was already beyond our reach and almost out of sight, turning over and over on the waves like an otter.

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shewhowantsmouseears · 7 years

Text

The Son Of Scheherazade, 9

Notes: As always, big thanks to my amazing editors Drucilla and BlueShifted!

Welcome to the "breather" arc, a filler meant for hilarity before we dive back into the plot. Donald's reaction to Panchito's and Jose's... enthusiasm is kind of like one of those anime cliches where the girl becomes so embarrassed she runs away with her hands on her face. Embrace popularity, Don.

Another anime cliche I had in mind was with Minnie and Lotus Blossom - you remember those old-school anime where rival girls would fire lightning from their eyes? Poor Mickey.

For those not in the know, Lotus Blossom is a comics-only character. Sometimes friend, sometimes foe, always a pain in the butt.

Summary: With Mickey's confidence at an all-time high, he's about to learn arrogance has its price. He's also about to have his first date... but it's not with Minnie!

Mickey would never call himself a patient person, but he was currently waiting calmly in front of Clarabelle and Horace's room with a smile on his face. Panchito and José were at his side, struggling to be as composed as Mickey was and failing, judging by their incessant tapping of feet and fingers itching on Panchito's guitar. Minnie was napping in her lamp – at least, that's what Mickey assumed she was doing, since he didn't see any other purpose for being in there. He definitely wouldn't have guessed Minnie was rolling around trying to handle all the confusing feelings and questions swirling around in her mind.

“Almost done!” Clarabelle's voice called out from inside. “Why, you won't even recognize Donald when I'm done with him.”

“It's not that big a difference, for crying out loud,” said Horace, who was no doubt earning a smack from his wife. Donald could be heard chuckling quietly, which made Mickey pleased beyond measure.

Ever since Donald had first climbed onboard, he had followed Mickey around like a baby bird imprinting on its mother. Mickey hadn't minded at all, happy to show Donald all around the ship and properly reintroduce him to everyone. Donald had been nervous to express any of his natural feelings, out of fear for his powers, but with every passing day he allowed more and more of his real self to emerge. It had finally culminated in him timidly asking Clarabelle for a favor, which she cheerfully obliged.

“And...there! What do you think, Donald?” Clarabelle asked.

A moment of silence followed, and then the doorknob twisted. Donald opened the door and stepped into the hallway, revealing the “big change” - Clarabelle had snipped away his ponytail, and smoothed down his feathers, giving him a much more humble and natural look. It highlighted all the other changes that had taken place since his arrival – the bags under his eyes were gone, and now his stomach was fuller, since he'd been given proper meals and attention. Mickey mused that Donald now looked more like a handsome prince than he did when he thought he was royalty.

“What do you guys think?” Donald asked, scratching his cheek shyly.

“It doesn't matter what we think,” Mickey replied, a hand to his heart. “What matters is what you think, Donald! This is your life now, after all.”

Donald took a moment to consider this, and nodded. “In that case...I like it! I kinda feel more free. Like a burden's off my shoulders! And I'm going to wear different clothing too! No more tight, frilly, fancy stuff! I'm even going to choose my favorite color and everything. I'm a whole new man!” He proudly put his hands on his hips, ready to strut his stuff, when he realized Panchito and José were staring at him dumbly. “...What's with them?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Probably something very silly. Watch yourself.”

Panchito suddenly slammed his hand downwards, creating a loud chord with his guitar, then pointed up in a dramatic fashion. “José!”

“Panchito!” José called back, holding his umbrella out in the same manner a knight would brandish their sword.

“Long have we searched this world for the very thing that has been missing from our souls!”

“Yes, we who are two, we have been incomplete! But we could not tell what we lack!”

“But you who understand me so deeply, you now know what I know, and so you know now!”

“I know now and now know more than anything else I ever known!”

“Can you put a name to this feeling in my heart, the one that calls out in this moment?”

“Of course I can, for I feel it in the very depths of my soul! Say it, my friend, say it!”

Donald was about to ask what in the world they were going on about, when Panchito latched himself onto Donald's left arm. “This can only be... love! Our third caballero!”

José snatched the right arm. “Love and love only! I implore you, dear Donald, to be with us forever and ever!”

Donald's entire face began to redden, and the sunlight that was pouring through the windows began to intensify to a blazing degree. “Wuh-wuh-WHAT ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT?!” Oh, this was the feeling called embarrassment.

“I think they like you,” Mickey said mildly, by now used to the bird's bizarre antics.

“We love him!” Panchito agreed, pressing his cheek to Donald's. “Come, we shall drink and be merry and make you a part of our life forevermore!”

“We shall sing songs and dance and introduce you to everything about this world we live in!” José took the other cheek. “We shall be your constant companions, your loyal servants, your wingmen! … See, it's funny, because we're birds.”

Donald, who had never heard a genuine compliment in his whole life, was wholly unprepared for the instant adoration thrust upon him. He covered his face with his hands and ran down the hallway, with the two nutjobs giving chase. “WAUUUUGH!”

“Look at how fast he goes, José, already bragging about his superior speed!”

“Praise be unto Donald, for he is mighty and amazing in all he does!”

Horace finally poked his head out of the doorway. “Oh, that's going to be fun to adjust to.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Mickey chuckled nervously, unsure if he should help or not. “Well, at least they won't constantly be asking for stories from me anymore.” He had been delaying that every chance he got, knowing he had nothing in his head that could compare to his mother's marvelous imagination. “I just hope Donald's emotions don't crash the ship before we land. How long until we reach Khade Town?”

With the crew having to adjust to another member, especially one with potentially destructive powers, Goofy had deemed it necessary to make a stop at nearby town to get extra supplies. “Should be less than an hour!” the captain himself declared, walking down the hallway, having just barely dodged the parade of birds that were now running up and down the ship. “We should be done in a day or two, maybe even shorter if we don't run into any distractions.”

“Like Mickey picking up another friend,” Clarabelle continued, giving Mickey a small smirk.

Mickey crossed his arms defensively. “It's not my fault we keep running into people who need our help! Besides, Minnie and Donald are going to help us out in my journey to get my parents back. Maybe we could even find another helpful person in the town!”

“Look kid,” Horace walked out of the room. “I'll admit, so far your knack of chronic hero syndrome has worked out for the better... but it's not always gunna be that way. Sometimes we can't save everyone, and sometimes not everyone deserves saving. You gotta be ready for people to take advantage of that big heart of yours.”

“I think I can take care of myself pretty darn well.” Mickey turned his head away. Shoot, he'd already been in some epic battles and used his strength and smarts to get out of them. He could take on any challenge that headed his way! And even better, his victories had nothing to do with him being the Son of Scheherazade. His heart would never steer him wrong! He was the hero of the story, and the hero was always right!

“We shouldn't run into too much trouble,” Goofy interrupted, trying to stop an argument from occurring. “It's a pretty small town... the only notable thing about it is a shrine to some gods from the north. Other than that, it's your average, run-of-the-mill kinda place. So we probably won't find anyone in life-threatening danger or folks with magical powers or villains with evil schemes to take over the world.”

“Boy, wouldn't that be nice,” Horace groaned.

“Don't be such a coward, Horace!” Mickey held his chin up, and began to head back to his room, full of confidence and swagger. “We can take on anything that comes our way! I ain't afraid of anything!” If he had heard this line of dialogue from one of his mother's stories, he would have immediately assumed that the hero of that tale was going to eat his words by the story's end. But now Mickey was drunk on his own spirit, unable to conceive his own failings. He was the hero who rescued the genie, who freed the prince of storms!

What could the world toss at him that he couldn't handle?

~*~

The ship “landed” a few miles outside of the town, anchored in by small rocky mountains. Once again, Pluto stayed behind to guard the ship, and the rest of the crew was split into groups. Panchito and José insisted on showing Donald around, and Donald allowed it if they stopped singing for several seconds. Goofy, Clarabelle, and Horace would be the second group, and Mickey and Minnie would be the last group – although Horace objected to this, insisting Mickey should stay with him, due to his attitude.

“I don't need a babysitter,” Mickey insisted as the groups walked into town, the birds already going in a different, loud direction. “Tell 'em, Minnie, didn't I do great at Donald's kingdom?”

Minnie gave him a curt look. “Is that a wish?” She had quickly settled back into her snide routine, not wanting to entertain the warm, weird thoughts the last adventure had brought her. Okay, so, Mickey was a decent enough fellow, but that just meant his darkness was hiding deeper than most people's did. He was not an exceptional, extraordinary being. Sure, maybe he was the tiniest bit clever, and perhaps the smallest bit generous, but in the end he would be the same as all her other masters. Not that she cared when this happened. Because she didn't. At all. Just like she didn't care how much Mickey was so-called “in love” with her, which he wasn't, he just liked her looks, and not her personality, because genies don't have personalities, they are tools, and so by that logic, Mickey didn't really love her and so Minnie really didn't care SHE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT CARE SO STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

Mickey rolled his eyes, oblivious to Minnie's inner nonsense. “Thanks, Minnie.” He would have explained further, but his big black ears picked up an odd sound.

It was something the others didn't pick up on, especially Horace. “Kid, I'm just trying to look out for you.” He closed his eyes, drawing upon years of experience. “You've been cooped up in a palace all your life, so you don't know the cruelties of the world! In a year's time, I bet you'll be thanking me for all my help. All you have to do is... he ran off while I was talking, didn't he.”

“Yes, yes he did.” Minnie pointed to the cloud of dust that had once been Mickey.

“Kid's gunna age me twenty years,” Horace groaned.

“Aw, let's just go shopping like we planned!” Goofy insisted. “We gotta buy some lemons so we don't get sky-scurvy.”

As Clarabelle yelled at Goofy for the tenth time that sky-scurvy was not something that existed, Minnie took it upon herself to look for her wayward master. What had distracted him?

The rapid sound of footsteps, that's what – Mickey had weaved himself through an open alleyway, and that's when he caught the origin of the sound. Three burly, tall, masked men were chasing a young woman who was carrying a wrapped bundle in her arms. Startled villagers ducked out of the way, frightened by the display.

“Get back here!” One of the men shouted, full of anger and spit. “There's nowhere you can run!”

Mickey instantly decided he knew what was happening – those three bullies were trying to rob that woman! So much for peace, quiet, and boredom. Looks like it was time for the Son of Scheherazade – no, Mickey the Hero, to write another exciting chapter! He looked around the area, trying to think of a solution – as much as he wanted to leap into the heap of battle, he didn't like the odds of one against three. The entire group was coming up, and if he didn't act fast, they'd all pass him.

What could he do, what could he use? He quickly surveyed the area – a humble food market, full of yummy fruits and vegetables, such as bananas, apples, and oranges – round oranges! Mickey ripped off a satchel of coins from his belt. “Hope this'll pay for everything!” He shouted to the shopkeep who had probably hidden inside by now, and he tossed the satchel inside the building – before taking out his scabbard and hacking away the legs of the fruit stand, causing it to crack and break, sending the oranges spilling into the street.

The timing had been perfect – the woman managed to avoid the spill, but the three men now found themselves tripping and rolling over the mess beneath their feet.

“Hey!”

“Whoa!”

“Dude, I JUST washed my robes this morning!”

While they tried to regain their balance, Mickey dashed ahead to the woman's side, having an idea for one more trick. “Here, this way!” He grabbed her wrist, which is when she finally noticed him, giving him a surprised, puzzled expression. He pulled her into another alleyway, spun her around, dipped her low, and took off one of her pointy yellow sandals, and then chucked the shoe across the street. Once the action was done, he held up a finger for silence, while the woman blinked at him. Mickey would later realize she had been awfully calm all the while.

The trio of attackers managed to finally find their footing, catching up to the alleyway. The leader of the group stopped them, pointing at the shoe. “Look! She must have gone this way!”

“Excellent finding, bro-ski. Don't worry, we'll find her!” said the smallest of the group.

“Only when we find ourselves, can we find another,” said the largest of the group.

They then took off ahead, believing they were right on their victim's tail. Mickey waited until he could no longer see them to let go of the girl – to be frank he wasn't sure how much longer he could have held her, given that she was two heads taller than he was. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could get a good look at her.

She was a pretty thing, he supposed, the kind of prettiness that other men would find beautiful but simply not Mickey's type. Her long black hair was tied up in a high ponytail with bright orange flowers, and a pair of golden earrings hung in round circles, rocking back and forth whenever she moved her head. Her deep blue top had yellow lining, exposing her pale arms that apparently could carry heavier things than one would think, given how large the bundle in those arms was. Her blue dress had noticeable slits that revealed shapely long legs. Curious dark eyes studied him, and she finally smiled, curling a lose hair behind her small ear. “You saved my life!”

Mickey placed his sword back in its scabbard. “Aw, it was nothing.” He replied with a puff of his chest. “It's just what us heroes are made to do. Are you all right?”

“I am now, thanks to you.” She held the wrapped bundle close to her chest. “I was trying to get my precious family heirloom home, when those thugs corned me! I thought I was a goner until you arrived! May I know the name of my brave hero!”

“I am Prince Mickey, the Son of Scheherazade!” Mickey only realized what he'd said when it was too late, and he resisted the urge to slap his forehead. “But... uh... just 'Mickey' will do.” Shoot. He was so conditioned to that title it came out as natural as breathing.

The woman's eyes took on an intense glitter. “Prince?” she repeated, before putting the heirloom on the ground and bowing low, hands on the ground. “I am not worthy to be in your presence, your highness.”

“What?!” Mickey jumped, and then raced over to grab her hands. “No, no, stop that! It's not like that at all! You don't have to do anything like that! I just wanted to help you, I don't want any special treatment.”

“Please forgive me, then... I have never been with someone so important.” The woman didn't pull her hands away from Mickey's. “My name is Lotus Blossom. How can I ever repay you for your kindness?”

“I don't need any kind of payment, really!” Mickey now tried pulling his hands away, but my, she had an awfully tight grip on him. “Listen, Lotus, if those guys are still out and about, maybe I should walk you home so they can't get their hands on you.”

“Your generosity truly knows no bounds, Mickey. But now I carry a burden with me, if you can't allow me the simple act of returning a kindness. How will I sleep at night with this guilt? Can't I be allowed one simple thing?” She raised a hand to touch his cheek, leaning in and lightly whimpering.

“Ah... well...” When she put it that way, it did seem harder to deny her. “I... I guess if you really want to, it'd be rude if I said no. Doesn't have to be anything big, though.”

“Oh, thank you, your highness!” Lotus suddenly threw her arms around Mickey, drawing him close to her plump chest. Mickey jerked, but he didn't want to insult her by backing up. His cheeks burned, and he tried to patiently wait out the hug and praise, eyes darting around for a proper place to rest his eyes. Like the sky, or the walls, or Minnie -

… Or Minnie standing in the alleyway staring at Mickey as he was pushed into the bosom of a pretty woman.

“NOTWHATITLOOKSLIKENOTWHATITLOOKSLIKE-” Mickey yelled loudly, his words so smashed together that no one understood what it was he was trying to say, jumping backwards and landing on his butt. Forget Mortimer the Magnificent or Donald's storms, this was as close to death as he ever felt!

Lotus frowned, and then looked in the direction Mickey was flailing at. “...Can we help you?” Her sweet voice now turned sour.

Minnie looked at Lotus, looked Mickey, then back to Lotus. “I was merely searching for my Master, and I have found him. That's all.” An average onlooker wouldn't have noticed the fire in Minnie's eyes or the aura of wrath all around her, but Mickey sure did, and he hoped one of the laws the genies had to follow was to not murder their masters. “Come, Master, we should return to the duties the Captain gave us.”

“Uh,” said Mickey, which for the moment all he was capable of saying.

“Right now?” Lotus put her attention back on Mickey, taking his hand with both of hers. “But I haven't properly thanked you yet! And what about those vicious men who are after me? You said you would help me.”

“Uh,” said Mickey again.

“My Master has his orders to follow, and can't afford to waste any time helping every single person he meets.” Minnie began to walk towards Mickey, and grabbed his other hand. “I'm sure this woman can find her own way home. She is an adult, not a child.”

“Uhhh.”

“Why yes, I am.” Lotus smiled, with a hint of fang to it. “Are you saying you're an adult too? I'm surprised, since you certainly have the body of a child...”

“UHHH.”

Now Minnie was glaring hellfire at Lotus and got it back in turn. “My looks have nothing to do with my Master returning to where he is supposed to be!”

“If he really is your master, then he should be able to make his own decisions, shouldn't he? You sound awfully bossy for a slave.”

“And you sound awfully attached for someone he just met. Why can't you find someone else to take you home?”

“He saved my life, of course I trust him!”

“He saves everyone's life, that's what he does!”

“Why don't you back off, tiny?”

“WHY DON'T YOU BACK OFF?!”

“WHY DON'T YOU MAKE ME?!”

Mickey had finally gathered enough bravery and strength to whistle high enough so both women stopped. “Listen... I have no idea what you two are doing, but that's gotta stop.” He cleared his throat, starting over. “Yes, I do have duties to fulfill, but Lotus Blossom was in trouble. I can't ignore people when they need help! And she says she won't be comfortable unless she repays me. So I'll take her home, and then she can repay me, and then I'll return to my duties. Everyone okay with that?”

Minnie “hmph”ed, but then glanced away. “...I suppose it is a matter of honor.”

Lotus clapped. “Wonderful, we're all in agreement! And I know exactly how to repay you, your highness! It will be something you and I both enjoy! And it's the only thing I want to give you, so you can't say no.” Was it Minnie's imagination or did this sound rather planned and rehearsed?

Mickey merely nodded. “Sounds fair. So, what is it?”

Lotus took Mickey's hand again for a big squeeze. “A date!”

“... A date?” Mickey repeated in disbelief.

“A date?” Minnie repeated in equal lack of belief.

“A date!” Lotus finished, now standing up and gathering the heirloom into her arm. “Oh, it'll be so much fun! We'll have a great time together! A hero and the damsel in distress he saved, together... isn't it romantic?” She then paused in her glee, noticing Mickey wasn't celebrating, and she eyed Minnie suspiciously. “Unless you two are...?”

“Oh, no, uh, she's, no.” Mickey fumbled, airily trying to gesture what he himself was barely figuring out. “She's... well... my friend? I mean, we've never... you know...?”

“I must say, that is a relief!” Lotus chirped, giggling. “There are some truly despicable masters out there.”

“NO, NO! I would never do anything like that!” Mickey said realizing what she meant, and then felt he just had to add, “I don't think I would be comfortable even kissing Minnie now.”

Now, Mickey was still trying to work out the tricks and oddities of romance. So he was fairly clueless why Minnie's jaw had dropped and she looked ready to either burst into tears or strangle him. “Comf...Comfortable?” She said shakily, her body twitching, fingers clenching. “You think the idea of kissing me is uncomfortable?”

Mickey blinked, knowing he was digging himself deeper yet unable to understand why he had the shovel. “Well, sure. Wouldn't anyone feel that way?” Lotus Blossom grinned, enjoying the show.

“Youuuu...” Minnie stretched the vowel out, shaking harder with anger. What happened to the dopey, goo-goo-eyed boy who had been drooling over her when she was on stage? Was she that repulsive now that she was a genie? What was so uncomfortable about kissing her?! Had he been uncomfortable when she kissed him on the cheek ages ago? NO SIR, THAT STUPID BOY HAD ENJOYED IT! “You, you, you...” She sucked air in through her teeth, her tail curling up behind her. “Well... I'm SO SORRY that I make you so UNCOMFORTABLE, MASTER!” Mickey had never heard her shout so loudly, and was literally floored, reeling on his back. “DON'T ALLOW ME TO MAKE YOU ANYMORE UNCOMFORTABLE! ENJOY YOUR DATE!”

Minnie then stormed off, her feet stomping so hard one could swear she was leaving footprints that would last a lifetime. Fine! FINE! Let him have his fun! He really just was like all the others! Let that harlot take him so they could cuddle and coo and KISS and have COMFORTABLE kisses! What did she matter? She was only a genie, and genies weren't supposed to entertain any thoughts about their master besides sheer obedience. It was her own fault for feeling this way.

As for Mickey, he still laid there, trying to process everything. “...Wha'happen?” he mumbled, as if he'd been run over by a wild stampede of elephants.

“I'll show you the way home!” Lotus took Mickey by the hand and began to drag him away, not caring if he ever got up to walk. “Then we can plan our date! I simply can't wait!”

Then Mickey thought the one thing no hero in a story should ever think – At least it can't get any worse.

#disney #fanfic #the son of scheherazade #mickey mouse #minnie mouse #donald duck #goofy #clarabelle cow #horace hosecollar #panchito pistoles #jose carioca

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