#i literally had to reach over them to water plants and they still never stung me. ive had mason bees. ive obviously had honey bees and

[snekdood]

the cringe nihilistic "personal impact means nothing so why even try" vs the chad "or i could be one of the only people in my apartment complex that grows native plants and lets native animals live in them in what is otherwise a desolate hellscape of grass"

[delimeful]

taking the fall (3)

warnings: imprisonment, interrogation, injury, mild blood, panic and sensory overload, dehumanizing language, ambiguous motives, morally neutral/antagonistic janus, snakes mention

-

His guest wasn’t eating.

Janus cast an irritated glance over to the terrarium, where the only “life” that could be seen was a clump of thick foliage in one corner.

He’d left the old fake plants in there as a taunt, but as soon as the tiny creature had ascertained that there were no snakes in the grass, they’d immediately bundled every bit of shiny plastic greenery into a makeshift nest and hid within it. He supposed he should have expected it, from one as industrious as these tiny folk all seemed to be.

Regardless of his guest’s reticence, he’d been setting small dishes of food in there whenever he himself took his meals, giving them some time to adjust to the reality of their situation. It had been a couple of days, however, and every miniature entree looked entirely untouched.

His prisoner seemed to be on a hunger strike.

It added more evidence to his theory that he was being misled in regards to his guest’s identity. If they were actually a victim in all this, why bother keeping quiet and refusing to give the answers Janus needed? Why go so far as to not even eat, for people who allegedly wouldn’t care if he lived or died?

No, things made much more sense if this was a gambit on the tiny people’s part, one of them volunteering to stay and play sacrificial lamb, distracting him for as long as the others needed. Their terror, their injury, their tiny bitter laugh, it could all be part of a ploy for pity on his end. Get him too invested in a puzzling prisoner while the others escaped.

The thought made his stomach drop unpleasantly. His opponents were exceedingly small, and he was one of the few who knew they existed. If they got away, he’d never see them again.

He couldn’t afford that.

Pushing his chair back, he approached the terrarium, casting an assessing eye over the food set out in it. Some of it could sit out, and had been there overnight, the best time for his guest to eat without risking even seeing Janus. But no. Not a single crumb out of place to indicate that anything had been eaten.

“Still alive?” he asked dryly, rapping a knuckle on the glass once.

There was a long pause, and then one of the leafy stems sticking out from the nest twitched twice. This daily question and response was the only communication he’d had with his guest since that first afternoon, and even this small, silent answer had originally been prompted by a threat of Janus reaching in there and checking himself.

“I notice that you’ve been refusing any sustenance,” he continued idly, and got nothing for his efforts. “Planning to die before you can give up any secrets?”

No response. Janus sighed as though put upon, and slid the terrarium lid halfway off. There were still no meaningful movements from the nest, though it seemed to be subtly trembling. It was impressive that despite the dark clothing that his guest wore, he still couldn’t make out exactly where they were even this close.

With narrowed eyes, he reached in and grabbed a few of the plastic leaves, tugging to pull the construction apart bit by bit.

He only caught the faintest flicker of movement before there was a sudden sharp pain in his index finger, and he yanked his hand back on reflex.

A weight came up with it, putting even more pressure on his wound, and it dropped as soon as his hand was just above the terrarium lid.

Seeing the dark shape attempting to scramble away, his other hand smacked down on top of it automatically, pressing it into the mesh with a small, muffled cry.

He glanced at his hand. There was a plastic thorn hooked in his thumb, the broad end chewed off and the point of it sharpened. His guest had attacked and used him as a makeshift lift in their escape attempt.

“Oh,” he intoned, voice dark. “Seems like you have plenty of energy after all, hm?”

---

Virgil took in short, gasping breaths, barely able to hear whatever threatening thing the human was muttering as pain radiated through his leg.

It let up just slightly as the pressure of the hand on top of him eased, his face no longer pressed into the cold wire netting of the cage’s top. Before he could try and string two thoughts together, the fingers were curling around him like a hawk’s talons, lifting him up and sending another jolt of mind-numbing pain through him. He might have whimpered.

So much for that escape attempt. He’d known it was a long shot, but his options had been limited after realizing that he literally couldn’t stand on the injured leg any more. They’d dwindled further with every day he couldn’t bring himself to crawl over to any food or water. Living outside, he’d survived on very little before, but it was a gamble every time.

He was flipped to face the light, the human’s head in silhouette above him. He couldn't make out it’s words. Everything felt overwhelming, made incomprehensible by the pain and the dark spots in his vision. His face felt hot. Was he bleeding?

Things went blissfully quiet above him, and then he was being moved. He wondered if the human was about to kill him, and the thought sent a much weaker pulse of panic down his spine than usual. He hoped it killed borrowers before feeding them to it’s snakes.

Something soft and dark dropped over him, and he thrashed for a moment before his leg reminded him how awful an idea that was. So he laid still instead, letting his terror shake through him in waves, until he wasn’t completely lost to it anymore.

Slowly, he lifted a hand, feeling at what was draped over him. Cloth, soft in texture and tightly-knit enough that not much light got through. Below him… a warm, living surface.

“Awake?” the human said, voice both closer and quieter than he’d ever heard it.

Another shudder worked through him, and he reached up to press his hands over his face, wishing none of this was real. His eye pigment had run, drying in tracks down his cheeks.

He wouldn’t be able to reapply it. The locket he stored it in was left behind with the rest of his stuff, tucked away into his oversized pack and left at the opening into the human’s home. It had probably already been torn through and picked apart by Mari and the other insiders.

The thought stung, somehow more personal than the nightmare of the situation he was already in.

“I believe I see now why you haven’t eaten,” the human continued with a surprising lack of snark. It must have seen his leg. He felt a little sick just thinking about it.

What had felt like a low-grade fracture through the adrenaline had ended up growing worse and worse without treatment, until the injury was a solid lump of swollen flesh and ugly bruising that twanged with agony at even the slightest shifts. He wondered if the human was going to use it against him. It would make torture exceedingly easy on its part.

“Continue with the silent treatment, and you won’t get any actual treatment,” it said, now sounding exasperated.

After another stretch of silence, the hand beneath him moved and tilted, sliding him off onto a flat surface. Suddenly desperate to know what was going on, Virgil yanked at the cloth, dragging handfuls of it down until he reached an edge and could pull it clear of his eyes.

The light in this room was dimmer, but it still took him a moment to adjust. He wasn’t in a snake tank, but on top of a low table in what looked like a sitting room, if he remembered the human terms right. The human was seated on the couch nearby, looking down at him.

“There you are.”

---

The tiny person shot him a furious glare, rendered mostly ineffective by the dark tear streaks that were still smudged along their face.

Janus wished his earlier reflexes had been a little gentler. He’d had a quite embarrassing moment of panic where he’d thought the grotesque worsening of their leg injury had been caused by his grasp, rather than simple neglect and lack of treatment.

Despite his patience, they didn’t reply, continuing to just stare at him. He stood, ignoring the way it instantly made them begin trembling again.

“I’ll be back in a moment. Feel free to move around and make your injury worse,” he instructed dryly, before turning and going to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

His thumb was still sensitive, the injury messily scabbed over with dried blood. He’d pried the thorn out with his teeth easily enough, but with his other hand occupied by a prone tiny person and their hyperventilation fit, he couldn’t properly treat it.

Upon his return, he saw his guest had abandoned his handkerchief and was halfway to the edge of the table. He rolled his eyes, and set the kit down before grabbing them by the shoulders and sliding them back over to the handkerchief.

“I was being sarcastic, you know,” he told them, and opened the kit to start cleaning his undersized injury. “I’ll be very unhappy if my only source of information dies a completely avoidable death for no reason.”

“Yeah, because I sure wouldn’t want to make you unhappy,” his guest bit out, and then looked as though they were deeply and immediately regretting opening their mouth. Janus didn’t know why; he personally took much better to sass than being stabbed.

“So you do know how sarcasm works. Color me impressed.”

The tiny person actually hissed at him, like the world’s most emo kitten.

“Yes, yes, I feel very threatened,” Janus retaliated by prodding them with the edge of an open tube of arnica gel. “Here. For the bruising.”

After another long glare, his guest spoke. “What do you want for it?”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t it be argued that I owe it to you, for allowing the injury to fester while you’re in my care?”

“Your care--!” his guest cut themself off, taking in a deep breath through gritted teeth. “Terrible hosting etiquette aside, you weren’t the one who gave me the injury. Not your concern. So, what do you want?”

Janus wondered absently how tiny people qualified their hosts’ manners. He had certainly already failed by human standards, immediately imprisoning his guest and all, so perhaps it didn’t really matter either way. He wasn’t above taking advantage of a tiny person’s bartering honor system. “Answer three questions.”

“I get to pass on questions I don’t want to answer,” his guest countered quickly, apparently having expected this.

“You get five passes,” Janus allowed. Seeing what they refused to answer would be informative in itself.

“... Fine.” With another glance at their injury, they grabbed the tube sharply enough that they almost overbalanced. “Ask.”

“Where are the others living?” Janus asked, just to set the stakes high.

“Pass,” his guest answered, not even looking up from their task. Janus rolled his eyes.

“Why are you defending them?” he tried.

“I’m not defending them,” they shot back, vitriol thick in their voice. “I just don’t want you to get what you want. That’s one question.”

“Ouch. I’m hurt, really.” Janus tapped his nails along the table idly. “What’s your name and pronouns?”

This did prompt them to look up, face pinching up in confusion. After a moment, they returned to their baseline expression of scowl and retorted, “That’s two questions.”

“It’s one sentence, it counts as one question,” Janus lied smugly. They still looked close to passing, so he gave them a nudge. “Unless you want me to make something up? I’m very creative, I assure you.”

“I use he,” he finally grit out, “and you can call me V.”

“For Vendetta?” Janus mused, and received an utterly baffled look for his wit. “I suppose your movie repertoire isn’t that expansive.”

“Two questions,” V said flatly. “One left.”

“Yes, I can count.” Janus glanced at V’s gel-covered leg. “You have to rub that in for it to work.”

V’s expression flickered to one of despair, but he bit his lip and started to slowly massage the gel in. Janus wondered at how easily he’d believed him.

“What do you call yourselves?”

“Pass.”

“Where did you live?”

“Pass.”

“How do I bait the others out?”

“Pass.”

“Why do you hate me more than the ones who allegedly put you here?”

V’s hand slipped, and he winced and paused for a moment. “... Pass.”

There was certainly a grudge there. Too bad Janus had no idea what it could be about. Oh well.

He set a hand on the table, leaning over V. “When do the others plan to leave? As specific as you can get, please.”

“Pa--,” V cut himself off, and Janus could see the moment he realized he had used up all his get-out-of-questioning-free cards. He patiently waited out the tiny person’s fit of frustration.

“... I don’t know.” Janus’s smug grin dropped, but V continued after a speculative pause. “I don’t think they’ll leave before the season's turning. The spring thaw has been slow this year, and they’re-- not suited for it.”

Janus felt some of the tension drop from his shoulders. The start of summer. He had time, and the advantage of a weather forecast app. That was good news, even if he’d had to wrangle it out of his guest. He had time.

“How interesting,” he said lightly, and capped the gel to put it back in the box. V’s hands were clutching the edge of his coat tightly, as though guilty or angry. Or perhaps just stressed. “Let’s get some food in actual range of you, then, shall we?”

[thesardonicwriter]

The Way It Is, Chapter 4 (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

After two weeks of nonstop treatment, Arthur’s face was finally starting to look better. You hadn’t risked another trip into town. Now that Arthur was up and moving, you wanted to be with him. The last thing that they needed was for him to think he was doing better than he actually was while you were gone and hurting himself again. Or worse, getting caught by the Pinkertons. You didn’t even want to imagine the torture they would go through before they were killed. It was sure to be a slow and painful death, especially after what Abigail had done to Milton. Arthur described it once, the gruesome reality of having someone’s brains sprayed directly onto his face. You had, of course, seen a bullet go through more than a couple of skulls, usually from your own gun, but you had always been a safe distance away and never really had to face the aftermath. You figured that whoever had found Milton hadn’t seen it up close or at all. No, there would be no mercy for them now.

You forced Arthur to his feet. He didn’t protest verbally, but you could see the complaint in his eyes. Even after years of going through this kind of shit, he was still reluctant. Imagine that. He was always so proactive on jobs and helping out others, it was strange to see him so unwilling to do something to help himself. You had no qualms about dragging him out of the cave if it was necessary. Thankfully, Arthur would listen to you. Usually. Even now, as he leaned heavily against you, he was still walking forward.

“That’s it. Just a couple more feet,” you promised.

“You said that already,” Arthur huffed.

“Gotta keep you on your toes. Literally. C’mon, what happened to Arthur Morgan? The guy who could intimidate the world’s strongest man? The guy who, if your ridiculous campfire stories are to be trusted, fought a lion?”

Arthur groaned. “Don’t remind me. That damned Margaret or whatever his name was nearly got me killed. Did get a lot of folk killed down at Emerald Ranch, all to give me some piece a junk for my troubles.”

“Sure he did.”

You chuckled softly. A part of you didn’t believe anything like that could ever have happened, but they were far enough east around that time that you would have believed anything was possible. You looked up at him. He was staring at the ground with an intense expression. All of his energy was focused on getting his leg back up to full strength. He’d been sitting around in that cave for too long. When he stood up for the first time, he immediately fell back on his ass, clutching his wounded leg and grimacing. You had gone out into the woods to take care of the Count after that. You found that the white steed had taken a liking to you. If he was close enough, he’d come to the sound of your voice. You made sure that that pretty white coat of his stayed white and lustrous. While you were out there in the woods, you fashioned a fallen branch into a kind of staff for Arthur to make walking a little easier. Now, he was insisting that he didn’t need it. You had some requests of your own, such as taking him down the mountain side and back. Not all the way, of course. Just a few meters away from the cave. It was still well within view. 

The real challenge was getting the food you cooked to stay in their stomachs. The food you’d bought at the general store had run out in a week. Since Arthur was awake, you felt comfortable going out to do some hunting. However, if you tried to do anything more than roast whatever game you’d managed to catch, it never turned out right. It wasn’t like they had a plethora of ingredients, but it wasn’t pleasant. It was, somewhat, better than having nothing. Hopefully, they’d be off this mountain soon.

“Hey, y’know what I could really go for?” Arthur asked.

“What?”

“Some fish. Dutch’s old rod was in with the Count’s things and I’ve always got mine handy. How’s about we head down to a nice place and try to catch somethin’?”

“Arthur Morgan, suggestin’ that we go fishin’? Now I’ve seen everything.” You didn’t bother trying to hide your grin. “Stay here, I’ll grab the rods.”

You quickly ran back to the cave, crawling inside and grabbing what they needed. You took a few scraps of bread and cheese, too, in case they needed some extra bait. Arthur was waiting somewhat eagerly for you to come back. You helped him move down the more tricky parts of the mountain. There were more than a few places that could get a little steep and slick if one step was wrong. They were following the small stream you’d discovered hidden in one of the many crevices. It was about 20 minutes of walking (mostly because they had to stop every now and then to let Arthur rest) to get to the spring the stream fed into.

Your breath was taken away as you looked at the sight before you. Crystal blue water stretched out just far enough. Vegetation was spread all around them. Some of the plants you knew, but most you couldn’t name off the top of your head. The water reflected the beauty around them. It was somewhat obscured, but that only added to it. The stream fed into the spring like a small waterfall, ensuring that the area would never be completely silent. Not even the lowest part of the rocks reached the surface, standing several inches above the water. A perfect fishing spot. 

“Wow,” you spoke quietly.

“Wow indeed,” Arthur agreed.

Without another word, they both put together their rods, sharing the bait. You moved a few paces away to keep their lines from getting crossed. They sat in silence for a long time. It was comfortable. Perfect, unlike that first night Arthur had been awake. In a place like this, it was easy to forget fear and just… live. Really live and be human for a few fleeting moments. That was all that you really wanted now. Precious moments, surrounded by beauty.

Arthur stopped fidgeting and looked up. You glanced back at him. He was staring at the sky in wonder. His mouth was slightly agape and blue-green eyes were wide. You turned to see what he was looking at. 

The sun was slowly setting in the west. From where they were, they actually had a pretty good view of it. The fading sun cast a glow of orange over the tops of the trees. The usual blue of the sky was melting into the oranges and yellows. The clouds were a light pinkish colour, lazily floating towards nothing. Purples meshed with reds, light and dark came together and it was only for a few moments. Before anything else could be seen or said, the moment was gone. 

Arthur closed his mouth. There was a soft smile traced across his lips still. You stared at the retreating sun for a moment. It really was something else. No matter how many sunsets you saw, you would never get used to the sight of them. Each one of them was so different from the last, so unique.

“I missed the sun,” Arthur said.

“We can see it from the cave,” you shrugged.

“Yeah, but you know that ain’t the same as standing in a place like this and watchin’ it. Don’t try and fool yourself now.”

“Nah, I s’pose not. We better be headin’ back now. I don’t think any of our fish friends are interested in cheese.”

“Hold on! I’ve got somethin’!”

Arthur pulled back on the rod, reeling in whatever it was he had quickly. You watched in anticipation. Neither of them were expecting for his leg to give out at that exact moment.

Arthur was pulled into the water. He landed with a loud splash that sent water up over the rocks and onto you’s boots. Dread overtook you as you looked into the water. Arthur sputtered when he came back to the surface, wiping water from his eyes. He gave his head a good shake and held up the fishing rod.

“Had to cut the line to keep the rod,” he said.

“You okay?” you asked him. You hoped that your voice didn’t sound as worried as you felt.

“Yeah, I’m good. C’mon, help me outta here.”

You made your way down the rocks closer to the water’s edge. You found the spot closest to the water and held out your hand. Arthur swam over to you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. You started to pull back but was met with a much greater force pulling you in. You barely had time to brace yourself before you were completely submerged. It took you a moment to get your bearings under water. Her eyes stung but you needed to look around. You found the surface and swam quickly. As soon as you were up, you took a deep gulp of fresh air into your lungs. Arthur was laughing like a madman. It wasn’t often that you heard Arthur laugh, but it did nothing to make you less angry at him. You sent a wave of water his way.

“You dumbass! Now we’re both soaked!” You complained.

“Ah, you’re enjoyin’ yourself, don’t lie.” Arthur was still smiling and trying not to laugh. “You need to do that, y’know. Take a little time for yourself. God knows you’ve spent enough of it on an old fool like me.”

“Fool? Yes. Old? No. If you’re old, then so am I and I ain’t ready for that conversation yet. And as for lookin’ out for you? If I didn’t do it, who would?” Arthur opened his mouth to say something back. “All right, will this shut you up? I’ll promise to watch you if you promise to watch me. We’ll take care of each other. Deal?”

You held out your hand expectantly. Arthur didn’t hesitate to take it in his own. His palms were rough and calloused. You were sure that yours felt much the same to him. They shook on it, making it official. You pulled your hand away. As Arthur turned around, you put your hands on his shoulders and pushed down with all of your strength. He was completely submerged. You let out a laugh of your own until you felt his hand on your ankle. Just like that, you were back underwater. You could just barely make out Arthur swimming back for air. You did the same. You pushed your hair out of your face. It was the first time that you had smiled in what felt like months.

You laid on your back and let yourself float. You looked up at the night sky. If Arthur was feeling this good, then their days on the mountain were numbered. If it was just the two of them, they could get off with relative ease. They could even make it back west, if they tried. Find someplace far away from the trains and settle there. Together. Make some kind of a life for whatever time that they had left. You wasn’t going back to being an outlaw. You knew that you could, if you really wanted to. You had been doing well for yourself before Arthur found you. Somehow, it felt wrong to think about going back to that life without the rest of the gang by your side.

Arthur entwined his fingers with yours. You looked over at him. He was staring at the sky, too. As you looked back up, you wondered what was causing that pensive look on his face. Was he worried about the same things you were? All you knew was that he was there and present. With his hand in your own, you could forget about the rest of the world. It was just the two of them in this moment, in their little secret spring. They were unburdened by the need for conversation. The only sound was the soft trickle of the stream.

Arthur let you go and swam to the edge. He pulled himself out of the water. Arthur shook his body like he was a dog, running his fingers through his hair. He leaned down and held out a hand to you. You swam over tentatively and took it. You still didn’t entirely trust Arthur now, not after that stunt. But there were no tricks up Arthur’s sleeve, not this time. He pulled you up with little difficulty, considering his leg wound. 

You stood next to him for a moment, inches away from being flush against his chest. They had been forced to be close together over the past couple of weeks, sure, but this felt different somehow. You took a step back to get rid of the feeling. You didn’t like it and you didn’t like who was causing it.

On the sodden trek back to their temporary home, you kept your arms tight around yourself. By the time they got back to the cave, you were shivering. You made your way into the cave and started gathering up the blankets.

“Make sure to get out of those wet clothes, Arthur. The last thing we need is one of us catchin’ pneumonia,” you warned.

He nodded, facing towards the back of the cave as he started to unbutton his shirt. You stared at his back for longer than you should have. When you turned to face your own wall, your cheeks were burning. Quickly, you took off your own clothes and wrapped one of the blankets around yourself tightly. You set the clothes close to the entrance. You sat against one of the walls and leaned your head back. You let yourself dream of the virgin west for a short while before taking watch.

[foursideharmony]

Collateral Damage (Part 1)

Summary: Roman gets into trouble while questing in the Imagination. Rescue arrives, but will the rescuer be all right? A gift of sorts for @today-only-happens-once

Word Count: 1,829

Relationship(s): Platonic LAMP, with some extra Prinxiety focus

Warnings: It's a whump/hurt/comfort fic, sooooo... Plant-monster, violence, nausea, injury, villain!Remus, torture, blood, gross eye stuff, fainting

Roman often said the Imagination was dangerous. The vast majority of the time, this was flagrant exaggeration. The truth was that the Creative Side had an excellent handle on his realm and had learned to build in all kinds of fail-safes, in case a quest or other adventure started to turn sour in an unplanned way. One of his favorites was a staple of the “game” he called Wandering Monsters, wherein he would hat up, venture into the wilderness of the kingdom, guided by his intuition, and face whatever it threw at him. He kept the far reaches of his realm stocked with not just all manner of fantastic creatures, but conceptual fragments of them—traits that could combine unpredictably to generate new monsters, so that he never knew just what to expect.

Once he had battled a fire-breathing winged toad that exploded into thousands of regular toads upon its defeat. That had been rather disgustingly memorable. Then there had been the lamia-sphinx, who forced Roman to solve the riddle of her beauty or be devoured. On yet another occasion, instead of generating a monster, the landscape itself became more hazardous as he traveled, producing sinkholes and avalanches. It was always fresh, always exciting...and always escapable if Roman found himself in over his head, thanks to the fail-safe.

For this particular episode of Wandering Monsters, he found himself descending into a fetid marsh. (That should have been his first clue that something was amiss.) He kept to higher ground as much as possible, avoiding the standing water, but every footstep squelched in slimy mud and he was constantly harassed by clouds of gnats. He was weighing the merits of just calling off the adventure altogether when a patch of scummy water several paces ahead of him erupted in khaki spray and the monster appeared.

It was...a blob. Well, a wad—a shapeless mass of tangled plant matter about the size of an elephant, with no discernible aesthetic or grace. “I ruined my boots for this?” Roman complained aloud. “I have half a mind to just—aah!”

He trailed off in a startled scream as two vines lanced out of the mass toward him. He brought his shield up in time, but the impact still tipped him over, and he slid headfirst down a muddy embankment and into the water. For a panicked moment, Roman was trapped that way, head submerged, lacking the leverage to right himself, until he got the presence of mind to jam his sword into the mud and use it as a handhold to haul himself up. He sputtered, spitting out foul water—

—and suddenly found himself swinging wildly in the air, upside-down. The monster had extended another vine and hoisted him into the air by one ankle. Roman slashed at the ropy tendril only to realize that he didn't have his sword because, duh, it was still stuck in the bank and he had lost his grip on it when the creature yanked him away. But his shield was still there, strapped to his arm, and it was good steel, and a dull edge was still an edge.

The monster thrashed back and forth, making Roman helicopter in the air and robbing him of any chance to bring his shield within reach of the vine that held him, as well as making him faintly motion-sick. It let go on an upswing, sending him tumbling upward, and then snatched him with more vines, these lined with thorns that dug through his clothing and pricked his flesh. Roman gasped with the sudden shock of pain, only to find his breathing constricted as the vines coiled thickly around his torso, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Enough was enough: time for the fail-safe! Roman banged his feet together three times and wheezed “There's no place like home!” (because he respected the classics). The scene sloshed around him, there was a rushing sensation, and he landed on his butt on smooth tile. His sword clattered beside him.

It had worked. He was back in the hall of his castle, safe and able to assess the damage at his leisure while he waited for Phase Two of the fail-safe to kick in. The thorn-wounds stung and itched, but they didn't seem too deep; Roman figured—

The sense of something shifting behind him dragged the prince out of his train of thought. Roman whirled around to see something that should have been impossible—the marsh monster was there, in the hall with him! It had followed him, through the retrieval spell, and that could mean only one thing.

He should have realized.

“Oh, Rooooomaaaaaannnnnnn!” squealed the voice he detested. “What's wrong, brother dear? Don't you like your new friend? I made him just for you! Say hello and PLAY NICE!” Remus's voice dropped to a growl on the last two words, and the plant creature extended a heavy vine and slapped Roman, sending him tumbling over the marble and adding a multitude of bruises to the pinprick cuts he had already sustained. His whole body twinged in protest.

Roman staggered to his feet. He hadn't managed to grab his sword, and could only watch as the monster galumphed toward him, vines lashing. It moved something like a gigantic amoeba—bulging irregularly toward the front and then flowing into the bulge, its movements erratic but averaging out to forward motion. Remus was perched atop it, sitting cross-legged, his morningstar laid across his knees, grinning like he always did when serious violence was in the offing. Roman juked to the side just as they arrived, so that the mass of stinking plant matter shambled past him. It was leaving a disgusting trail of mud and scum all over his floor, and that made him angrier than the injuries. How dare—

“Whoopsie-daisy!” Remus screeched, realizing that Roman had evaded him. “None of that, now!”  He swiveled atop the monster and it reversed course without even turning, shooting its vines out what had been the back and was now, apparently, the new front. If such terms even meant anything in relation to such a shapeless thing.

“Remus, go home!” Roman snarled. “You're not welcome here!”

“Oh, so you can invade my side of the Imagination, but not vice-versa? That's hardly fair!”

“I didn't invade—look, I don't have to justify myself to you!” The scratches were really starting to sting, as if the monster were made of nettles. Roman could barely manage to dodge the new strikes—he needed his sword! He turned and darted back the way he had come, and promptly slipped on the sludge left by the creature's passage. Roman's chin met the marble hard enough to fill his vision with black sparks, and he tasted blood.

“Ooh, Roman, I like the way you think!” Remus said, and before Roman could wonder what the hell he was talking about, the plant-monster had him by the ankle again—both ankles this time. Roman's stomach roiled, made more sensitive by his near-concussion, but before he got a chance to see whether he was actually going to be sick, the creature whipped him across the room.

In the next instant, he slammed into a pillar, the impact sending savage pain exploding all up and down his body. In the instant after that, the pain came again as he dropped to the floor. He could scarcely breathe, it was so excruciating, and he definitely couldn't move, even to desperately crawl away when Remus and his “pet” approached again.

“Poor little Princey,” Remus said, sing-song. “He's all black and blue! Not a very balanced color scheme—too cool, too somber. I know! We'll brighten it up with some RED!” On the last word, a thorny vine raked at Roman's back, tearing right through his sash and jacket and leaving burning scratches in his flesh. The assault continued, Remus cackling as his minion tore Roman's clothes to shreds and his skin to something not much better. Where the HELL is Phase Two? the prince wondered frantically.

“Enough!” he gasped out, prompting a pause in the torture. “P-please! What do you want, Remus?”

Remus rolled his eyes so hard that they literally popped out of his head and bounced on the floor, adding revulsion to Roman's catalog of horrible sensations. “What, you never heard of family bonding time?” he said, ichor dripping from his empty sockets.

Roman closed his eyes against the hideous sight and began to hum softly, trying to dull the pain to something manageable. He didn't get very far before Remus's voice cut in, rasping like sandpaper against his battered awareness.

“Hey! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you! Where are your manners?”

Back in the swamp, Roman thought sourly, but he didn't bother responding out loud.

“I asked you a question!” Remus roared. Then, suddenly as mild as if they'd been discussing recent movies, he said: “You know...there's something I've always wondered. Why does the prince always get to be so handsome?”

Roman's eyes snapped open with alarm. Remus, in possession of his own eyes once again, had shifted position atop the monster, lying on his stomach, head propped up on one hand while the other twirled the morningstar almost negligently. “And whatever would he do,” the Intrusive Side continued, “if that were taken away from him?”

He made a sharp gesture, and several vines zipped out and coiled around Roman's sprawled limbs, pinning him in place. Remus twiddled his fingers in the air, and another vine, this one dotted with barbed thorns, emerged and hovered, poised over Roman's face, quivering with what seemed like monstrous anticipation.

Just as the vine struck, there was a soft explosion of ultraviolet and a smell of ozone, and someone was there, intervening. Roman's vision was becoming hopelessly blurred; all he could make out was a mass of black and purple. Virgil...?

Virgil had blocked the vine with his forearm, his baggy hoodie sleeve bunching up and cushioning him from the damage as its momentum whipped it around his wrist. “GET OUT!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating with the Tempest Tongue. The force of his shout struck Remus like a physical blow, sending him tumbling backward along the top of the marsh monster. “OUT!!” Virgil repeated, wrenching at the vine wrapped around his arm.

The stress of the situation lent him power, and the monster...unraveled, like a ball of yarn. Remus made an extremely undignified noise as he fell amid the collapsing vines, and in a puff of acrid smoke, he was gone. The remains of the plant creature...remained, strung out in slimy, noisome piles in what was supposed to be a luxurious and fashionable palace hall.

Near-silence fell over the space, punctuated only by Virgil's panting breaths as he came down from the peak of his fight-or-flight state, and by Roman's own ragged breaths. His wounds throbbed hotly, seeming to expand, and he realized why, just as the room started to spin away into blackness...

To Be Continued...

[thehattertheory]

Bridge

So. I haven’t actually written anything in about five years. But I really need to take a break from the depressive episode that is 2020.  

Here goes.

That one where I take the prompt too literally. 

Fluff. Rated Teen.

She was pulled away from her family when she was seven, with no knowledge or understanding of why. For a month, she was kept in a temple in Nago, where she learned rites she had never even heard of. She dressed, bathed, and ate how and when she was told. She repeated words she didn’t understand, moved and sat on command, endured scolding when she fidgeted.

And she hated every minute of it.

There was no one even close to her age, the next youngest already an avid nineteen that seemed resigned to it, whatever ‘it’ happened to be. Adults spoke to her only of rites and stories, and they answered her questions with vague ideas that didn’t make anything, especially her presence, any more clear.

When the fasting began, the fasting and praying that was supposed to last for seven days, she considered running away. She was seven years old, and the fact that her family owned and worked a shrine did not mean she had any desire to be a priestess. She’d already decided to become a baseball player.

In the early hours of the seventh day, starving and sullen, she followed the other men and women, a silent, sober flock dressed in black and white and blue. A figure splashed in red and white led them across a bridge and into what could only be called a castle, some ancient thing half hidden in the forest surrounding it.

She’d listened to the stories, thinking them only more shrine traditions passed down to her. However, once inside she saw creatures, monstrous beings that echoed the stories told to her with such gravity. Youkai, oni, witches and magicians. They watched the quiet procession with disinterest, disdain, contempt or apathy. Shying from those cold gazes, she tried to move closer to the inside of the procession as it wove through halls. Like fighting a current, she was kept on the outside, unable to cut through to some semblance of safety.

The woman in red stopped and sat at a table. A figure, also dressed in red with shocking white hair and bright amber eyes sat across from her. They both sipped tea.

The tension in the room relaxed, and she watched as some of the others began to filter out.

It had been emphasized, repeatedly, to stay with an adult. However, all of the adults were filtering away from her, and she couldn’t find anyone she felt close enough to to bother. The priests and priestesses might as well have been youkai for their cold disinterest.

Slipping out and away, she moved down the halls, shrinking from the gaze of the few youkai that spared her a passing glance. Most of them regarded her with the same disinterest that the priests and priestesses did. She saw a door open, someone stepping inside, light and sky beyond them, and she made for it.

The garden was beautiful, with trees and plants she’d never seen before, flowers blooming, splashes of color she knew weren’t possible in nature. Breathing freely for the first time in a month, she explored the  colors and sounds, the textures of plants she’d never seen before. The temperature dropped the closer she got to the water, beckoning and promising to cool the summer heat and stifling robes she’d been wrapped in.

There were writhing, slippery things in the water, swirls of colors lazily twining around one another. Like a living knot, constantly untying and knotting itself up again in loops, she followed lines closely, entranced by the shimmer of scales and colors.

“Lost?” A rough voice asked, cutting through the cold. She spun, almost fell into the water behind her. A large hand on her shirt pulled her back onto her feet.

“What’re those?”

The youkai, and she recognized him as such immediately, rolled his eyes. “Serpents.”

“Like snakes?”

“They don’t teach you little bastards anything these days,” He almost whined, showing sharp, white teeth. She couldn’t help but stare, the whiteness of his teeth on his dark skin and his eyes too blue, the slit of a vertical pupil only making the pale blue that much more alien.

“What kind are you?” She blurted.

“Clearly you haven’t been here before,” He snorted, squatting down to her height. “Or you’d know.”

“I haven’t,” She challenged sullenly. “They took me from home last month.”

He made a face, something akin to disgust. “They’re still doing that shit then. Humans.”

“Are you a dog?” She asked, surprised when he made an offended sound.

“Wolf, brat. I’m a wolf. Not some mongrel like Inu Yasha.”

“Who?”

His laughter rang out over the garden. “You don’t pay attention much, do you?”

His laughter had been directed at her then, and she didn’t like it. Ignoring him, she spun on her heel and began walking towards the bridge.

“Did I hurt your feelings?” His voice taunted, echoing behind her.

She stubbornly ignored him, reaching the other side and sitting just out of view, hiding by one of the bridges posts.

No one else came out to the garden, letting her soak in some semblance of peace.

Another priest found her, hours later. A stern reprimand was all he offered, grabbing her by the arm and marching her through the castle to a room where others were already bedding down.

“I haven’t eaten,” She mumbled into the darkness.

“Then you’ll go to bed hungry, for wandering off,” Someone bit out sternly.

When they woken the next morning, the youkai were gone. She followed the sober parade back, across the bridge and into the normal, mundane world.

She was sworn to secrecy, and returned to her family.

Thew few times she tried to whine, to demand explanation, to dare complaining to her mother and grandfather they shushed her, threatening misfortune for speaking of the ritual.

—

She was taken again, when she was eight. Time had not been kind to her memory, and she felt she had to relearn everything that had taught her before. But she did not forget what to expect, and resented being treated like baggage, something to be dragged along for the process.

She followed on the outskirts of the parade, dragging her feet until she was almost left behind. She didn’t bother trying to see the tea ceremony, or the figures inside of it. Waiting until she heard the distinct sound that comes upon a room releasing it’s breath, she fled, intent on the garden again.

Instead, she got hopelessly lost, wandering the maze of hallways, down a flight of stairs, up another and then maybe another, she couldn’t remember.

“Need help?” A familiar, rough voice asked. She looked up at the wolf watching her.

“No,” She muttered, still stung as only a child could be by his taunting the year before.

“I can hear your stomach growling from here. Do they ever feed you brats?”

“It’s rude. And we held a sacred fast,” She bit out petulantly, offended even if she didn’t understand the point of the ritual itself.

“They make a kid fast?” He muttered. “How long?”

“Seven days.”

He muttered a pithy obscenity and gestured. “Come on, kid. You need food.”

Hugging her stomach, abruptly remembering how very hungry she was, she followed him through the halls.

“This is the garden. Stay out here, I’ll bring you food,” He commanded impatiently.

She sat down on the bridge, dangling her legs over the side. The serpent youkai continued their lazy circles, rippling just under the surface of the water in a whorl of dulled scales.

“Hello,” Two voices greeted in unison. She turned , saw two youkai strolling towards her, both holding two plates piled high with food. “We didn’t know what you liked, so we brought you everything.”

She inched away from them, wary of two strangers that looked little like the youkai from before. Her reticence did not go unnoticed, the pair not bothering to hide their hurt at her rejection.

“Kouga told us to come out here,” One began.

“That you hadn’t eaten in a week,” The other mumbled.

She reached forward, took a roll, her mother’s voice reaching out and shaming her for rejecting a kindness. A hesitant brightness crept in to their eyes, as if her acceptance had been some sort of signal.

“Who is Kouga?”

“Our leader,” One supplied.

“Does he have blue eyes?”

“That’s the one,” The other nodded.

“Who’re you?”

“Ginta,” One offered, grinning.

“Hakkaku. We’re his seconds.”

“What’s a second?”

As if she’d said the exact right thing, the pair launched into a detailed soliloquy about a second, and what one (or a pair) of them did for a leader, and a pack. She didn’t get most of it, but they were funny, as they spoke of it. Excited, more than any of the other youkai she’d seen all day. It was difficult to imagine them following the taciturn youkai, but they extolled his virtues, more to themselves than to her.

She ate, shared the food with the wolves, listening to the stories they told, of times and things she could barely comprehend. A single question could launch them into a thousand new directions so that she barely had to speak at all.

He found them still like that, close to dark.

“You morons,” He sighed, the insult lacking any bite. “You need to get back inside, your people are searching for you.”

She ducked her head at the duo still sitting, watching her and their leader.

The ookami looked tired, haggard even. He jerked his chin towards the castle. Giving him a shy nod, she bolted, stomach full, for the door. It was simple to find one of the priests. SHe endured her scolding, barely hearing the words any more than she’d heard the stories and rites they’d force fed her for a month before going upstairs to a futon to sleep.

The next morning she resolved to begin learning more about youkai.

—

Her resolve to become a fount of youkai lore had faded by the time she was taken again. She had a few scraps of knowledge, some misinformed stories that she knew had to be lies.

She endured the month of rites and rituals, the week of fasting and soaked in everything she could, newly fascinated.

She quietly wandered as far from the crowds of humans and youkai as she could.

Kouga found her, food in hand.

“Come on brat,” He sighed, as if he hadn’t searched her out.

“Is it true ookami eat humans?” She asked abruptly.

“Sometimes,” He shrugged.

She’d expected him to lie, was shocked with the ease to which he admitted eating human flesh.

“Not as often these days,” He smiled, fangs showing. “Don’t humans eat animals?”

“Cows, chickens-”

“And they don’t think or feel?”

His logic, to her at least, was irrefutable. “I’m not eating one again.”

“Too bad, there’s some good smelling meat on here,” Kouga taunted, sliding the door to the outside open with his foot. She stepped out, walked over to the bridge that had become her unofficial spot.

The plate sat there, mostly meat. A week of fasting on tea and scant bits of rice made her nauseous with hunger.

“Are you going to eat me?” She muttered.

“S’been awhile since I’ve eaten a human,” Kouga wondered idly, leaning against a rail as if he wasn’t wearing an expensive suit. “Few hundred years at least.”

“How long have you been alive?”

“Can’t really remember. A long time.”

“Tell me,” She demanded.

He began telling her stories, and she reached for the plate, eating idly as he recounted a Japan that had been before common names and modern times. She dropped pieces of food over the bridge into the water, the seprents twirling, moving to catch the bits beneath.

His stories, and storytelling, were expansive, reaching across time and the entirety of Japan. Listening, it felt easy to believe Japan as he knew it had existed once. Unlike the stories Ginta and Hakkaku had told her, his stories felt darker, more honest in their way. Eating humans, eating other youkai, hunting and war seemed natural, lost their terror for the ease that he spoke of them.

“Go to bed, miko.”

She bobbed her head, tired as she walked back to the castle.

Far from being afraid of nightmares, she felt safer knowing he was in the castle, something that would be able to protect her from all the youkai and acolytes that made her feel so small.

—

Her resolve to begin learning began to flourish. She poured through resources. Every year was a circle of eating, learning, speaking, sleeping.

Her grandfather rejoiced, her mother accepted that ‘baseball star’ transformed into ‘miko’.

She began to look forward to the July rites, seeing Kouga to ask him what was true, what was a lie. He took pleasure in her growing strength, as if he had some personal hand in training that thing, that odd little spark that made her different from other humans, that was her reason for being part of the rite at all.

—

She was taken again at her fourteenth year, and she moved through the rites and rituals leading up to the morning of, endured the week of fasting with something skirting excitement.

But the morning they were to cross the bridge, something happened, and they didn’t.

She was sent home without going to the castle at all.

Unsure of what the cause was when no one would speak, when no one would even look at one another, she resolved to learn more, to do more. Her own ignorance chaffed as she was packed away in a car and sent home, punished for some unknown deed.

—

The next year, her fifteenth year, the was a new face, and she wondered that she recognized the acolytes well enough to know the new face. A fresh faced boy, younger than her by a few years. A priest she’d known, flirtatious and outrageous in turn, was missing.

As if determined to fill the void left, the priests surrounded their new brethren, made it impossible to speak to him.

Kouga found her wandering, the castle itself feeling new for the extended absence. Allowing him to lead, she accepted the plate before they even made it to the door.

“What happened last year?” She murmured once they’d sat down.

“One of the humans dropped out,” He groused, toeing off his expensive shoes, scuffing them. His socks followed, graceless piles ignored with a relieved sigh.

“What does that have to do with anything?” She demanded, ridding herself of the clogs and socks she’d been given to wear especially for the day.

“Numbers. For them there have to be certain numbers to make a proper bridge.”

She knew, in generalities, that the youkai and acolytes were a supposed bridge. SHe just hadn’t expected it to be so literal.

“So they didn’t get to see eachother last year?”

“No.”

“That’s so sad,” SHe whimpered, realizing. With learning had come understanding of her significance, that her presence, the rites and fasting were to help the miko see her beloved. But it was only the absence, the disruption of her habit that she understood the implications of their ritual. “This is-”

“Shit,” Kouga muttered. “Don’t cry.”

Blinking the sting of tears back and took a deep breath, tossed bits of food over the side of the bridge, the twining of the serpents beneath the water rippling. “How often does it happen?” She finally managed, proud of herself for keeping the sniff out of her voice.

“About every decade. Someone, a youkai or priest refuses, or dies last minute, or something,” He muttered, sounding annoyed, as if it was a personal inconvenience. She supposed it was, to be dragged into something only to be told last minute it was canceled. Still, not as awful as it must have been for Kikyo and Inu Yasha.

She nodded, gingerly picking at the food offered to her.

“Are you still using magic?”

“I do,” She admitted shyly.

“Show me,” He demanded lightly, chin tilting in challenge.

“Only if you tell me what kind of magic ookami can do,” She retorted, flushing.

“Fair’s fair,” He chuckled, getting to his feet and shrugging off his blazer.

She watched as he jumped effortlessly, moving from place to place as if transporting himself.

“How are you doing that?” She demanded, surprised when he reappred in front of her, practically towering over her, making her feel small.

“I’m very fast,” He boasted.

“That’s not magic,” She dismissed, watching him practically bristle. “That’s just natural talent.”

His exasperation abruptly shifted, and he was practically preening, and she couldn’t fathom why.

—

There was something different about him when she meet him. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he just seemed- More. It felt like she was leaning in to him.

“Kouga,” She greeted.

“Miko,” He rumbled, plate of food in hand. “You remembered the way this time.”

“It only took me a decade,” She huffed, accepting the plate of food.

“So what crazy shit do you want to ask me this year?”

She bit back a grin. “I read a story about the goraishi.”

“That thing?” Kouga laughed. “I haven’t even thought of that in years.”

“Is it real?”

“Maybe. A legend, at the very least.”

“Well I mean, you’re a legend, aren’t you?”

“I am,” He retorted smugly.

“Arrogant,” She laughed. “Tell me about the pack.”

—

She felt something nervous, trilling when she walked into the castle. Clinging closely to another miko, she made light conversation.

She followed directions precisely, going to the chambers where the others slept. No one had arrived, and her stomach rumbled plaintively. Flush with shame and mortification, she curled into herself.

—

She noticed Ginta and Hakkaku in the hall and turned, determined to avoid them, to avoid all of the youkai. Hopefully there was a grid pattern. She tried to keep herself oriented.

As if punishing her, Kouga found her wandering, desperate to find the stairs that would take her to the rooms reserved for the miko.

“Lost?”

“As usual,” She hedged, refusing to let him take the lead, forcing him, however unwillingly, to follow.

“Didn’t see you last year,” Kouga observed.

She shrugged. “I was tired.”

“You okay?”

“I’m tired,” She lied.

KOuga stiffened, pale gaze growing colder. “So that’s how it is.”

Her face burned and she turned on her heel, heard him muttering something behind her.

That night she ignored protocols, ignored the rules, exhausted by tossing and turning and slipped out of their rooms and down into the palace. She could hear people debating, drinking, joking in different rooms she passed. Human and youkai, one or another or both she couldn;t guess. Surely she wasn’t the only human wandering the castle.

The garden was beautiful in the darkness, the moonlight shining down on it. She moved over to the bridge and knelt, staring out at the water. Even in the darkness the serpents twisted around one another, moving under her shadow as if anticipating food. Guilt gnawed, even as she knew it was irrational. The one day she was there was not their only source of sustenance.

She felt the youkai before she heard them, turned and saw the pair that followed Kouga around. They both had plates piled high with food.

“Kouga’s in a mood,” Hakkaku said, sitting on one side of her.

“Says you don’t like youkai anymore,” Ginta added, taking his place on her other side.

“That’s not it,” She muttered, turning away from the moon’s reflection in the water.

“Oh, we know,” Ginta chuckled. “He’s being oversensitive. I think he was hurt you avoided him last year. Too dumb to see what’s right in front of him.”

Heat burned her face at the quiet acknowledgment of what she’d hoped to keep a secret.

“Eat, little sister,” Hakkaku urged. She picked at the plate.

“How is the pack?” She asked quietly.

They spoke, filled in gaps, answered questions about wolves she’d only every heard of, but knew well enough to inquire about, to feel happy for or grieve the loss of. Sounds seemed even louder in the semi darkness, each piece of food dropping into the water louder than before. Even the ookami’s voices couldn’t drown it out.

“How is he doing?” She finally asked.

“Same old, same old,” Ginta huffed.

“I don’t hate any of you,” She promised as she got to her feet.

“We didn’t think you did. He’s just an idiot.”

“You should tell him to stop then, She huffed.

“You should tell him yourself.”

“Maybe next year,” She hedged.

—

“No food?” She taunted lightly. It was almost dark, and she’d waited on the bridge all day.

“Didn’t know if you’d be out here,” He threw out lightly.

She could tell it was a lie, but unlike him didn’t have the courage to call him on it.

“I’m not like the ones that hate youkai.”

“Then what gives?”

She’d spent a year preparing herself, and felt, maybe, that she believed what she was about to say. “I had a crush on you.”

Kouga was extremely quiet. She glanced over at him and managed a weak smile.

“I know, okay? Teenage girl, crush on a billion year old youkai-”

“Make me sound like a cradle robber,” He groaned, refusing to meet her gaze.

“I was embarrassed. But I’m over it,” She said with ease born of repetition. “I’m sorry.”

Kouga made an ambivalent sound, then began to get to his feet.

“You’re really going to run away from a teenage girl?”

“No, I’m going to get you some food,” He muttered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The truth out, and buried at the same time. She relaxed, stared down at the water, the seperents following her feet as she kicked them back and forth.

When he came back, he had two plates.

“So now that you’ve had a crush on me, do I at least get to know your name?”

“No,” She taunted. “Tell me about the pack.”

When the sky lightened to predawn, and the monk and priests and priestesses began to wake, she yawned and stepped back into the castle, Kouga still leaning against the railing of the bridge.

—

“Tell me your name,” Kouga tried, for the first time that year.

“No. Tell me about the pack,” She demanded, nibbling on a piece of fruit.

“Tell me about your life,” He rebutted swiftly.

She’d told him bits and pieces, but not much. Certainly nothing like the life he told her about.

“I’ve started university.”

“Oh?”

“History major,” She said, shrugging. “Nothing interesting, I guess.”

“Tell me,” He commanded.

She began speaking, haltingly, shy of her life in comparison to his. But he nodded and laughed, asked questions. Hen she told him about her professors arguing with her about minute details of prior eras based on things he’d told her, he howled, clutching his stomach and bent double, gasping for breath.

It hit her then, that her crush hadn’t left. She’d known it hadn’t but she’d thought it buried. But his open, honest laughter brought it back up, out of the depths. It felt deeper than it had, as if denying it had only allowed it to grow without notice.

She quickly thought about Hojo and even finally told Kouga about him.

“He thinks I get sick for the same month every year,” She laughed. “My grandfather has been telling him all these outrageous illnesses are the cause. I’d feel bad, but I keep telling him it’s too much,” She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“He’s trying to take care of you,” Kouga said, still grinning. “In the way he knows how.”

“I don’t want him to though, I’ve told him. He just doesn’t really seem to get it.”

“I mean, he believes you have exotic illnesses the same time every year,” Kouga reminded her, as if it were obvious. And it was, not that she wanted to acknowledge it.

“Tell me about Ginta and Hakkaku,” She huffed, changing the subject.

A year of stories, of Ginta and Hakkaku and the pack unfolded, filled an entire night and trailed into the lightening sky of predawn. Instinct tugged at her, the quiet sounds of dozens of feet beginning to move alerting her to the time.

“What’s your name?” Kouga asked, lopsided smile only more crooked for his fatigue.

“No,” She yawned,getting to her feet. “Maybe next year.”

—

She went through the days, excited to see him again.

The morning she was to cross the bridge, she was sent home instead, stuck in the back of a nondescript car, a year of stories bottled up in her lungs, trapped by disappointment.

It only strengthened her resolve to continue learning throughout the year, to have something worth telling him again. —

The next year, she recognized everyone in the shrine as they prepared themselves for the rite.

When they arrived, she couldn’t help but notice the tiny youkai, little more than a child slinking in corners, hugging the wall and staring up at people with an obvious resentment that reminded her of being small, and lonely, and frightened.

Slowly making her way across the room, unobtrusively moving closer under the guise of greeting other acolytes, she finally got close enough to him to catch his gaze. “Hey, I think I know where some food is,” She whispered, offering her hand.

The kitsune didn’t take it, but he did follow her out to the bridge. Filling the air with amiable, inconsequential chatter, she took a seat, giving him plenty of room. The serpents moved beneath her feet, catching the light in the water as if already anticipating their own feast.

“You said there was food.”

“There will be, soon,” She promised.”Is this your first year?”

“My dad died last year. I have to take his place.”

“I started when I was little too. I hated it,” She hummed, leaning back against the wooden post, slipping off the clogs and socks with a sigh of gratitude.

“Do you still hate it?”

“Not at all. I get to see my friends,” She told him brightly. “Since it’s only once a year, that makes it more special to me.”

Kouga came out, plates in hand. She waved to him and gave the kitsune a bright smile. “See?”

The two youkai eyed one another with disdain.

“Who’s the runt?” Kouga finally said, breaking the silence.

“Kouga!” She snapped even as Shippou moved closer to her side, gaze zeroed on Kouga, utterly defiant.

“Fine,” He grunted, legs folding gracefully beneath him, plates still held aloft. “Hopefully those two idiots bring some more food out.”

Shippou refused to budge from her side.

In short order Ginta and Hakkaku joined them, both juggling plates in both hands. If they were surprised by the addition of the kitsune, they didn’t show it. They all told stories about the pack, their lives from the past year. As the day wore on she felt Shippou slumping into her, slowly drifting until he was completely asleep. Tiny clawed fingers grasped at her hakama, refusing to let go.

“He said his father died, and he had to take his place,” She murmured quietly, running her fingers through the shock of red hair.

“There was a fight last year, right before the ritual. The thunder brothers killed his father. We have three new youkai this year.”

Shippou’s forced presence only seemed more cruel for it. “I didn’t realize something like that could happen.”

“It’s rare,” Kouga agreed. “As rare as a miko looking out for a kitsune.”

“Or an ookami looking out for a miko,” She teased, taking care to keep her voice quiet. “Why did you?”

“You were small and alone in the middle of a bunch of predators. That doesn’t sit well with wolves. Human or not. Same way it didn’t sit right with you.”

It hadn’t. “So you’re protecting me.”

“I used to. You don’t really need it anymore.”

She flushed, pleased that he recognized talents she’d cultivated, even if she rarely had occasion to use them.

“What’s your name?”

“Not this year,” She murmured, getting to her feet, Shippou’s quiet snores continuing, oblivious to the movement.

“You can’t take him up there. They won’t allow him entry.”

Kouga was right. She considered sitting back down, but he got to his feet, Ginta and Hakkaku getting up and stretching.

“Come on, I know a couple of spots,” He yawned.

She followed him through the castle, surprised when Shippou shifted, hands clinging to her shoulder, tangling in her hair.

“Youkai quarters, but no on will bother you here.”

“Thank you,” She whispered, kneeling on the futon. He closed the door, leaving her alone with the kitsune.

At dawn she managed a bleary goodbye to an equally muzzy Shippou, almost tripping over Ginta and Hakkaku on the way out. She murmured goodbye to them both, drifting out of the castle, half awake.

— Shippou found her before the procession had even ended, a splash of bright colors against the sea of black and white they wore over the bridge. She held out her hand in anticipation, smiling as he took it. No one said anything, but she couldn’t miss the glances she received as they walked into the castle.

The pair drank their tea, and she was going to leave when she noticed Shippou staring across the room at a young, female youkai with red eyes.

“Who is that?” She asked Shippou, looking at a little girl, or nearly girl, her bright red eyes and pointed ears marking her for what she was.

“Her brothers killed my father.”

She wondered if the youkai had been there the year before, if she’d been alone as they’d sat outside in the sun. “You’re angry at her.”

“Her brothers-”

“But not her,” She admonished gently. “Families don’t carry sin.”

Shippou frowned.

“She’s scared, and alone,” She urged gently.

She watched Shippou go over to the youkai, and waited patiently.

Shippou came back alone.

“She said no.”

“Okay,” She murmured, taking care to give the young youkai a smile before taking Shippou’s hand and walking to the garden.

Kouga met them out there, Ginta and Hakkaku in tow, all of them loaded down with plates.

They were speaking about light things when she saw the door open, a sliver of a face peeking through.

She gestured, waving her over.

“Hello,” She greeted. “We have lots of food.”

Souten gave her and Shippou both a wide berth, but ate in small bites, looking around her. Kouga continued to speak as if there had never been an interruption.

The day drew on, and both tiny youkai began to slump and snore.

“You’re collecting them,” Kouga sighed as he picked Souten up.

“They’re lonely,” She murmured. “I never asked, but do you all have to gather for a month beforehand?”

“No,” He muttered as they walked through the halls. “We’d probably kill eachother a few days in. We barely make it through the night before.”

“So just the night?”

“And tonight,” He reminded her, handing Souten to her.

He watched her tuck them in, slid the door shut and left her alone with them.

She woke at dawn, as she always did, and told the little youkai goodbye. She didn’t see Kouga to bid him farewell.

—

Shippou and Souten found her, ignoring the stares of other youkai and dragging her through the castle towards the gardens. For the first time she really noticed that she was being noticed. Youkai and acolyte alike stared openly, a mixture of emotions, none of them particularly good.

Kouga and his pair of seconds found them, their food in hand.

She listened to them all speak about their year, offered her own stories, acceptable congratulations for her degree, laughed and played with the children.

The sun began to set, and she followed Kouga and his seconds through the castle to an almost familiar room and tucked the children in. They slept on, their tiny snores and sighs filling the room. Restless, she finally gave in, ignored her shoes and padded barefoot to the door, almost tripping over Kouga when she tried to step into the hall.

“You’ll wake the kids,” He said quietly, giving her an amused smile.

“I couldn’t sleep,” She admitted.

She followed him back to the garden.

“You didn’t ask my name last year.”

“The kids. It seemed-” He verbally fumbled, letting it trail off as they sat.

“You didn’t want them to know you didn’t know,” She teased, staring at the still water, the unbroken half moon reflecting back at them.

“Yeah,” He admitted, giving her a lopsided smile. “Gonna tell me?”

“No,” She laughed. “I’ll tell the children first, let them tease you with it.”

“That’s harsh. I feed you,” He reminded her, leaning back against the rail, legs stretched out in front of him. She moved her legs, let them dangle over the water.

“Ginta and Hakkaku feed me,” She reminded him. “Maybe I’ll tell them too.”

“Figures,” He huffed, shaking his head.

“You’re still protecting me.”

Kouga nodded.

“I thought you said I didn’t need it.”

“You don’t.”

He stayed with her until predawn, neither of them saying much of anything. The sense that pulled at her, that understanding that it was time to go began to nag. She left Kouga on the bridge, walking through the castle to the children’s room. They both blearily woke while she bid them farewell, snuggling back into one another. She told Ginta and Hakkaku goodnight, not even sure when they had taken Kouga’s place at the door.

Kouga waited at the end of the hall.

“Goodbye, Kouga.”

“Next year.”

She took his hand, surprised by it’s heat, the roughness of it. It was the first time she’d touched him with intent, perhaps the first sustained touch they’d ever shared. Savoring that heat, she traced a figure onto his palm slowly, her fingertip lingering. “That’s the first character,” She murmured, hand dropping away.

His fist clenched, as if trapping the syllable in his hand. His gaze intent, she felt it following her until she was out of sight, felt sure that he was listening to her footsteps fade.

—

She was halfway lost in a meditative haze when she was prodded rudely, something bullying her out of a near trance. Shaking the remnants of the mantra off, she got to her feet and followed the rude blast of energy that repeated itself insistently, demanding her attention. A man waited at the end, just at the entrance to the temple.

She dimly recognized the man, but couldn’t place him.

“You saw me this past July,” He intoned. “I would speak with you.”

She followed him into the main shrine, letting him lead. That he was familiar with her shrine wasn’t all that surprising, even if she didn’t recognize him.

“I know what you’re doing. You cannot continue,” He said abruptly, gaze fasted on the altar.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You cannot seek Kouga out.”

“I don’t know what-”

The man turned and he was no longer a man, but a youkai she recognized. He always stood so close  to the front, just behind Inu Yasha.

“For his safety and yours, you cannot look for him outside of the rite.”

“Why?” She demanded.

“It will destroy you both.”

“Will you kill us?” She demanded.

“What will happen will be worse than death. I say this as a kindness, do not seek him out.”

“Why,” She tried again. “Why can’t we- Why can’t I-” She couldn’t force the words out.

The amber gaze was full of regret. “There are unspoken rules to this rite. It is not a game we play. It is older than most of my brethren, even me, and comes with a high cost.”

“You have to know, please tell me,” She tried, struggling around a breathe that couldn’t escape.

“I can’t,” He told her, and the sorrow was so great that she believed him.

“What if I quit?”

“That is your right. But you will never see him again.”

She punched him, flares of power flowing through her hands as she tried to push him back. He let her, barely seemed affected as she shoved and punched and slapped, furious tears burning her vision, stinging her eyes.

“You can’t keep him from me.”

“Even if you quit this rite, you will still destroy him. You are both bound in this.”

“Get out,” She commanded, unsure of what emotion was seething, swirling and tangling inside of her.

He paused at the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

—

For the first time, she saw the miko in red, the woman that led their procession every year. It had never occurred to her to seek Kikyo out, even to speak to her. Every time she had seen her, she had been accompanied by someone, if not multiple people all speaking to her.

“You’re the garden miko, with the little youkai,” KIkyo stated. It was toneless, without approval or condemnation.

“I am,” She mumbled, moving to retreat. There was a coldness about Kikyo, her gaze withdrawn even as she stared at her.

“Walk with me.”

Unsure if she could deny the lead of the rite, she began following.

“You seem anxious,” Kikyo observed.

“I feel like I’ve been told the stories and rites my whole life,” She admitted finally. “But what I know isn’t enough.”

“You resent it.”

“Yes,” She admitted. “Don’t you? Being forced to play the figurehead, year after year-”

“I am no figurehead,” Kikyo murmured. “Inu Yasha was my love.”

Her heart burned for the knowledge. “You both- And you only see each other at the rite?” A quiet nod was her only response. “Don’t you hate it?”

Kikyo’s gaze was sharp, coming into focus. “I do. I think I hate him now. I know he cannot bear the sight of me.”

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “Why would you do it?”

“Someone must.”

“That’s awful,” She managed around the thickness in her throat. Horrific.

Kikyo said nothing.

—

She was close to the front, close to Kikyo when they walked over the bridge. She saw the white haired demon towards the front behind the inu youkai clothed in red. She followed Kikyo to the tea room, and watched her and Inu Yasha as they faced one another, taking a sip of tea. Souten and Shippou were already at her knees, grabbing her hands. She made herself stay, just long enough to see how they looked at one another once they had completed the first step of the rite.

Resignation, hatred, sorrow, longing.

She walked out to the bridge with the two little youkai, barely hearing their chatter.

It was with an iron will that she smiled at the ookami that sat around them, laying out a veritable picnic.

Ginta and Hakkaku took the children in a game of tag, running around the garden with them, their cheers and shouts echoing and filling the enclosed space. She watched, trying to soak in their easy peace.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Not now,” She murmured, not meeting his gaze. “Tonight.”

Kouga nodded, respecting it. He began chatting aimlessly, letting his accounting of the year meander. The children came back, told them about their own year.

The children fell asleep, as they always did. Ginta and Hakkaku carried them into the castle.

“What’s wrong?”

She wasn’t even sure how to begin. “Do you ever think about the next year?”

Kouga was quiet for several minutes, staring at the water. The serpents were barely shadows, too deep in the water to discern movement. “Every morning after,” He finally admitted, as if imparting some great secret.

“That’s all?”

“I mean it. Every morning, until the day we come back.”

The immensity of the statement settled in her chest, intensifying the ache.

“I don’t want us to hate each other,” She said quietly. “I don’t want this to become some twisted ritual where we can’t stand the sight of each other.”

“We wouldn’t do that,” Kouga argued, just as quiet.

“You don’t even know my name,” She managed through a wet laugh, plosive and hopeless.

“I’m patient.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am when it’s worth it.”

Exhausted, drained by a tension that had followed her for months, she sagged, leaned into him and tried to soak in some of his warmth, his strength. His arm opened, spanned her back and pulled her closer into his side.

She woke next to the children, unable to remember when she got there.

She kissed them both goodbye, breathed promises against their foreheads, swearing to see them next year.

Ginta and Hakkaku were outside the door, and she bid them farewell, unsurprised at their solemn gazes.

Kouga waited at his spot at the end of the hall. She stopped in front of him, took his hand and traced out the second character to her name. He kept her fingers held fast.

“You have a year,” He told her. “To decide. If you don’t show, I’ll understand.”

“A year,” She agreed, wondering if it would be long enough to decide.

—

When her escort came to take her to the shrine, she went, still unsure if she would make it to the end of the month.

She went through the rituals, the rites, prepared herself.

She avoided Kikyo, felt the miko’s gaze on her throughout the final week, as if the woman was always there.

The morning of the procession, she considered going to Kikyo, asking her how long it had taken her love to twist into anguish. How long it would take to hate the person she spent a year thinking about.

Except she had spent years before thinking about him, and it was that thought that gave her pause, gaze fastened on the pattern of a tatami. She spent a year creating memories, always with the intent to share them with him. She had spent most of her adult life like that, and it was only when she was told she couldn’t have more that she’d resented.

If it was all she could have, it was certainly more than never seeing him again, of creating memories knowing she would never share them with him.

She walked over the bridge and saw the youkai waiting, saw Kouga staring directly at her and felt excitement trill through her.

Excitement, and not dread, not sorrow or hate or resentment. Joy.

She followed the procession into the castle, watched Kikyo and Inu Yasha and let her heart ache for two people that had lost their meaning, given in to grief instead of joy.

Shippou and Souten ran ahead of her to the bridge, chattering animatedly.

“You made it,” Kouga said as he sat plates down around them. Ginta and Hakkau followed suit.

“I did,” She agreed.

Everyone chattered, spoke, laughed, children playing tricks on one another. The picnic felt livelier than before, both children bordering on rambunctious as they tore through the garden, Ginta and Hakkaku, even Kouga giving in and chasing them, wearing them out with games.

She took the children in, tucked them in and waited for them to fall asleep.

KOuga was waiting for her, took her through winding hallways, the long, circuitous route through the castle, closer to the garden entrance.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” She admitted as they finally stepped into the garden.

She took his hand, carefully traced out the last character of her name.

He breathed it, as if unsure of it’s pronunciation. He repeated it again, wonder and awe woven into her name.

“Even if it’s just one day a year,” She said carefully, feeling vulnerable even though she trusted his feelings, trusted him. “It’s enough to last every morning, every night in between.”

She’d kissed before, been kissed, been held. But Kouga holding her felt warmer, headier than anything she could remember. His relentless warmth, the heat of him scalded her mouth, pressed into her. The thing that had been slowly building between them, the thing she had held quietly throughout the year, letting it slowly transform finally settled into what anticipation had created years ago.

Kouga breathed her name into her mouth, against her neck, groaned it into her shoulder.

Even as they pulled at one another’s clothes, as she clung to him, moaned into his mouth she knew she would have to leave him in the morning.

Determined to keep it all, she let herself drown in his scent and his sounds and the feel of his skin.

Overwhelmed by him, she accepted that it was enough.

—

They woke to dawn, the first true dawn she could remember seeing within the castle walls. Kouga was draped over her, her kimono the only thing covering them, their clothes an uncomfortable pile tangled beneath and between them. Wondering if they’d been discovered and she’d been left, the acolytes finally severing ties with her she scrambled, moving for her clothing and pulling her undershirt over her head.

Kouga frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s too quiet.”

“What do you mean?”

“The castle sounds empty.”

That couldn’t be right. She let him drape his blazer over her shoulders as she tied her hakama, praying that no one had seen them passed out, half naked on the bridge. She followed him inside, began weaving a path to the children’s room. They were still there, blissfully unaware in slumber. Ginta and Hakkaku were in a corner, also asleep.

They began going through other rooms, realizing that there were signs of life left behind, but no youkai, no priests or priestesses. Food and drink left on tables, futon with obvious signs of use but no one left in them. Their footsteps couldn’t fill the silence.

“This is eerie,” She admitted, shaken by the echoing of the castle.

“It’s anticlimatic, isn’t it?” A voice asked, startling her, Kouga’s hand tightening around hers as if he too had been taken unawares.

“You,” She accused, recognizing the youkai.

“The curse is over,” He informed them. “The rite is complete.”

She glanced up at Kouga, saw only suspicion. “I don’t understand,” She told the youkai, holding her lover’s hand tighter.

“In the way of most things, a curse became a legend, became a myth that we only half understand,” The youkai sighed. “So old even the oldest of my kind barely remember. Many failed, and they were turned into-” He made a sad sound. “The main actors, the puppets you both saw. I don’t even know the specifics of the curse,” He admitted. “But the conditions were met, whatever they were,” He finished with a quiet bitterness.

“How do you know?”

“The curse kept one in stasis, unaging, immortal. My son and his mate are dust.”

Kikyo and Inu Yasha. His son. “I’m so sorry,” She murmured, realization dawning. His son.

“It’s over. That has to be enough.”

“And everyone is gone?”

“Except the children and the ookami.”

“You knew.”

“I have watched it play out many times,” The youkai admitted. “You come to recognize the signs. You two were all but said and done.”

“And you warned us,” Kouga said, finally speaking.

He nodded.

“Thank you,” She breathed, relief crashing through her.

The rite was finished. Why and how- What the rules had even been seemed irrelevant.  It was over, and her nighttime vows felt almost mellowdramatic in the growing sunlight. 

The youkai left them like that, watching the dawn come through the open doors, creeping inside and casting shadows. The children found them, blinking blearily as Ginta and Hakkaku followed.

“They’re going to need a place to stay,” Kouga sighed.

Children.

“They-You, should probably meet my mom.”

“Think we can convince her they’re ours?” Kouga joked. “She can’t hate me if I’ve already given her grandbabies.”

“Clearly you have no idea how human mothers work,” She snorted.

—

The next year, she felt a nauseous, queasy feeling as the calender drifted closer to July. But the day her escort was supposed to fetch her, no one appeared.

She spent the month quietly anxious, jumping at shadows. It wore on both of them, on the children.

The day arrived, and she walked into her dining room to find a two cups of tea sitting on the table.

She wanted to throw them, but Kouga took her hands, his claws tracing patterns on her flesh.

“Inu Yasha was my friend, once. He was the one to warn me first, to be careful.”

They’d spent a year learning each other all over again, creating context for what they’d only been able to speak of before. Meeting family and pack, seeing homes and workplaces, favorite restaurants and movies together. In all of that time he’d never revealed that Inu Yasha had been his friend. It was difficult to know what he might feel. Inu Yasha’s father had seemed almost grateful for his son to be free, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think that was the only thing either youkai felt about his death.

“I’m sorry you lost him.”

“The rite made him miserable, twisted the purest thing he’d ever known,” Kouga admitted, shoulders sagging. “He told me I was arrogant to believe it wouldn’t change us.”

“Do you know why he- How he was cursed?”

“They began the rite, then stepped outside of it. At least I think that’s what happened. He couldn’t actually tell me, but I know enough to guess.”

They’d probably sought one another out during the year. Hundreds of years tied to one another, their lives revolving around the focal point of a single day. No wonder they’d lost themselves to grief.

And she had almost done the exact same thing, had almost damned them to the same fate.

Gingerly picking up one of the cups, she nodded and waited for him to repeat the motion. Silently they both drank, an echo of their predecessor’s actions.

[crusnikroxas]

Imagine this! The boys are out and the reader decides to do a self care day with face masks. They are sitting on the counter cross legged in the bathroom, peeling off a clear peel on mask with the door open and the boys come home to see it. And before Y/N can explain the boys react badly 😂😂😂😂

Ooooh, this is fun (✧∇✧) (so this’ll take place in the DEISY universe, just so you know)

~

“Sister, we shall not be gone long! I imagine that this business of Undyne being stuck under a boulder shall be nothing for the great Papyrus, nyeh-heh-heh!” Sans looks far less enthusiastic about the whole endeavor, but regardless, he winks in a comforting manner as he softly caresses your cheek. “Be back in a flash, sweetheart.” “Literally, considering that handy teleporting of yours.” He winks again, though Papyrus seems highly offended by this. “Nonsense! It will take a mere three hours to walk to Undyne’s house!”

....now Sans looked all the more unenthusiastic about this ‘adventure’.

“Bro, look, as cool as walkin’ through blizzards and rain sounds-” “Exactly! Very cool indeed! Let us be off, Sans!” And before poor Sans can even protest, Papyrus yanks his brother up and onto his shoulder, sprinting out the door, cackling victoriously all the way. You roll your eyes and chuckle from your place on the couch, stretching luxuriously as you do so. It had been a while since you’d found yourself on your own - and while the house seemed almost unsettlingly quiet without the brothers present, you inwardly vowed that you would enjoy this moment of solitude. Jumping up from your cozy spot, you stretch once again, releasing a sigh of contentment when almost all of your joints let out ear-splitting pops and cracks - a luxury you hadn’t really been allowed as of late, considering....the weird skeleton thing, that you still didn’t really understand. Practically bounding up the staircase Papyrus-style, you rush to your room, reach under the bed, and dig around for what you were seeking, letting out a quiet noise of victory as you find your prize - a bag that Kat had delivered to you just the other day.

Filled to the brim with human ‘spa day’ items.

Face masks, body scrubs, body lotions, heavenly smelling shampoo, conditioner, and body wash....yup, it was all there. Now, you weren’t normally one to indulge in such things (hell, this stuff was expensive, and on the surface you’d barely been able to buy yourself a new toothbrush when needed), but Kat had insisted that you take it. “Aw, c’mon - it’s not like I have many clientele who’ll want this stuff anyway! Plus, you deserve it after all you’ve been through, sweet.” You hadn’t had even the slightest bit of room to argue - plus, it wasn’t as if she was wrong, anyway. You had been through a bit of a hellish time lately, to say the least. Besides, not only would you smell amazing at the end of all this, it would also help to distract you from the fact that you were all alone in the house, and anybody could-

No. No. Not thinking about that. Self-care time.

Nodding resolutely, you stand with your treasures in tow, and hurry yourself down to the bathroom. Instead of digging through the bag carefully like one should, you simply tip the contents all over the bathroom floor, sorting out what you would want to try out on this particular day.

Your choices in the end were:

-Deep conditioner, heavy with the scent of roses.

-A luxurious shampoo and conditioner with a matching scent to the deep conditioner (not from the same brand, but eh, close enough).

-Jasmine body scrub and body wash.

-Another floral body lotion - you weren’t sure what flower it was meant to smell like (you couldn’t understand the language on the front, and the picture was pretty nondescript), but you knew that it smelt good, and you wanted it.

-And lastly, charcoal face mask - you’d heard that this stuff was damn good, and had always wanted to try it; the fact that it was in the bag was a blessing in your book.

Satisfied with your choices, you shoved the rest of the stuff back into the bag and got to work.

Firstly, came the deep conditioner - and man, you had not realised what a hassle the damn stuff would be. Sure, putting it onto your hair was all fine and dandy, but having to wrap your head in cling-film was an utter bitch. How the hell had all those women on the ‘do it yourself’ videos made it look so easy?

After your dramatic battle to make your hair more luxurious, you chill out on the couch reading more of Sans’ quantum physics book (nothing like catching up on atomic and subatomic scales), waiting out the time instructed on the bottle - and when that time was up, you traveled back into the bathroom for your next struggle.

Sure, the body scrub smelled delicious, but the sandy texture soon became very troublesome to shove and massage onto your skin - eventually, your task is complete, leaving you a grumbling gritty mess as you unwrap your hair and finally step into the shower to wash the damn stuff off. 

But when you finally do, you realise that all that effort was well worth it - your skin felt stupidly smooth as the water flowed over your body. Releasing a contented sigh, you massage your scalp, freeing your hair from the heavy conditioner product - the bathroom is soon filled with the scent of roses and jasmine as you continue your work, the smirk on your face wide as you wonder how your skeletal roommates would react to the bathroom smelling like a damn flower garden.

When you finally step out of the shower and run the towel over yourself, you can’t help but let out another contented sigh; even if it had been a hassle thus far, your skin was so soft, and you smelt amazing. Still, you couldn’t understand how some women did this on a daily basis.

Sufficiently dry, you gently begin to rub tiny amounts of the lotion into your already soft skin - you didn’t want to overdo it and make your body and bathroom into a slip’n’slide (something tells you it wouldn’t be nearly as fun as it sounds). Now, all you had to do was wait for your skin to absorb it....

....and once that step was complete, you knew that your greatest challenge lay ahead.

Releasing a puff of air, you wrap your hair securely in a towel, dress yourself, and face the slightly fogged up bathroom mirror with a determined expression.

“...ok. We got this. Just....not the eyebrows. Definitely not the eyebrows.”

Bit by bit, you smear the inky goop that was the face mask onto your skin, carefully ensuring that it wouldn’t rip of anything you wanted to keep (like your eyebrows, for instance). After a moment of looking at your frankly terrifying face in the mirror, you let out a snort of laughter, reading the back of the package.

“Leave on until dry....right, back to the books, then.”

Sadly, this was how the brothers found you.

Reading peacefully on the couch.

While your face looked as if it was suffering from some kind of goopy necrosis.

All of you stare at one another for the longest of moments - their expressions slowly forming into utter horror, yours forming into a strange mix between concern and laughter.

“OH MY GOD! SISTER!”

Papyrus is the first to move, rushing to your side, sending the poor innocent book you’d been reading flying out of your hands and across the living room.

“Y/N! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!”

You wince as he yells as loud as he can in your face.

“....yes?”

Papyrus still scrabbles around, clearly at a loss of what to do - Sans simply seemed to be frozen in place at the doorway, his sockets empty of their usual eye-lights.

Whoops. Never a good sign.

“Uh, you know, I’m actually-”

“ARGH! THE FIRST AID BOOK NEVER WARNED THAT HUMAN’S FACES COULD MELT! ARE YOU TURNING INTO A SKELETON?! IS THIS HOW HUMANS TURN INTO SKELETONS?! THIS IS-”

“Papyrus, listen-”

You gently place a hand on his arm, stilling his motions - oh man, you felt awful for making them worry like this, but some part of you couldn’t help but want to laugh at the situation.

“-it’s just a face-mask.”

He blinks.

“...face....mask? Sister, while it is indeed on your face, it does not look like-”

“It’s a weird thing that humans do sometimes to relax! Trust me, perfectly safe. I’ve been, uh, indulging the entire time you guys were gone. Kat gave me some presents, so I....”

You look over to Sans, letting out a sigh of relief to see that his eye-lights were back in place, and instead of looking terrified, he now merely looked perplexed. Walking over to the couch, he reaches out to poke your cheek, which you quickly block.

“Hey! If you touch it before it’s dry, it won’t work its magic!”

Sans snorted (though he now looked vaguely worried).

“Wait, it’s not gonna make your face different....right?”

“No, it’s going to...uh....hang on...”

You get up from your spot on the couch, hurry into the bathroom, and hurry back, face-mask box in hand.

“Ok....anti-aging, though that’s probably just wishful thinking....cleans skin pores...yup. That’s about it.”

“...what’s the point, then?”

You think on this for a moment, before shrugging.

“Like I said, just one of the weird things humans do. I should have cucumber slices on my eyes too, but I wanted to read.”

Sans lets out the loudest of snorts at this, sniggering as Papyrus plants his hands on his hips with a frown.

“What would cucumber on your eyes do? I was always told to use limes!”

“...Papyrus, cucumber slices are supposed to be...relaxing and cooling. Limes would burn the utter hell out of my eyes.”

“...ah. That would explain why they stung my sockets so much when I tried, then.”

Sans was practically killing himself with laughter at this point, tears leaking out of his sockets as he collapsed to the carpet.

“It is not a funny matter, brother! Limes and cucumbers are both very similar in colour, so of course it would be incredibly easy to mix them up!”

This did not help Sans’ laughing fit in the least, of course - Papyrus lifted his arms up in a ‘I resign’ manner, before turning to you.

“Y/n, despite the...positive results for your skin, please attempt to remove that before dinner. It might fall into the spaghetti, and as I am not preparing squid-ink spaghetti, it would not look very nice.”

You give him a salute, before he stomps into the kitchen, leaving you on the couch with a still hysterically laughing Sans on the carpet.

~

It’s only at night when both you and Sans are tucked up nice and snug that your efforts during the day are truly recognised.

He audibly sniffs, leaving you to smirk up at him, while he looks down at you in confusion.

“...did you just sniff me?”

“...well....you, uh...smell different.”

Your smirk widens.

“Nice?”

“...well, I mean...you always smell nice, but....it’s just....different?”

“Oh, I always smell nice, do I?”

He huffs, shoving his face into your hair, his reply a muffled grumble.

“...you know what I mean.”

Sniggering, you manage to find one of his hands to grab onto under the burrito of covers the two of you had buried yourself under. He squeezes back, before he clearly pauses - his fingers slowly inch their way up your arm, his face leaving your hair to look down at you suspiciously. You smirk widens all the more.

“...it’s soft, huh?”

He chuckles, snuggling you closer.

“....yup. Sleep well, you pampered princess.”

“Excuse me! I did all that work myself, and it was hell - all so I could smell like a flower and be super soft!”

His chuckles grow louder, his hand patting you comfortingly.

“And it all worked out like a charm, sweetheart. Hope that you had a good day.”

“I...I did, I think? How about your day? Did you get Undyne out from under the boulder ok?”

“....Papyrus and Undyne ended up, uh, causing a cave-in. Undyne’s gonna have to stay with Alphys for a bit until her house is rebuilt. Again.”

“...oh.”

-

Pffft, welp, there you go, tiny one-shot of y/n’s day of luxury ;3 Hope you enjoyed!

[whumping-newbie]

BTHB: Choking

 @badthingshappenbingo​

So thanks once more to @straight-to-the-pain​ and @scath001 for this idea tbh. More whumper gathering stuff!

Let’s just say that this one is set juuuuust before the piece I wrote for S’s birthday last week. I kind of broke them in that one, but I liked the idea that S made about the whumpee protecting a smaller/younger/weaker whumpee during the hunting, and decided that my whumpee needed just a touch more rebellion than I allowed them in that piece.

As usual this is longer than I planned it to be BUT who cares about that.

Warnings: shock collar, dehumanisation, hunted, choking.

My bare feet stung against the rough gravel that littered the pathway I was sprinting down, every loose stone dug into my skin with a sharp singe of pain that felt like tiny needles stabbing at the soles of my feet. The scratchy sound of the gravel as I ran over it was almost musical, an intrinsic pattern brought on by each and every footstep of mine in rapid sucession. I was running so hard against the gravel in my frenzy that I didn’t care about the pain of the stones against by sore and tender feet, not right now.

I was out of breath. My lungs were on fire, burning against the bitter cold air in the woodland I was sprinting through, away from them, as fast as I can. Admittedly I was not in the best physical state to be doing this - not that I had much choice in the matter. I was almost skeletal compared to what I once was, the pang of hunger in my stomach was insatiable in comparison to the stabbing pains in my feet. I almost preferred the assault on my feet, it didn’t seem as permenant. When was the last time I ate? Two days ago? I can’t remember.

I heard sharp breaths to my left, and I darted my vision in the direction of the source. I couldn’t see a thing over there, it was so dark here. To my left was a mass of bushes and flowers, their vibrant colours still visible even in the moonlight. The plants looked healthy, well cared for, I envied them - they didn’t have a mark on them, their petals and leaves unblemished and taunting me with just how nice they looked. I saw a dark figure amonst the brush, and I could hear the telltale sound of rapidly sprinting footsteps on twigs bolt away from me. I was grateful that it was one of us, not one of them.

The moon was the only thing illuminating my pathway forwards, and even then I had to strain my eyes to see two feet ahead of me. I ground to a halt, out of breath and realising I had reached the edge of a large pond. I would have given anything to dive in right this moment and relish the moment. To wash off, to drink the water, to cool down. I didn’t care that there were leaves and algae and lilly pads dotted across the surface, decorating the water to make it look as inviting as possible to me, the plants rested gently against the unbroken surface of the water. There were loose petals from the land flowers on there too, they must have escaped on the wind, enjoying their freedom on the surface of the pond. The sheer tranquility of the water was enticing, it looked wonderful. I wish I could jump in and enjoy the cooling, refreshing feeling of the water on my skin.

But I couldn’t do that.

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can!”

An almost cheerful voice somewhere far behind me called out, catching my breath in my throat. I stared back at the path I had emerged from, realising my error in staying on the path. I had practically gift-wrapped myself to them.

No, can’t let them find me.

I ran around the pond, leaping over a bush on the side of the path, trying to stay out of sight. There was a mass of trees over there, enough that I could probably stay hidden behind them whilst they look for someone else. I crouch down, slowing to an almost silent set of footsteps as I reached the trees. I put my back against the rough trunk, pulling my knees to my chest. I covered my mouth with my hand to silence my own trembling breaths, filled with dread and just a hint of panic. I tried to make myself as small as possible, hoping they would just miss me here, that they would move on from here and allow me just a little bit longer here. I daren’t move a muscle when I heard the footsteps get closer and closer. They didn’t seem in any particular rush, I heard them jogging, and they slowed down at the pond edge, I presume.

“I’ll soon catch you, you’ll be part of my plan!”

The singsong voice was truly sickening, and I dread to think about what they have in mind if they catch me. I shuddered breathlessly, willing them to go away.

“You’ll be part of my plan, and I’ll hurt you as much as I can!”

I saw a flicker of light pass over the environment around me, coming from behind me. A torch beam. I closed my eyes, hoping I was still invisible to them. If sheer will power could keep them away from me, I was almost certain that they would never catch me.

A scream rang through the trees and permeated my ears. It was a desperate screech, a terrified sound that was truly heartbreaking to hear. It was somewhere close, sort of ahead of me, and I snapped my eyes open. The torch light stopped hovering around my hiding spot and started looking for the source too, before the footsteps started jogging again, kicking the gravel up as they did. They got closer, closer to me before going quiet again. They hadn’t stopped, they had merely gone around the pond, unknowingly passing me in my hiding spot. At least, I hope they didn’t know I was here.

I gripped the collar around my neck so hard that I could feel my knuckles whitening, digging my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I felt the prongs on the inside of the collar - the nodes that buried themselves painfully against the nape of my neck, that could cause me serious pain at a moment’s notice. It was restricting, and I hoped and prayed that I was out of the range of the remote. Having that damned remote set off the collar would be disasterous, I truly hoped that they didn’t choose to make things easy for them by setting it off, forcing me to reveal my own location.

I waited until I couldn’t hear the footsteps again before creeping out of my hiding spot, caked in the dirt from the ground. I hated this, I hated this entire little game of theirs. I felt like some kind of rat, being chased around and around. This game was truly a testament to how twisted everything was here, letting us run around and then hunt us down for their entertainment.

Oh, but there was an incentive to not get caught first. “Where’s the fun in that?” they had said, “whoever gets caught first is really going to suffer, so try not to get caught! Whoever lasts the longest will get rewarded, so get going!”

I tried not to think about what kind of punishment I would have to endure if I was caught first. What any of us would have to endure if we were caught first.

I crept away as silently as I could, away from my original hiding place, in the opposite direction from the scream. They would all be heading in that direction, probably. I hope, at least.

A twig snapped ahead of me and I froze, holding my breath to try and not make my presence here known, as much as I could. I tried to stay as still as I could, listening out for what that noise was, and what could have caused it. Was it one of them? Have they found me? Trying to lull me into a false sense of security before springing their trap?

No, it can’t be, because the source of the noise was just as frozen as me.

The figure was just beyond another bush, watching me carefully with wide eyes. They were very young, easily no older than 19. They were on their tiptoes, trying to remain silent after their momentary lapse in judgement caused them to reveal their presence to me. I remember them - big, scared, brown eyes. Short hair. Pale complexion. Caked in colourful bruises. Painted with scars.

We didn’t even need to say a single word, because their eyes spoke volumes more than words ever could. There was terror, there was begging, there was panic. I could see them implore me not to say a word, almost forgetting that I am in the same situation as them.

I slowly brought my index finger to my lips, a careful gesture that they didn’t need me to remind them to heed. I pointed at them, then at the bush they were stood behind - get down. They nodded in understanding, and dropped soundlessly to the ground, concealing themselves amonst the plants. If I didn’t already know they were there, I would not have seen them by just looking at that bush. They were almost invisible to me. I crept towards them, keeping my footing as light as possible, and it was painful moving so slowly. I had my eyes on the ground, keeping an eye on the branches, stones and leaves that littered the dirt in my path. I wanted to keep away from them, because who knows what kind of trouble both of us would be in if they caught both of us together.

Another cry from somewhere in the distance halted me. That was close, that was much closer than the other scream. Someone else had been caught, but that was the scary thing. They’re close, they’re getting closer and closer, and if I’m found here, I am in for a world of hurt.

That cry of pain was accompanied by another sound. It sounded almost... triumphant. It was muffled by the distance, but it sounded like the one who had caught them was celebrating their catch.

How sickening.

Of course they would want to catch us as quickly as possible. Get to hurting us for longer. That’s their reward for whoever catches one of us the fastest, but our reward is getting hurt less.

The sheer idea that this is allowed to happen was nauseating. These people... they kidnap us, abuse us, mutilate us and then torture us for their own entertainment. Yet no one here seems to want to help us out of this situation. Why is that? Why is there no one that shares a shred of empathy with us? Why do they enjoy bringing us pain, no matter what we do to try and stop them?

I was literally shocked out of my thoughts by a sudden influx of agony. Pure, crucifying agony that tore through every fibre of my being, and I cried out, dropping to my knees as the shock wore off, taking deep heaving breaths as I tried to ride out the subsiding pain.

I realised what had haddened a moment later, clambering to my feet as I heard someone ahead of me. I saw the wicked grin plastered over their face, even from this distance, and I could only think in that moment about the young one hidden just a short distance away from me. Did they know they were there? I daren’t cast a glance in that direction, what if they took such a simple thing as confirmation that someone else was here? I couldn’t do that.

I took off in the opposite direction. I had been spotted now, I didn’t need to worry about sound being my enemy. Not now, my primitive panic took the reins and I could only ride it out and hope for the best, hope that I can outrun my pursuer. I heard a deep, dark laugh echo from behind me.

“Run, rabbit, run!”

I didn’t need telling twice.

I didn’t see anything ahead of me, I had no trouble in pretending that nothing was in my way. My pursuer was having the time of their life, and I was fighting for mine. I didn’t care about the dull ache in my legs from overexerting myself, I didn’t care about the fire in my lungs and chest, I didn’t care about the stabbing pains in my feet.

This was their game, and I was playing by their rules.

Except they weren’t playing fair either.

I screamed and fell face first into the dirt as the shocks ripped through me again, unrelenting and ceaseless, dizzying and disorienting. The moment the collar stopped issuing its pulsating, agonising effect, I tried to scramble back to my feet, to get up and keep running, except I didn’t have that chance. Between my heaving breaths, I felt a heavy boot slam down on my back, forcing me back down onto my stomach. I could only breathe - not even from relief. My vision was murky from the adrenaline that clouded everything, there was no running anymore.

---

“Well, wasn’t that fun?”

That voice belonged to the owner of this estate. All of us had been recaptured, chained up against the wall like misbehaving dogs that needed to be taught a lesson. The hunters, our owners, were stood opposite us, self-satisfied grins etched over each of their faces. I refused to look my owner in the eyes. I knew that they would punish me for finishing as early as I did later. I could see the little box that was the remote to my collar hanging on the loop of their belt. It seemed to be taunting me too - if it wasn’t for that, I probably wouldn’t have been caught when I did.

I cast a glance at the other prisoners, comparing us to them. Their faces were full of a terrible pride, and yet ours were canvasses of fear and anticipation.

That young one that I met in the woods was quaking against their chains, not looking up at them. One of the bigger ones, the stronger one, their face was stoic and totally ready for whatever they were going to throw at us.

One of the other ones, I remember them from the auction, they were lot 1. They were the first one to be sold that night, I remember their calm acceptance of their situation was utterly terrifying to consider. I remember the fact that they were so blindly obedient that they didn’t even wear a muzzle like the rest of us.

Well, they were here, and they were apparently the first one to get caught. I didn’t even realise they had been captured, because they didn’t scream like the others. I was the fourth capture, out of seven, because Lot 1 didn’t resist as they allowed the hunter to end their temporary freedom. I didn’t know whether the young one I had seen was caught straight after me or not, because I don’t recall seeing them being dragged back to the manor like the others. We were blindfolded for that - keeping the suspense alive for all of us after we saw who had already been captured.

Who was going to suffer first, and for longer, than the rest of us.

Truly, the composure of Lot 1 was the work of an oscar-worthy actor - they remained knelt on the ground with their back perfectly straight, but kept their eyes to the ground, their hands on their lap. Blind obedience.

“So! Let’s get down to the prizegiving, shall we?”

The owner of the estate crept closer to Lot 1, who remained as still as an old, worn down and beaten gargoyle. I saw that the owner was hauling a mass of rope, looped over their shoulder to their waist like a sash. They pulled Lot 1 to their feet, as the rest of us could only watch as they were forced to stand in the centre of the room, waiting for the owner to do something. I heard a soft release of breath from them as they were looked over. I could hear the young one let out a small choking sound, and when I looked at them, they had screwed their eyes shut and buried their face against the wall, desperate not to watch.

I hadn’t noticed this yet because I was so fixated on everyone else, but it was at this moment I noticed the chains hanging from the ceiling, just behind Lot 1. I have no idea how they escaped my notice until this moment, it was probably just because they were almost invisible when compared to the other instruments that lined the walls of this room. The owner pulled down on the chains and cuffed the manacles to the wrists of Lot 1, who was now restrained with their hands behind their back. The loud clunk of the fastenings locking into place was so final that it was intimidating to think just what they are going to do to them. Dislocate their shoulders? Whip them? Burn them?

“So, you lost your game. You know that means you have to be punished, don’t you?”

They remained steadfast in their silence, even as the owner stroked the side of their face. I wasn’t able to see their expression as their back was turned away from me, but I could only imagine that it remained as neutral as I remember it. An empty shell, a mere thing with an ability to feel pain, but not to fear it.

The owner gripped their hair and yanked downwards, and I heard a terribly disguised groan of pain as they did so. The owner called out to someone, to one of the others, and I saw just what those chains on the ceilings were made for. They pulled the wrists of Lot 1 upwards, higher and higher, and all they could do was lean further forwards in an attempt to adjust to the position change. How much must that hurt? The other owner stopped cranking the chains upwards, but they didn’t seem as high as they should have done. Weren’t they going to dislocate their shoulders? That was what my initial belief was, but the fact that they left Lot 1′s shoulders slightly relieved of pressure, it seemed more like setup for something much, much worse.

The owner unravelled the loop of rope that they had over their shoulder and held it in front of Lot 1′s downward facing head, letting them see what they were going to use on them. For what, we were all about to find out.

The owner held one end of the rope in one hand, and used the other hand to wrap it around the neck of Lot 1 quite a number of times. An uncomfortable amount, I am positive of that. Every time they looped it around their neck, I watched Lot 1 squirm - they tried to dig their feet into the floor as much as it would allow, knowing there was nothing more that they could do.

And there was nothing we could do but sit back and witness the punishment for losing the game.

Even with a lot of rope left, the owner tied it in a knot as tightly as they could manage without totally choking Lot 1. I could hear their breaths become wheezy, I could tell they had opened their mouth for this - probably because there is absolutely nothing they could have done otherwise. I can’t imagine what kind of fresh hell that is - trying to breathe under all that constricting rope. The intent not to kill, but to torture, knowing that access to something that they need to survive is so very painful to think about. To think that the air they need to breathe is now in someone else’s control - their malicious, sinister control - and they could do nothing but hope that they would earn mercy for just going through with all of this without fighting them.

“Well, your punishment for losing the game?” the owner announced - both to us, and to Lot 1, “you get to watch us whilst we punish the others. Every time you look away from the punishments, I’ll tighten that rope around your neck. Just think on that I have no value for broken toys. I’ll let you die if you are disobedient now. Maybe next time you’ll think about this before trying to take the punishment for one of those other little rats over there.”

I frowned. Not even worrying about the prospect of being punished, but at their words. I always thought that Lot 1 was just... so broken, and compliant, and done with everything that goes on, that they would obey their commands without question. But to hear their owner talking about how they are taking the punishment for “one of us”. Did they... get caught first on purpose?

I had no way of knowing, because the owner turned away from Lot 1, and began facing us. I felt my head go light under their hungry gaze - they were out for blood, I could tell.

“Now then, who wants to go first?”

[sp-aceagecrystals]

Divine Oasis (part 1)

There is a certain sense of unreality that comes with walking through a room of thousands of quietly seated student, their matching uniforms blurring together near the edges. This feeling comes with knowing that against almost absurd odds, your name was picked from the ornate glass bowl sitting on a marble pedestal before the crowd of your peers. It comes with the sudden realization that you will die very, very soon.

Word count: 1785

Warnings: death (by drowning)

Author notes: this is my first finished long creative writing piece, and I’m really proud of having finished it! This is going to be the first part of probably a 6 part series, as it’s the origin for all my Reborn OCs! (Also, the character uses multiple sets of pronouns, so I shifted between them throughout the piece)

———————————————————————--------------------------------------

As Joan sat on a bench at the edge of the expansive room, her eyes focused on a small knick in the hard stone floor. Her caretakers flanked her on either side, two lovely old ladies who had treated her like the little daughter they never had. She had never been interested in these ceremonies; it was always the same speech, the same crushing silence as a name is drawn, and the same somber-yet-anticlimactic finish of some kid getting sent to their own special deathbed. Not to say they didn’t find the process itself interesting, this was just always the most boring part. She was almost entirely zoned out when they felt Ms. Heather lean towards her. She didn’t really process what the woman said, but she quickly noticed the silence that had fallen over the room. The administrator on the podium shifted on her feet slightly, the wait for some sort of response was now getting uncomfortable. One of the four Reborn lined up beside her - an older boy with curly gray hair - reaches over and plucks the name that had been drawn straight from her hand. He clears his throat before repeating it, his tone growing a bit impatient.

“Joseph Harper, please come to the stage.“

Maybe because of the name they called, or the fact that she had missed the name getting picked, but something doesn’t click for a moment. She feels stuck, like all her bones and joints were suddenly concrete, nailed to her seat. Eventually, though, she finds the will to stand. The loud clack-clacking of her formal shoes seems to echo through the entire room as she makes her way to the stage. To ignore the thousands of eyes trained on her, she focused in on the details of the Reborn. The aforementioned boy, a chubby black-haired girl with a warm smile, a red-haired kid who seemed to be shivering, and a younger skinny boy with borderline iridescent eyes. They all looked happy, bored, or some combination of the two. As she comes up the steps, the gray-haired boy helps them up, an indecipherable look of concern in his eyes.

She forces herself to sit still on the stage, simply turning to face the crowd and folding their hands behind their back. The administrator has started droning on again, and soon enough she’s being lead out of the room. Everything feels numb, like all the sound and movement is on another plane, physically close but mentally distant. Someone tells her to sit, and someone says the wait won’t be too long. She listens obediently, trying to drag her mind back to the present. They look towards the closest Reborn, the older boy. Joan notices the way hair seems peppered with a darker gray at the tips; this soot-covering followed throughout his outfit, most notably on the dense black coating on his leather boots. He must notice her assessment, as he glances over to her. With a readjustment of his position to face them, he offers out his hand. She smiles blankly and shakes it, only vaguely processing being informed that his name is Mirror. “A bit of an odd name?” She wills herself to say, though it comes out quiet and empty. He grins slightly and chuckles, “Well, my power is smoke control, so that might help it make a bit more sense? You know, like ‘smoke and mirrors’?”

“Ah, that... works.”

“Yeah.”

And like that, the conversation is just as dead as she will be. He opens his mouth to say something, but the loud slam of the old office doors cuts him off. The two turn towards the source, where three figures cloaked in pure white robes approach. On the top of each hood is dual sets of wings, silky blue embroidered in silver. Their steps are silent, making their very presence seem ethereal and unnatural. Of course, that is fitting for the Holy Hands.

One holds out a pale manila envelope in their hand. Joan takes it, easily prying open the weak adhesive. Unfolding the paper inside, a message is clearly printed inside:

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SACRIFICE FOR MADARIS

YOUR DESIGNATED METHOD IS DROWNING

She stares unthinkingly at the letter, unable to process it, until one of the cloaks’ lowered voices cuts through her thoughts.

“Whenever you are ready…?”

She nods, and the group parts to allow her out of the hall. Hesitantly, she makes her way through, until she turns the corner and freezes in awe. In the past, the main hall had always been surrounding a tall, circular wall, intermediately supported by ornate marble pillars. Now the pillars stand without walls, exposing a flourishing oasis of plants with a small lake (or a large pond, however you want to see it). The spaces once walled in now let soft daylight spill into the main hall, breathing a sort of life into the now empty space. Approaching the edge, even the smell of such untouched wildlife was almost suffocating. Taking a step in feels somehow invasive, as if this sanctuary will be corrupted by their presence. As Joan makes her way to the water’s edge, they spot a small pier nearby. Vines and moss fill the gaps between the sun-bleached boards, wood creaking so loudly she was honestly considering the chances of it snapping under her. The toes of her shoes poked out over the glittering blue-green ripples. They forced a few deep breaths in and out of their lungs, a pathological survival instinct screaming in her mind to reconsider.

Maybe a more dramatic end would have been more fitting; reeling back and taking a running jump, or diving in with the elegance of a natural-born swimmer. They were neither that brash nor that graceful, though, so instead she simply tilted on her toes further and further, until she could sense her weight shift. For a split moment, they processed the sensation of falling, a primal panic jolting through every nerve in her body. But just as quickly as they had started falling they had hit the surface, cold and oddly invigorating. Her clothes were immediately soaked, their too-tight shoes like leather bricks flailing blindly above them. The water stung their eyes and her lungs burned in her chest. Having never learned to swim, Joan was unusually relieved by their inability to save themself at this point. Finally, after battling against every instinct she had, she opened her mouth and took a desperate breath.

The pain was unimaginable. Her throat was being ripped open, shredded from the inside; or at least that’s how it felt. They couldn’t really comprehend whether they were breathing in or out now, not that it made much difference. The water seemed to fill her instantly, her stomach and lung convulsing in some last ditch effort to live. Vision doubling, the deep murky teal of the lake faded into a pure, divine white. Everything they ever knew flashed before them; names, places, colors, voices, sensations. Their final thought was a single statement. Not in a sense of hope or reflection, but a triumphant and bitter promise.

I’m going to live, dad.

•••

They didn’t know how long it’d been once they open their eyes. For a brief moment, she even wondered if she was dreaming. Silt from the spongy floor rises in plumes as they shifted, slightly at first, then attempting to sit up. The cerulean shade surrounding them seemed foggy, almost suffocating. It’s this thought that drew her into a startling awareness that she wasn’t breathing. Not that they were drowning either; no, she was long past that point. Her lungs expanded and deflated uselessly in her chest. They went through the motions to stand, balance practically nonexistent against the water’s pressure. The only interruption to the turquoise landscape was the dark silhouette of one of the pier’s support poles. Lost for a better way to reach the surface, she slowly made her way to it and began the climb up.

The journey was uneventful and seemingly endless. Beams of light cut through the liquid atmosphere, giving hope to a coming end. Finally, their hands gripped over the flat, splintered surface of the pier. Despite not necessarily needing oxygen by this point, the energy she exerted to bring herself atop the boards left her desperate to take a breather. Naturally, her first reflex was to cough up the water now entrenched in her body. This was about as painful as it had been earlier, a fiery hot pain cutting through their esophagus for what must have been forever, until they felt unnaturally empty. To her shock, there was no blood. She desperately wanted to lie down and sleep for the next hundred years. Somehow, though, they found the will to stand, legs so shaky she wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk. They only had to stumble for a moment before their body fell back into the rhythm of the living. Only at the edge of the oasis do they realize that the walls had resealed in the time they were underwater. Too drained (both literally and metaphorically) to try and find another way out, she simply pressed a hand to the ivory wall, leaning into the cold surface for support. In an instant, it began to shake and, with a loud groan, slide to the side. She jumped back in surprise, wrapping her arms around herself. Instead of the coarse fabric of the academy uniform, though, their hands met bare skin. A glance down showed them that they were now wearing some sort of dress, made of a smooth, water-resistant material. The front went down to right above their knees, while slits on the sides separated it from a longer back section that, while rounded, reached halfway down her shins. The dress was sleeveless, the top rounding off below her collarbone and connecting to a matching choker with a black fishnet. Besides the fishnet and matching black leggings, the whole outfit was a similar murky teal to the water they had died in. The cacophony of sound from the wall had stopped, bringing their attention back to what was in front of them.

All the other Reborn stood or sat idly in the main hall. Aside from the younger boy, who had fallen asleep, everyone’s attention had shifted to her. Mirror (was that what he said?) stepped up first, eyes silently taking them in. His gaze met theirs and, offering out a hand, a crooked grin came to his lips. “And who might be joining us?”

They hesitated briefly, mind racing to create a new identity. A single word repeated, again and again, in her head until she smiled back and shook his hand confidently.

“Maritime, at your service.”

[sending-the-message]

Always listen to your mother, especially if she might be an oracle. by TheNamelessKitty

I was born into a family of deeply rural Greek craftsman. Wilderness and mountains bordered us, which became federal forest after a hard day of hiking. We were—they were; my father was a child in this story—in the middle of nowhere. After a rough time in too much armed conflict, my family liked it that way. The Katsoros family was, by any account, comprised of simple, “earthy” people. They worked hard. They produced fine leather. They went to church. They were not, in any way, weird or mysterious or affiliated with the occult or any of the other things that might make them noteworthy…with the possible exception of my grandmother.

She was an interesting woman. Kind, simple, and respected the land. Even so, “Witch” may have been the right word. She once whispered “oracle” into my ear, so quietly that even the walls couldn’t hear. Her oddity wasn’t some obvious thing. There were no vague, riddle-laden prophecies. She didn’t wear a blindfold and toga, she wore homemade dresses that were just a little out of style. She didn’t cook potions, she cooked delicious desserts.

She was never called an oracle, but people knew to listen.

It’s a weird thing, in Greece: you live with all these stories that even we call “mythology” now, but you still end up paying attention. You know they weren’t always myths. You could be an Atheist, or maybe a good Christian who decried pagan superstition, but if you wander too far into the deep forests, amongst pools and mountains and monuments that have been here since the 8mythological* days, you can’t help but feel something. You can’t help but sense something other than fish in the water. You can’t help but avoid a too-perfect clearing. And you can’t help but remember that some things are much bigger than common sense. Your “common sense” is limited by knowledge and experience. Whether you were 10 or 80, the land had a head start of millennia.

Anyway, while the land may have known better than any mortal, my father’s mother was in second place. If she wasn’t, he wasn’t about to tell her so.

“Stop right there, Vas!”

The boy froze with the front door ajar, caging a groan with his teeth as he tried to figure out what he’d forgotten. His chores were done. He had no homework. It wasn’t cold enough for a jacket, even by his mother’s looser standards. He was at a loss.

“Vasilhs Katsoros! You will not be traipsing off into the forest without your filhata.”

This time, he failed to restrain a malcontented noise.

It earned him a harmless swat. In almost the same moment, he felt a leather cord dangle in front of his neck while his mother clasped it in back. A large charm featuring a stylized eye—a traditional defense against the evil eye—came to rest just above his collarbone.

“Mom, I’m not a baby! Adults don’t wear these.”

“Smart ones do,” she retorted. “And you even got to design yours to be ‘cool.’”

“There is nothing cool about wearing baby charms.”

“Well, while you’re being off being a big, safe loser in the forest, be careful and be home for dinner.” She kissed his hair and headed back inside. (Dad recalled this interaction in great detail. She really did use the words ‘big, safe loser.’ She sounds fantastic.)

Vasihls sighed, tucking the necklace under his shirt before some lost bus of cute girls could break down in front of the house and laugh at him. That kind of thing happened. He had seen television. Vas had learned other things about girls from television, too: crushes, hilarious mishaps, grand gestures, and so on. In the end, the hero would always a) get the girl, or b) end up with the girl who was right for him all along. He wanted in on that. He wasn’t sure what “that” was, exactly, but he thought a girl at school was pretty and that “going out” at least meant they’d be best friends. Good deal.

So, per his fiction-fueled romantic wiles, he strode through the forest that day with intent and a pocket knife. The air was cool, sunlight filtered through a thick, mostly deciduous canopy. Vas had been born on this land, and he knew where to find the grandest oak tree in this part of the woods. As with every time before, he had to stop upon arrival to just…admire. It was beautiful, with branches so broad and heavy they arched towards the ground all around, offering shelter to countless animals and unbelievable climbing for small humans. Despite its tremendous size and age, the tree was unmarred. There were no hearts or initials or graduation dates anywhere.

That probably should have been a red flag.

Vas, however, was oblivious : far too intent on scrambling upward and finding the perfect spot to carve his initials alongside his crush’s, thus ensuring their love. After dismissing many identical patches of bark, he found the perfect place. Perfect. (Also, he couldn’t easily climb any higher, and it would be hard to show off if he did.) And so, just over the gentle curves of a heart-like burl, he began to carve, grinning as he pictured his charming self from a narrator’s point of view.

By the time he finished the V, there seemed to be a lot of sap. He may have expected it in early spring, but not now. But, it was just sap, and he shrugged it off. As he started on the second line of the “K” (it looks the same in Greek,) the knife finally stilled to acknowledge Vasihl’s growing unease. As more and more sap ran from his passionate carvings, its unsettling crimson hue became more apparent. The scent of iron overwhelmed what should be a sweet, pleasant smell. He cringed, hesitated, and finally reached out to touch it. Despite its thick, sticky texture, the color sticking and unsticking between his fingers left no doubt: the tree was bleeding. Bleeding like a person. Before he could process his horror, the undergrowth began to rustle.

At first, ten-year-old dad barely acknowledged the disturbance due to the safety of his perch. He was still focused on the eerily red sap. The rustling continued. Vines that had previously surrounded the great oak slowly drained into distant undergrowth. Their deep roots followed, largely unbroken, and entire plants disappeared. All the while, every leaf for what sounded like miles began to rattle. Now, he was scared. Saplings that stood taller than his current perch trembled all the way up their boldest branches. Their undergrowth was thinning, too. More roots snaked towards something he couldn’t see through the dense flora at the edge of the clearing. Vas’s heart hammered. The saplings themselves all tilted in the same direction as though bowing to the little human. Then, they were dragged down, too, disappearing meter by meter into a strangely dense patch of forest he’d taken for a boulder.

The air was starting to feel wrong. The world was starting to sound wrong. Something big was starting to breathe. The survival instincts the boy had managed to accumulate thus far were conflicted: run, or climb higher and stay out of reach?

By the time his feet hit the ground, they were unanimous. RUN.

Vas had never moved so fast, but frequent stumbles hobbled his retreat. At first, he thought speed was to blame. He didn’t know better—not for certain—until he hit the ground again, scrambling through litter, and his hand landed on a thick stem. Before he could launch himself upward, the plant slithered back towards his pursuer, dragging his hand with it and pitching his face unceremoniously into the dirt. When the vine became aware, somehow, of the human’s touch, it curled. Vas stared in mute horror as it wrapped around his hand. His muteness didn’t last for long. Neither did the plant’s unfinished grip. It reached longingly after the screaming child as Vas tore free and sprinted away.

The sounds behind him felt all-encompassing. He imagined a grasping hand crawling after him on clawed fingers the size of trees. Or some kind of dinosaur blob-monster. Or the literal devil grown to gargantuan proportions. The boy sprinted past plants. Plants slithered past him to be consumed by the roaring thing he didn’t dare turn to look at. *You died if you looked back. * TV and mythology agreed on that point.

The forest was blurry. Vasilhs wasn’t sure whether the world was changing or it just looked that way through his tears. Probably both. (It was breathing.) His neck stung. Vas clawed at it as he ran. The vines he’d expected to be choking him were absent. His throat was just raw from screaming. He hadn’t realized he was screaming. He couldn’t even hear his screaming over that other thing. (It stomped and breathed as it chased him.) He couldn’t run any farther. He was going to fall. He was going to die. The forest was trying to retract its entire floor and drag him back to the thing, and he was going to die. His head swam. More plants wrenched from under his feet and whipped towards whatever was pulling them. (It was GROWING.) He skipped and stumbled, wheezing, fighting to stay on his feet and terrorized equally by thoughts of falling and his pursuer. (It was CLOSER.)

A wordless exclamation he couldn’t define exploded from the boy’s mouth as he burst into the meadow containing his home. He didn’t slow until he reached the door, pounding and bawling and screaming for help. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him to open it. Of course, it didn’t take long for his mother to tear open the door. She stared, alarmed, at her bloodstained child…until she looked over his head at whatever had pursued him. (It had stopped at the treeline.) Then, she went pale. With an utterance Vas didn’t understand, she dragged him inside, slammed the door, and dropped to her knees behind him.

The child still snuffled and sobbed while his mother frantically checked him for injuries, seeking the source of the bloodbath marring his front side. When the “blood” stuck to her fingers like molasses, she lost what little color she’d retained. She was silent for some long seconds. “Vasilhs,” she finally whispered: “what did you DO?”

“I didn’t-”

She grabbed his shoulders, started to speak, and then closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. It was a long time before managed. At least, it felt that way to him. “Vasilhs,” she resumed, more softly, “Vasilhs…” she hugged him through a cracking sob. (That scared him more than his unseen pursuer.) “All of the forest guards a dryad,” she whispered, “and you wear her blood. You…we, are in a great deal of trouble, Vas.”

Luckily, my grandmother understood the situation, somehow. I don’t know whether it was passed down or intuitive, but it was life-saving in any case. She called my grandfather, who was in the village at the time, and told him to stick to the main road coming home. No unpaved shortcut. He didn’t understand, but trusted his wife. When he arrived home, he spent a long time standing outside, staring at the groaning, crackling shadow behind the trees.

He said nothing when he walked inside. The pallid laborer just hugged his small family without a word. After a relating his story too many times to remember and just enough to go hoarse, Vasilhs was directed to the bath and then put to bed. He listened to his parents speaking quietly throughout the night. He wished he could hear what they were saying. And he really wished the insects hadn’t all gone silent.

The next day dawned quiet. Vas didn't need to be rousted after years of country labor and shambled hesitantly into the kitchen. It smelled amazing. His mother had put together a huge meal that included everyone's breakfast favorites. No one had much appetite. No one spoke. After nibbling whatever portion of the meal they could manage to swallow, the family rose at some unspoken signal. Vas's father moved to clean up.

His mother, solemn-faced, led her son into the bathroom. "We're going to fix this, Vasilhs," she promised. "But, you will not like this part."

Considering the sharp knife she carried, he believed her. He teared up again, but stalwartly set his lower jaw. Nonetheless, the child was relieved when she set aside the knife in favor of paper and a marker. "Please show me exactly what you carved," his mother instructed. He nodded and went carefully to work, agonizing over the angle of the V and the placement of the K. His mother never once hurried him. (Her eyes were soft, he said, in retrospect. She was savoring the moments for what they were, unsure of what would come next. She’d touched his hair often.) Finally, he hesitated on the K's second line, and trailed off into a thin mark. "This is where I stopped," he declared.

"Are you sure?" He hesitated, but then nodded. She returned the gesture. "Alright. Take off your shirt, Vas." The woman studied the drawing.

He started to comply, but hesitated as she retrieved the knife. "W…what are you going to do?" She tried to smile. The smile looked pained. "I'm so sorry, Vasihls. But, to make things right, I'm going to do to you precisely what you did to that tree."

As a kid, I was horrified for my dad at this part of the story. I mean, I am. But, looking back at it now, I can’t imagine how his mom felt. Dad didn’t remember his exact words, but he was sure there was pleading involved. He felt guilty, looking back, for making it even harder on her. He assured me that he screamed “like a little girl who’s not nearly as tough as you” when the cutting began, but got himself under control as his mother continued. I believe him. He was a stoic man and learned it young. Still, it’s a horrible scene to imagine. Finally, with a terrifying amount of blood soaking the old sweatshirt she’d tied around his waist, she eventually finished. It was time to go.

Dad, Vasilhs, was in a lot of pain. His father waited silently in the living room. The boy had never seen his father’s current expression on anyone. They shared a hug. Then, led by his father, all three headed outside. Vas was surprised to see a large wheelbarrow of compost waiting. He was to push it, his mother explained. They would go with him, but he had to push alone. He nodded. He’d have nodded at anything she said, fixated as he was on the monstrous shadow still glowering at them from the treeline.

He could see it a little, now. It was a conglomeration of dying, shocked, and outright vivacious plants, from moss to whole trees, contorted vaguely into the shape of a man. Very…very vaguely. Its “eyes” were tangle-clad rifts leading to some unwelcoming core. Its maw split both horizontally and from neck to forehead, from which Venus fly-trap teeth stabbed outward at every conceivable angle. The monstrous forest guardian clearly possessed both arms and legs, but its arms had extended to the ground and taken root overnight. (It didn’t slouch like a gorilla. The arms were really long.) Its legs were also buried in the soil. Despite this, considering the uneasy undulations of said roots, no wise man would test the giant’s mobility.

Finally seeing his pursuer ranked below yesterday’s horrified flight on Vas’s list of life-altering traumas. In a moment, it would drop by one.

His mother urged them all forward with a quiet command. He couldn’t move at first. He didn’t move for the first minute. Despite having been raised to quickly follow directions, like most children of rural laborers, he couldn’t obey. He couldn’t… until he did. Once the wheelbarrow lumbered forward, the little family set off towards the monster together. Vas’s eyes drifted uneasily between his parents. He couldn’t help but notice his father’s unarmed state. A hand, one per parent, clasped each of his shoulders. Both grips were so tight they hurt. So long as they held him, he didn’t mind.

As before, the giant didn’t leave the trees. Even so, the agitated quickening of its undulating, snakelike component-plants removed any doubt that it saw them. By now, its roots churned the packed earth like so much sand. The stench of too many rotting plants choked the humans as they approached. The Goliath glared down at them, then tore its massive arms out of the earth with two tremendous explosions. They glided upward with all the majesty of ancient trees. They should have been immovable. Instead, they were unstoppable. The creature was ready to receive them.

As the trio drew closer to the enraged and yet infinitely patient forest colossus, Vas’s mother squeezed his shoulder more tightly with a shaking hand. Then, rolling her own shoulders back, the woman strode boldly ahead of them. She drew close. She approached the despite the ability of any wooden limb to liquefy her. Despite how any one of those writhing tendrils could thrust right through her soft, fragile body. She strode forward. She trembled. And yet, she walked with her head high. The giant allowed her to approach. The abyssal pits in its face angled almost straight down to watch the bold ape approach, both splits in its maw drifting slightly further apart. Its flytrap-teeth were made of sharp stakes. Vas screamed for her to run. His father pounced onto him, clapping a weathered hand over the boy’s mouth and holding him so hard it hurt. The startled child would only realize in retrospect that his attacker was crying.

His mother, Vas eventually realized through his feral thrashing, was speaking in a loud, declarative tone. He stilled to listen. It wasn’t their language. Not quite. It was old, Hellenistic Greek. He could only pick out certain parts.

SON. ATONE. OFFERING.

They weren’t good parts. Vas’s eyes bugged.

The monstrous plant-construct didn’t react immediately. It didn’t seem to like moving fast, unless riled. Finally, its dual-axis “mouth” opened to bellow a single sound in a gut-twisting bass, so low as to dip below the range of the human ear and seem far quieter than it must be. “COME.” Vas’s mother turned to look back at the men. She smiled a loving, reassuring smile while the great forest entity turned around. It didn’t physically rotate, but rather, reassembled its pieces and repositioned its “face.” She turned to follow when its thundering steps resumed.

Vasilhs had never realized his mother was so beautiful. He’d never thought anyone could so beautiful or so brave or so perfect. He never thought he would see her again as she walked fearlessly through a wide swath of destruction. He had no words for the subarctic sense of loss. He found himself following, unsure whether moved of his own initiative or his father’s nudge. It didn’t matter. The frightened boy realized, as he put his back into pushing the heavy wheelbarrow, (the cuts in his chest stung and bled with renewed vigor,) that he wasn’t sure when his father had released him from the aggressive bear hug.

Even on the unceremoniously-carved “path” left in the guardian’s wake, it was hard to push the wheelbarrow through the forest. The path, actually, was the opposite of helpful due to its spattering of debris. Vas’s dad seemed unable or unwilling to help push, but he did busy himself striding ahead and clearing the worst obstructions from his son’s path. The monster and the comparably tiny woman behind it, for their part, stopped and waited whenever they got too far ahead.

It was a terrifying trip. Not in the same way it had been yesterday, when he’d merely been afraid for his life. Now that the vengeful, boy-eating colossus was in FRONT of him, immediate terror was replaced by a horrible sense of being watched. From everywhere. Every leaf, shadow, and stone felt like it was judging him. Like tiny spirits or well-hidden nymphs peered at the one who had dared to bleed their sister, hating him with all their might and willing infinite shame into every step of his punishment. Their unseen vitriol was so distracting that Vas only just realized that his father dad was carrying a shovel. His dad had a shovel, and his mom had a knife. ”Son. Atone. Offering.” His trembling worsened. It was impossible to tell whether the buzzing in his head and wheezing in his chest were from overexertion or terror. It was both. It was definitely both. He wanted to run like he’d never wanted anything in his life. Turn and run. Join the circus or something. No. That wasn’t true. He didn’t want to run away. Not like that, anyway. He just wanted to run from the monster. From this horrible myth he’d careened into for…what? Carving his initials into a tree? He wanted to run home and hide under his blankets. Eventually, he’d wake up from this horrifying dream and smell breakfast.

His dad must be upset, too. Not paying attention. “Accidents aren’t accidents if they happen because you didn’t pay attention,” he’d been told enough times. The usually sure-footed man stumbled and fell more and more often. That somehow made all this scarier. Even his protector was fallible.

As it turned out, mortal terror had an upside: it took no time at all to get from the edge of the forest back to something that immediately drained all the blood Vas had left: they were back at the great oak. Apparently, the dryad’s tree. His mother waited, all but hidden in the roots of her horrible guide. She stared quietly, smile slain by grief.

Vas’s dad wasn’t looking well. The man’s features had sunken during the course of the trip, skin pale and expression waxen. Still, a firm hand squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, Vasilhs. Let’s get this taken care of.”

They walked slowly towards the figure between the giant’s feet, which was simultaneously familiar and not. She was wife and mother. She was dignified and almost priestly. She had been crying and worried. Now, she was stoic and sure. Vas felt the strange urge to kneel at her feet. He did. That earned a small, sad smile. Then, the woman turned towards the great oak—which towered above even the guardian-colossus—and raised her hands, falling to her own knees. (The knife was clenched in one.) She spoke again, tone imploring in Hellenistic Greek. Finally, she looked back to the child seated beside her, then turned to face him entirely, blade still raised. Her husband approached with the shovel. Her grip on the knife shifted to plunge it downward.

Vas thought he was scared, but he couldn’t tell. Everything had gone silent and white. He could still see, maybe. Still hear, maybe. But none of it was important enough to crowd into a reality only he and his mother occupied. He could only stare up at her face, vaguely aware of the cold tears on his own cheeks. He didn’t scream. There was no screaming, here. This was his mother. He loved his mother. She had been his everything—everything his father wasn’t, anyway—from teacher to caretaker to spiritual guide to best friend. He loved her. Would he really let her kill him? There, in the silent void, he knew he would. He would, but his heart broke to think that she would. She was speaking. He couldn’t hear the words. The knife drew back. He couldn’t close his eyes. It slammed downward, embedding itself deeply into the soil. “Accept this knife,” he heard his mother cry, once again in Modern Greek, “as we bury the agent and symbol of our aggression! Accept this labor and offering as a declaration of peace from your unwitting, regretful assailant!”

She leaned forward, pressing a hand to the side of his hair to whisper in the opposite ear: “take the shovel, Vas. Bury all the compost you worked so hard to bring here. It should make things right. No matter what, we’re here, and we love you.” She kissed his cheek.

It was long, hard work digging deep enough, especially while being very, VERY careful to not damage any of roots, but Vasilhs hardly noticed. He was relieved to the point of ecstasy. He was pretty sure he knew how Isaac felt after Abraham let him off the altar. Part of him wanted to write off his prior fears as silly. Of course his mother hadn’t convinced his dad to sacrifice him to a dryad in the middle of the forest! It was stupid. Dryads weren’t even real. Not real. Definitely mythological. He definitely wasn’t in the middle of offering a bunch of rotted animal parts to one because he’d accidentally bled her tree, narrowly survived getting chased out of the forest by some kind of plant-monster, and because his mom said so. Dang it.

He wondered whether he’d be allowed to swear after this. He felt as though he’d earned it.

Time passed strangely. It passed with his mother and father standing by and then his mother standing and his father sitting. The hole pressed deep, rich compost covered its bottom, and then nutritious rot filled the pit instead of the wheelbarrow. As the boy finished covering his offering with displaced dirt, patting the area level with the back of his shovel, he felt something amiss, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He couldn’t reconcile being finished. That felt like too much to hope for. Was this trip into nightmare-mythology land over? Would he wake up in his bed, now? Would his small, bare chest gleam red with an unfinished “VK” when he did? Was he –

He wasn’t. Not with enormous fingers of bark-striated wood pinching tightly and plucking him from the ground like an early crocus. His mother was screaming. Vas was screaming. He was also running in the air and swinging the shovel, neither of which helped. The colossus somehow managed to lift the squishy little biped without crushing him. With a cacophonous symphony of groaning wood and percussive cracks, its head tilted back as its prey rose directly above its face. (A small trickle ran down one of the boy’s legs.) His mother was attacking the giant for the first time, beating against its leg and pulling at thinner-looking striations, all of which were utterly ineffective. The elder Mr. Katsaros fought just as hard despite his strange fatigue. He achieved as little.

Vas had been staring into chasms that mimicked eyes. They looked uncannily like snake pits from here, with nets of writhing, undulating stems crisscrossing over abyssal gaps beneath. Then, his attention turned wholly to the opening maw. Its great mouth split with the sound of groans and cracking. It had to open wide before a cage of venus flytrap-teeth cleared the way. Vas stopped thrashing and curled into a mid-air fetal position, wide-eyed and all-too-aware that breaking loose would now be bad.

It dropped him. Every human shrieked the same keening, unholy wail. He passed the teeth.

He slammed to a stop.

Vas stared into the flesh-grinding horror beneath him, white-knuckled and unable to comprehend his salvation. When he finally looked up to note the shovel, which bridged the center of its mouth, his shriek turned to giddy laughter in the same octave. After several moments of stillness, the monstrosity’s vertical mouth cracked open. Child and shovel disappeared in a blink.

Dad—Vas—doesn’t remember what happened next. Being eaten by a giant plant golem seems like a reasonable time to black out from fear. He can’t say whether he fainted or just blocked out the memory. The next thing he remembers is the face. Somehow, he went from inside the colossus to being safely deposited high in the great oak’s branches, face-to-face with the initials he’d carved into the bark…and eye-to-eye with something between a relief sculpture and a drawing in the tree’s bark. He couldn’t do anything, petrified as one who had dared to ogle Medusa. But this wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t scared. The face in the tree, which tilted through rippling bark to better observe him, was more beautiful than any person he could imagine. Vasihls swallowed hard. Once. Twice. Three times. Finally, an awe-stricken voice burbled out of him, quiet and nervous. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll be respectful of this tree for as long as I live. I p…promise.”

The face—she was so beautiful, eyes so gentle—tilted in the other direction, continuing to regard the young vandal. Finally, her perfect eyes softened more. She smiled, nodding once. (Dad admitted that, though he loved my mother in a different way, he’d fallen in love with the dryad at that moment and remained there as long as he lived. Many years passed before he’d been able to court human women at all.)

When the spirit nodded, something else began to happen. The plant-golem, the colossal guardian of this perfect being, began to glow softly at its outermost edges. Leaf-like flakes of light broke free and drifted away in great, lackadaisical swarms. The flecks twirled and fluttered in a sudden breeze, as leaves should. Some drifted to the ground. Saplings sprouted where they fell. Saplings, bushes, grasses: the destruction wrought by the guardian’s creation disappeared in a manic rush of new growth. The flow of glowing leaves continually quickened, flying from what was left of the golem’s torso and streaming from its legs to swarm down the ruined swath of woodland. It would be years before large trees grew there, but vibrant green soothed the hurt away.

Vasilhs didn’t know how long he watched all this. He didn’t know how long he stared at the oak after the face disappeared. At some point, he climbed down as quickly as he could safely to do. At the bottom, he hugged both parents tightly. All cried with relief.

Then, right at the happy ending, his father collapsed.

A startled cry of dismay accompanied Vas’s mom as she dropped with her husband, clinging to him for all she was worth and oh-so-awkwardly managing to keep him from hitting the ground full-force. Vas helped with all his ten-year-old might. The man was shaking his head and trying to wave off any assistance by the time he reached the ground, reassuring his wife generally pretending he hadn’t just fallen like a sack of flour. She, being an alarmed Greek woman, paid no attention whatsoever to his bullshit claims of physical sanctity, taking his pulse and feeling his head and looking him over and generally fretting and telling him to stop saying stupid things. Finally, after a long check-up of the man’s suddenly, unbelievably hallow cheeks and drained, dark-veined countenance, the woman cringed.

“Ah! Love, my stupid, stubborn love! You’re not wearing your filhata!” Vas’s eyes widened. He glanced down at the stupid baby charm around his neck, the closest thing to clothing on his upper body.

No way.

His mother snapped back into action, jerking the man’s shirt up and over his head, muffling cries of protest. “Vasilhs,” she snapped, clear and authoritarian, “go back up the tree. Ask the Dryad very nicely to take some of the blood you already drew.”

Well, that sounded like a terrible idea. Some wide-eyed part of him thought that. The rest did as bidden, hurrying up gnarled by gnarl and branch by branch, terribly careful to avoid breaking anything, until he arrived, winded, in front of his carving. The dryad’s face wasn’t there. Vas cringed, looking around. How did you summon a dryad? Did you have to? Was she listening? She, like, lived right in the tree, right? “Um…hey, so I’m still sorry, and I’m REALLY, REALLY sorry, but my dad is sick all of a sudden. Or cursed? Something like that. Like, evil eye times a thousand…oh, shoot. Yeah, I could feel the whole forest staring at us when we were walking back here. Oh my gosh, that’s what happened.” The epiphany left him wide-eyed and covering his mouth. Still, the boy cringed at the sudden memory of the here and now, setting his jaw and looking up as stoically as she could, little shoulders squaring. “My mother asks if I can, please, with your permission, take some of the blood-sap that’s already here. Sorry. Please.”

The beautiful face didn’t reappear, no matter how he longed to see it again. Nor did anyone or anything speak. Vas bit his lip, after a time. He was just about to repeat his request when something tickled his hand. He looked down to see a fresh, bright trickle of the thin sap pooling against it. “Oh. Oh, thank you! You’re beautiful. You’re kind. You’re kind. Thank you. Thank you. Bless you.” As he spat rapid-fire assurances of awed gratitude, Vas—realizing he had nowhere better to put it—scooped as much of the sap as he could get into the palm of one hand, then climbed down the tree as fast as he could with one hand.

His mother looked ready to faint with relief. (For a moment, he was afraid she would, and found himself wondering how to treat the evil eye by himself.) She dipped two fingers carefully into the precious, powerful sap. After several returns to that inkwell, a red eye had been drawn under her husband’s collarbone while Vas looked on in rapt, fascinated horror. Then, she began to say the blessing. Vasilhs didn’t know what all she said. Not exactly. He knew that she was imploring the old Gods, performing the rite much differently than everyone else’s aunt or grandmother and generally saying things the Orothodox Priest wouldn’t approve of at all. He couldn’t be shocked or mad, though. He was too busy watching and being terrified. After the third repetition, the bloody sigil lit up in gold-green. Petros Katsaros gasped. One of his wife’s hands arched over the mark, fingertips pressed lightly into his skin, as she called something else in that archaic tongue. Then, her fingers jerked down, clawing the eye-mark apart.

Its light went dull, then faded slowly to nothing.

There no sound outside everyone’s panting. Finally, the patient gasped a shaking breath, filling his lungs greedily now that he could. His face gained color rapidly, and the pain in his gradually-less-sunken expression faded entirely. There was hugging. There were kisses and blessings and appropriate wonderment expressed towards wife and mother Iro Katsaros, who would march up to a monster or take on the supernatural. For her part, grandma would only dote on them, laughing and tearfully relieved. Or, at least she did for awhile. There was lots of talk about what troublemakers both men were and that this was why you listened when she said to wear your filhata and she was sick of worrying and… insert other Greek stuff here. They lived happily and loudly ever after.

So, that’s the story my dad told me. Unlike the others I tell, I can’t personally vouch for it. I will say, however, that my father was a very honest man who never let me run around without a filhata. I can also confirm there’s a wide scar in the forest, starting at the edge and ending at the great oak, that’s all new growth and young trees.

Though it faded with time, I can also confirm that his chest had that scar until he died.

VK.

[wellpersonsblog]

I Tried to Ride a 100 Mile Bike Race and Almost Died (Here’s What I Learned)

Note from the author: This Thanksgiving, we’re all living through extraordinary times and many of us are dealing with unbelievable hardship and loss due to  COVID-19. I want to share a story that I hope will inspire you to reflect and give thanks for the little things in our life, no matter how difficult circumstances may be today.

Like many members of the NMA community, I started as a runner. Then I moved into yoga, strength training, and exploring the mountains I call home in Boulder, Colorado. 

But until recently, I hadn’t ridden a bike since high school. 

Nonetheless, my uncle told me about a century ride for which he was organizing a team to raise money for Type 1 Diabetes research. So without much thought, I committed. 

Then I learned what a century ride even was: 100 miles… on a bike I didn’t even have… with six weeks to train.

Without any other options, I did what felt the most logical at the time: dive straight into the deep end. 

I bought a road bike (apparently, that’s a thing), and spent as many “hours in the saddle” as I could, learning from whatever experience the ride threw at me: 

I bonked, and had to learn about nutrition to fuel endurance training. 

I got tire flats (3 in just 10 rides, and learned to change a tire by watching youtube on the side of the road.)

I got stung by a bee (I’m allergic), and forced myself to stay calm while I rode 20 miles back to town. 

And, I fell in love with a new sport. 

While training, I had clear visions of writing a blog post recapping exactly what I did and how you could too. I was psyched, passionate, and riding high. 

When race day came, I started confidently, knowing that I had reached 84 miles on my longest training ride. I knew I’d finish the full 100, so I started focusing on the time and aiming to beat my best pace… I passed the 50 mile mark in less than 2.5 hours. I was on track to accomplish a sub 5 hour finish. (Nothing special for seasoned riders, but a personal goal.) 

At mile 64, my race ended when I crashed, breaking my nose and eye socket bones, and impaling a plastic part of my sunglasses into my cheek.

Oh, and I exposed the bone in my nose. When I heard the EMT call for a helicopter,  because the ambulance would take too long considering my condition, I was left wondering if I was going to make it home to my 1-year-old son.

Here’s what happened, what it taught me, and why more than ever, I believe failure should be your best friend…  

The Setup: Training for a 100-Mile Ride in Just Six Weeks

What started as a wild idea quickly became reality when I realized I had just six weeks to train. So I figured I had two options: 

Tell my uncle that I didn’t have time to train and wouldn’t be riding with him.

Start riding my bike as much as possible, while fulfilling my duties as a parent, with more than one job, and allowing for muscle recovery between training sessions. 

I figured I’d start by testing myself with just a 20 mile ride. I had no conception of what that would even feel like, so, I figured, if I can do 20, I’ll put off quitting for a little longer. 

I did the 20 (slowly), and four days later, I tried 30 miles…  

And every 3-5 days, when my legs felt rested, I increased the length by 10 miles…  

Before long, I was doing real mileage — 50, 60, 70 miles, and with two weeks to go before the race, I completed my final long ride of 84 miles.

I was feeling so strong and confident that I began setting goals in my mind: I wanted to finish in under 5 hours — average pace of 20 miles per hour.

And even though I had only been on the bike more or less 10 times, I felt that I could do it… 

I even wrote down some tips, intending to write an NMA post that focused entirely on the training: 

Don’t try to put together your own training plan, without consulting any books, experts, or friends. You’ll miss basic tips, like “eat constantly so you don’t run out of energy and crash.” (At the time,  I meant “crash” as in “bonking”, not physically crashing.)

If you’ve never taken apart a bike, don’t wait until the night before the race to take apart your bike and try to fit it into a special shipping bag for the plane ride. 

A small amount of caffeine is great at the end of the ride.  

Start with slower-carbs (like Bobo Bars, PB&J’s, or this recipe for energy balls) earlier in the ride. Save gummies and gels for the end, if needed. It’s easier on your stomach; provides a better foundation for fueling past 50 miles; and, at the end of the race, you’re dry mouth won’t want to eat another “bar”, so sugar in drink or gummy form worked better for me. Tip: While the whole-food plant-based solution to workout energy, Plant Bites, weren’t a thing when I tried for this race, they are now. And they’re awesome.

The Glory: When Things Go Right

Early in the race, I was learning how to ride in a peloton. I had never ridden in a group, working together to save energy as we push against the wind.

“Wind,” as it turns out, is a factor when riding a bike. 

It was a blast. The person at the front of the group would push hard for 5-7 minutes, breaking the wind for all of us behind. When they were wiped, they’d peel off and line up at the back. The next rider would take the lead. 

When it was my first turn, I was more than a little nervous. The guy peeled off and said, “Just keep us at a nice 23 mph.” I responded, “I don’t have an odometer, so that’s one issue. And either way, I can’t keep a 23 mile per hour pace!” 

He smiled and said, “We’ve been doing 23 miles an hour this entire time…” 

I had a surge of energy… which was short lived, because leading the pack is tough work! I don’t think that I lasted a full 5 minutes before the guy behind me said, “Thanks for the pull. I got it.” I probably wasn’t keeping pace… 

My only other memory was a prescient one:

I thought to myself, “I’m right on the wheel in front of me — just inches away — going 20+ MPH. This peloton stuff is dangerous. If I fall, that would be really bad. Just don’t take down Glen.” (That’s my uncle, who organized 100+ riders for the day.)

The Fall: Taking Down Uncle Glen, and Nearly Taking My Own Life

Sadly, I took down Uncle Glen…. 

When I crashed, he was right behind me, and then went right over me. And then went to the hospital with me. 

That was one of the worst parts of the entire ordeal; the other was seeing my wife’s reaction to my mangled face. 

“Losing” in an (internal) competition is tough. Not finishing is generally worse. Ending in the hospital is really bad…

After my face smashed into the pavement, my first thought was, “I’m not OK. I need to call Adriana.” (My wife.) 

There is a tremendous amount of blood flow going to the brain. When you hurt your head, it’s very bloody. If you’ve ever broken your nose, you know how extreme it can be. 

Blood poured freely while I crawled towards the phone still attached to my bike. I somehow got enough cell signal to tell Adriana that there had been a crash. Then the call dropped. She was waiting for us at the next water station, at the bottom of the hill. When she saw an ambulance passed, she grabbed our son and followed it to the crash site.   

I was conscious during the entire journey from the ambulance to the operating room. I remember saying, “Thank goodness my face was there to break my fall. Otherwise, I could have really been hurt.” Adriana didn’t think that was funny, but I got some laughs from the doctors. She stood in the OR for hours, pregnant and holding our 1 year old son, while I was on the operating table. 

I’ll never forget when they rolled me past her, on the way to a CT scan to check for any number of possible injuries to my brain or other vital organs. It all got real in that instant. 

For the past hour, I had been making jokes, worrying about my uncle, and hoping to get out of the hospital, because I planned to treat my face with my own natural remedies, and I hate hospitals. 

But then, all of a sudden, I was heading for a CT scan and the idea of lasting damage, or death, became very real. 

What if I lose vision in that eye? Or both? 

What if I can’t see my son grow into a man. 

What if there’s internal bleeding? 

What if… 

Laying in the CT machine after having just seen her terrified face, the enormity of the situation washed over me. 

We take risks each day, from driving cars to riding bikes. 

And when everything is good, we take so much for granted — like my eyesight, our loved ones health and happiness, and the simple joy of a giggling little kid getting tickled by his mom. 

How precious life is. How precious life is.

It’s a phrase we’ve all heard so many times before, but laying in that CT machine, that’s all I could think about.

How precious life is. 

If I’ve learned anything — aside from how to ride a bike 64 miles and crash — it’s how fleeting life can be and how desperately we should try to enjoy the most simple pleasures. 

Every run or ride. Every smoothie, family dinner, and kid’s book. 

Every time we can roll over in bed without waking up from pain, or let water rush over our faces in the shower.  

(I lost much of the skin between my upper lip and hairline— on both sides of my nose, which is hard to understand how that’s possible. And with 100+ stitches, showering was a pain, literally.) 

So with all the different “goops” that I lathered on each day, all I wanted to do was wash my face vigorously. I couldn’t for months… Now, nearly every day, I consciously think about how nice it feels to let the shower hit my face. 

But perhaps the most simple pleasure: enjoying each moment with loved ones. 

Failures and Setbacks Leave Us With Opportunities 

It’s hard to believe, but in some ways, I would go through it all again to derive the perspective that I now have. 

I’m grateful for the adventure — and even the scars — because without them, I wouldn’t cherish every moment the way I do now. 

It’s because I failed in a grand, dangerous way that I’m left with a gift far greater than I could have ever imagined when signing up…

A new perspective and a deep appreciation for life. 

And while I certainly hope you don’t have to experience a near-death event to gain some appreciation, I do challenge you to stop running from failure. 

Failure leaves us with opportunity. Opportunity to grow, learn, and get better. 

We’re better athletes when we learn from failed workouts, and we’re better humans when we grow from failed experiences. 

So as we approach the new year, I hope this story will inspire you, just as the experience has changed and inspired me. 

Savor the little moments in your own life. Laugh and love as much as you can. Give your loved ones an extra hug. Call your old friend. Let the sun hit your face (something I’m not yet supposed to do until the scars fully heal)… 

And always wear a helmet.

The post I Tried to Ride a 100 Mile Bike Race and Almost Died (Here’s What I Learned) appeared first on No Meat Athlete.

First found here: I Tried to Ride a 100 Mile Bike Race and Almost Died (Here’s What I Learned)

[funkymeihem-fiction]

Fantasy Meihem

A silly story with Frost Mage Mei and Demon Junkrat on a quest to find a missing friend, investigate a cabal, and get on each other's nerves nonstop.

Mei had arrived at the spot where the demon was last seen some hours ago. Like most demons, it preferred a hot, dusty environment, just like this awful canyon she’d been tromping around in, where a river might have flowed a millennium ago before drying up and never seeing water ever again. The rocky red walls rose up high on either side of her, but the sun was directly overhead and they provided her no shadow and no shelter. And worse was that she couldn’t risk removing her full frost mage regalia, no matter how stifling it all was. Her fluffy robes and pointed hat were much more suited to withstand howling winds and blowing snow, rather than this awful heat that made the very ground steam beneath her boots. Why did her robes have to have so many layers? And why had she tailored it with so many pom-poms and silly bows? Everything felt so heavy and hot. It was going to make her tired if she stayed here too long, and she would need all her strength if she was going to find and defeat it, this evil entity birthed of fire and flame… The village nearby had been desperate for help, and she had answered. Sheep and goats had vanished from the peasants’ herds, plants had turned to charred ash wherever its hoofprints were found, and there were reports of high, cackling laughter in the night. They hadn’t been able to pay her much at all, but their plight had moved her and she’d volunteered to come and put this villain on ice. There was a soft crunching noise by her foot and she looked down, seeing the charred skeleton of some animal- a lizard, maybe- with the marks of sharp teeth all over its bones. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, kicking the remains away before removing her hat and wiping at the sweat rolling down her forehead. Sitting down on a nearby boulder, she reached for her canteen, tapping her staff against it twice as ice crystallized against the metal, cooling the liquid inside as she tilted her head back and drank. “Oi.”

A voice came from behind her, and she inhaled sharply- a poor thing to do whilst drinking. A moment later, cold liquid was expelled from both her mouth and nose and she coughed wildly, gracelessly wiping at her face and trying not to choke as she turned to face it. “Is that sweet candy tea? Is it cold?” it asked. The demon just stood there in the middle of the canyon like he didn’t have good sense, staring her down with glowing yellow eyes. He wasn’t the largest one she’d ever seen, but he still towered over someone like her, even with his lanky form hunched over. The skin of his torso was vividly blood red, with a gaunt build and hungry, bony ribs, and his arms laced with lean muscle. Like most demons of his kind, he had angular features, with pointed ears, a pointed chin, and even a long, pointed nose below his curled pointed black horns. The tips of his dirty blond hair glowed red, trailing faint gray smoke. He was also missing two of his limbs, replaced with glowing red-black metal. He looked dangerous. He sniffled noisily, his nostril flaring up on one side, before asking again. “Sweet tea? Can ya share?” Mei launched upright, her staff at the ready as the shimmering azure crystal at its tip glowed violent blue, motes of ice shimmering around it. “You! Stay back!” He lifted both pointed claws in a placating motion, taking a step back with his limping gait. “Whoa! L-let’s not be hasty here, darl. I mean, you’ve already spit half it out on the ground there, how much you even got left?” His glowing eyes moved to the rapidly drying puddle of tea beneath her as he smacked its toothy maw unhappily, and she set her jaws and narrowed her gaze behind her glasses. She was onto his wily tricks, trying to distract her with the tea, no doubt so he could move in and try to attack her unawares. “I’m going to give you one warning, demon! You can return peacefully to your realm and be sealed within, or I’ll be forced to- I’ll have to destroy you! You’ve been a scourge on that poor village for too long!” He blinked owlishly, before a rather terrifying grin spread across his face, revealing a mouth brimming with razor-sharp white teeth. “Really? I’m a scourge? Is that the word they used, scourge? Heh! Blimey, that’ll impress the boys back home, that will. World-famous scourge! And they said I’d never amount to anything! Are the villagers real scared of me, then? Do they tell stories?” “Well, you’ve been eating their goats! That’s horrible!” She jabbed her staff forward a little more. “Wait, is this about the goats? Of course I’m going to eat a perfectly good free goat that wanders on in here, you see much else to eat around here?” He beckoned around at the desolate rocky outcroppings around them. “Really? That’s what they’re worried about, is the goats?” “You can’t just eat someone’s goats, that’s illegal,” she insisted, aware that the conversation with the demon was starting to seem a bit silly. Why was she even trying to argue with it, anyway? “Now…you have those two choices, demon! Banishment or being destroyed, that’s it!” He still didn’t seem particularly afraid of her, more disappointed than anything. His bony shoulders drooped a little as he glanced up and down her, glowing eyes alighting on her staff. “So, they’re just mad about the goat thing. And you’re here to try and fight me, then?” “Of course! They hired me to get rid of you.” He drooped a little bit more. “Oh. I kinda thought…you know. I mean, I’ve been such a scourge to them, and then they send this adorable lady wandering in here by herself, with a sweet tea. Like, I was putting two and two together, there…I thought you were…ya know?” “What?” Now he seemed a little uncomfortable, flexing his talons and looking away, and she could have sworn the flesh on his cheeks turned a little darker. He brought his false metal hand up to its mouth, and gave a sharp little cough. “…Virginsacrifice?” Her mouth dropped open in utter disbelief. For a moment she wasn’t sure how to respond, her own cheeks burning and her voice full of clear offense. “What!? Of course not! Why would you- How would- How dare you! Where would you even get such a ludicrous notion!” The demon took another step back, swallowing down the lump in his throat, waving both hands. “N-now no need to be offended! I was flattered! Thought you were super cute and all, and being a virgin sacrifice has a long, proud history of- AAAUUUUGH!” There was a whirl of red and black, flames trailing his form as he threw himself behind the nearest boulder, tumbling flat onto the ground as a whirling ball of blue slammed into the rock where he’d just been, crystallizing into long, jagged columns of sharp blue ice. The little woman in the elaborate get-up stood huffing and puffing in clear indignation, feet planted wide apart and her staff still lifted. A pair of curled black horns and lit blond hair slowly lifted up from behind the boulder until his yellow eyes were just barely peeking above it, gaping with wary fright. “Okay…I think we got off on the wrong foot here, why don’t we try again?” he offered in a small voice. “Look, there’s nothing wrong if you’re not a virgin and all. Hey, who am I to judge? Let’s just talk this out. We could make a deal?” “My virginity is none of your concern! And I would never make a deal with a demon,” she snapped, still clearly irked about the whole situation. “Look, darl, this whole thing is just a misunderstanding. I’m just an innocent bloke what happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You don’t think I like being stuck in this here canyon, do you? There’s nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to eat but an occasional goat, and they took my friend! You want me out of here, I want me out of here, maybe we can work out some sort of thing?” He waved a gaunt hand above the rock as if motioning with an imaginary white flag. “I don’t want to have to fight a cutie like you. I just want out of here to find my pal.” Mei only halfway lowered her staff, still wary. “What do you mean, your friend? Do you honestly expect me to believe a story like that?” “S’truth, love! You haven’t seen him by chance, have you? Big boar-lookin’ type, about twice my height and five times as wide?” He crept a little closer from behind the outcropping, hands raised. “He got summoned somewhere nearby and I tried to follow, but the gate closed and now I’m stuck in this literal pit and can’t leave!” “A…boar demon? Someone summoned two of you?” she echoed. Her staff lowered just a little more, the tension in her shoulders relaxing very slightly. “Oh yeah, they’ve been summoning lots of us lately!” The lanky demon answered cheerfully. “Gotta be some high-quality stuff going on, if they can bind a big nasty fucker like my pal. Trust me, you don’t wanna try low-level spells on someone like him. Was afraid they were going to do the same to me, but they took one look at me and left me behind. Can you even believe it, love? Summoning us for a demon army and I didn’t make the cut? That one stung a little.” “That can’t be right. Nobody practices that anymore, it’s been illegal for ages. Really, a demon army? Is this some sort of silly story to distract me?” The mage woman scowled a bit but seemed a little more unsure, adjusting her bow-clad pointed hat. He gave her an amused look, uttering a shrill little giggle. “You really think something being illegal will stop folks, don’t you? Lookit, I don’t know what mortal politics you’re all bickering over this time, but I just want my pal back and for us to get back home. You seem like a fine, upstanding sort. Maybe a little too much, really, but…Come on, how about you help get me away from the gate, I’ll find my friend, and we’ll be out of your hair in no time. Eh?” “You just told me that someone is summoning an army of demonkind, and you don’t seem like you’re…” She frowned again. “Um…You don’t really seem smart enough to lie, like I thought.” He bared his teeth a little, looking put out. “I beg your pardon!” “Sorry!” she said quickly, then shook her head. Why would she apologize to someone like him? She relaxed her grip on her staff, resting its butt on the ground once she was sure the creature wasn’t going to attack her, and eyed him up and down. “Okay. You’re going to take me to where this summoning took place, first. I want to see if there’s any truth to your story. We can decide what happens to you after that. And you’d better not try anything…funny.” “Cross my cold, black heart,” the demon proclaimed loudly, running its pointer claw across its scrawny chest. A trail of smoking black was left across its skin with the motion, fading away slowly. “I mean, I’m a funny sort. Real winning personality, not bad in the looks department either, but you can rest assured I won’t try anything uh…ya know, untoward and all. After the whole virgin sacrifice thing. But I mean, if you ask, I won’t say no or anything. So if you get in the mood, just say the word and I-” Her staff started glowing blue again and her eyes narrowed. “All right, shutting my gob. You got it.” he said quickly. “That wasn’t what I was talking about at all. Ugh, would you just turn around and start walking, and show me where this happened? We’ll decide what to do after I can take a look around. This needs to be investigated right away. And then afterward we can look into unbinding you from here and seeing about your friend, all right?” The demon stared her down for a moment, head tilting in an almost dog-like way as he regarded her, but after a moment he merely nodded and turned about on his good leg, falling back into his limping gait as he started further down the canyon. She waited until he was a safe distance ahead before wiping more sweat from her brow with her fuzzy sleeve, starting after him. She expected a tense walk, what with the demon himself basically being held hostage before her. But to her chagrin, he waited for her to catch up a little, then tried to linger back until he was almost walking alongside her, arms folded behind him entirely too casually. “Sooooo! Tell me about yourself?” he suggested eagerly. “You got a name? Something I can call you, at least? Where you from? What’s your sign? Come here often? You uh…you like demons, then?” Mei sighed.

[regularbeans]

Alright, we sold the house.

This is a post about that house.

Last time I was in that house was on the day of my grandma’s funeral and I remember my mum kept having to go back to pack her stuff and pack out and bring stuff home and she kept having to sleep there because taking the bus there and back on several consecutive days was just a waste of money and I still don’t know how she did it, I couldn’t have.

I said this back when we talked about what would become of that house and I said the house wasn’t the house because of the house, it was the house because of my grandma. And it’s true, it just didn’t feel the same without her but I guess that’s the same with most things that belong together.

I have very old memories of that house. I remember playing there as a really small, tiny kid, with my cousin, my uncle’s son, who for some reason said he’s going to marry me (I don’t think either of us knew what marrying meant, we were like four). I remember the dog, Pepi, the chicken in the back of the yard. I remember these two (then three) neighbour girls I became friends with through the fence, how I kept hanging out with them despite being much older and going over to their place to hang out and they would literally cling onto my waist and I’d carry them around and they were my “holsters”.

For a really long time I had no real idea of just how big the backyard was. It was basically a vineyard and there was this big tree and some junk in the back. I never really played there much, there was this weird bush with some weird fruit on it my mum loves, I think my mum called it gooseberry but I remember small black fruit. Anyway. I stole something when I was in elementary school and I buried it there then I dug it up and broke it with a stone so there would be no evidence left #genius

My grandma was a hairdresser all her life, and she had a salon behind the house. I just picture the door opening and hearing the chatter inside, of old ladies, of the hairdryer, the water flowing in the sink. The smell of hair products, my grandma standing with her hand pressed against her aching back, holding her tools in her other, her hair up in a bun. There were all these old ladies there...

On the mirror was a piece of paper of her prices and I remember I wrote it on our computer in our old house and I remember our ő (or one of the accented letters) was broken at the time (I think I spilled juice on the keyboard) so I left a space where it was supposed to be that letter and she handwrote those. Now I got mad that I don’t remember which letter it was. Maybe á? There was a lot of that latter on there. Now I’m... really angry... I don’t remember. I spent so much time looking at it and I can’t remember.

I loved it when she washed my hair though she was kind of harsh, and it wasn’t very comfortable under my neck but I liked the warmth of the water. I had my hair dyed blonde there in 2012 for the first time, the bleach stung so much. It also took me a long time to find out the salon had a bigger back area with the boiler and so much old crap she horded over the years.

I remember wanting my hair done all the time but not wanting to sit in those chairs for ages. I loved playing with the curlers, put them on my fingers, pretend I had curlers as fingers. There was so much stuff there...

There was a mosquito net door on everything because my grandma was allergic to bees. There was one on the entrance of the house too but there was a square cut in it so we could reach in and unlock this lock... thing... that was on it. The inside door, the real door was barely closed during summers which is when we were there most of the time. I don’t think we ever met my grandma inside the kitchen when we visited her, she always came outside to greet us, that’s where we hugged and kissed, and she would already be cooking something inside, listening to the radio, always the same channel, some old Hungarian thing with classical music and weird religious programmes. I always thought she smelled like a dentist, I don’t know where I got that from, it’s not true.

I was barely in the pantry but there was always so much food there. That’s where I found out you can keep the bread in the fridge. I never liked any of the fruit juices she brought or made. Sorry.

One of the bathrooms opened from the kitchen as well with this huge ass boiler but I remember bathing in that room only once or twice. It was exciting, I don’t know why. The toilet had this flusher that was weird, you had to kind of hold it and wait for a specific noise to let go otherwise it didn’t flush properly.

The kitchen table was close to the door to the living room and a chair always stood in the way, that was usually my place during meals. One time my grandma had this cat, Mici(?), and she kept playing with our feet under the table. My mum hates cats so she didn’t like it but I loved it. When she died my grandma kept luring cats to the yard. She would cuss them out for being so needy but I think she liked having cats to talk to.

The two rooms were otherwise separated by an ENORMOUS ceiling-high tiled stove. My grandma was always very skinny so she got very cold all the time, the air was BOILING HOT during winters.

In the living room where my grandma slept was where the Christmas tree would be set up. The door to the real living room that was this really cold, tiled ~middle room always covered the TV if it was open but when the stove was on she always wanted that door open so the warmth would spread to the whole house. That was the only TV in the house and I remember always wanting to wake up early on the weekends so I could watch the morning cartoons. So often I fell asleep again while watching them. For some reason I remember watching Hungarian talent shows there. And the 2008 Olympics opening ceremony. There weren’t too manny channels on it so we only gathered together there if there was a good movie going otherwise it would just be her and my mum watching telly.

That middle room thing wasn’t exciting. There was a huge dining table there but I remember eating there only once or twice when something fancy happened or when my grandma had guests over? Very rarely. She kept her plants there because it was a cold room but it had a huge window wall so the plants would get a lot of sunlight.

My keyboard was set up there sometimes. God we used to haul my keyboard over there holy shit...

One door from there led to the second toilet that was just a small cubicle with one toilet. For a huge chunk of time it didn’t work properly so if we wanted to go in the middle of the night we had to go through the living room, where my grandma was sleeping, and sneak past her without waking her up, then go potty in the kitchen bathroom. She would close the door then so she could see the TV and that door was NOISY. For the longest time this ashtray stand kept the door slightly ajar but it was made of metal and the ashtray was removable so when you had to move it it required a special set of skills to not make any noise with it, holy shit, I felt like a ninja every time.

When the second toilet got fixed I went there to write my diary in the middle of the night for some reason. There were a LOT of spiders there. 

There was a second bathroom there. The stupidest thing but I can’t remember if I liked that bathroom or not. The sink and the mirror were behind the door and the boiler was above the bathtub and I was always so scared it would fall on me. I don’t remember taking baths there I usually showered. There was a colour-changing toothbrush there. And a small space next to the bathroom, I was once playing hide-and-seek with the neighbour girls and I remember crouching there and putting a towel on myself and I pretended to be a pile of clothes, they didn’t actually find me, I shit you not :D

There was this bedroom opening from the ~middle room that we never used. It was a guest room but my grandma usually kept composts there and aspic cause since nobody used that room it didn’t require heating. Fucking aspic addicts both her and my mum. That’s so weird, why would anybody like aspic, it’s jelly soup, ew.

There was another bedroom opening from there, a smaller one with just one bed. That also had a TV now that I think about it. My mum slept there once my sister became too sensitive to her snoring but I also remember sleeping there sometimes. The neighbour girls were always trying to wake me up in the mornings by calling through the window so I would come play with them. It was endearing until I grew up. 

The last bedroom was the one where we slept in, quite a big one with one bed and another couch-thing-bed where my sister and I slept. There used to be no divide between them and I could just sprawl across my sister but then my grandma rearranged them (I still don’t know how that worked) and there was this wooden divide between them to my sister’s biggest joy and to my biggest disappointment x) I still found a way though. I think there used to be a telly in there but it either never worked or she took it out of there quickly. I’m positive there used to be a telly there.

A perfect place for the floor is lava ngl.

Then once we had laptops I remember spending so much time there... just hanging out and stuff. I remember getting to know so much music there, and just this feeling of freedom and not having to School and Life. My bag used to go right next to the bed in the corner and it was like my little kingdom, nobody could go there, I did whatever I wanted with my little corner, especially hide chocolate and candy there. We all had our own armchairs and everything had its place, whenever we arrived we’d just automatically settle in, like home. I remember when I once slept in the proper bed, I took my stuffed lion lazy, who has a hand-hole in it for puppet reasons, and I put a bunch of clementines inside her and snuck them inside the bedroom and ate them while pretending to be asleep. I don’t know why but it felt like an important mission.

There was some embroidery of a naked woman in that room, I still don’t know why. Also a very pretty drawing my grandma made of a classy woman and her classy hairdo. She was a really good drawer. Once I had my “better phone” that still wasn’t a smart phone there was this drawing app on it and she could draw well even on that.

Anyway, even though the house is on some small street in the butt outskirts of the town whenever the garbage truck came it was loud as fuck. I loved it, for some reason.

I used to have this habit of praying before falling asleep there. No idea why, I just remember praying there.

Outside the house but still in the yard was a pavement, and in the cement is a handprint that belongs to my uncle when he was a little boy. My grandma made this artificial pond out of a huge basin in her front garden. I was always scared of the frogs that would be there but the lilies were very pretty. Her garden was always very pretty, she slaved away in that garden, it was always beautiful. I remember a peach tree but not much else. I don’t think there was a cherry tree.

Outside on the street, I remember this one winter the road was really slippery and we just kept sliding up and down. I love that street. Whenever we would arrive from a night out we’d look at the sky and my sister would like, take note of all the stars and constellations and we would see the huge floodlights from downtown clubs reaching up to the clouds. They stopped one year, maybe they closed that one specific place that did this, I don’t know.

The walk back home from downtown was Long. Especially with a full belly, sometimes I would get so nauseated. I remember in 2008 when the Olympics happened my sister and my mum narrated my rush back home before I threw up like I was one of the Hungarian swimming champions, it was really cool.

Because everything in town was so far, leaving the house was serious business. Even when we just went to the store (and I usually didn’t, it was my mum and my grandma’s morning routine, the daily pilgrimage to the store) if you left something at home it stayed there. And because it was so far we didn’t leave for anything that was shorter than the walk there and back.

I hated the walk but counting the perpendicular streets was fun. Jánoskert, Petőfi (with the ice cream place, we always stopped for an ice cream on the way there), Gárdonyi (apparently there was a playground there and I remember going there once but maybe I imagined it), Báthori, Dobó, and a long walk to the main street there. There was a bookstore close to the main street and I always imagined I would once buy it and make my own store... I don’t remember what I was going to sell but it was going to be nice.

Then the another smaller street with the cabs... then crossing the train tracks, past the train station... good god...

 Luckily there was always a lot of things to do in town. Once we got there this main square with the fountain was full of people and stores and vendors, it was so much fun even though we never bought too much stuff because we weren’t exactly tourists. I would always daydream about having infinite money and buying everything though.

There was this arcade we used to go to when I was little, playing fighting games and riding a jetski, it was really cool. I think we stopped being able to afford it when I got bigger. There was this small cinema too that I was always really excited to go to though it never really had that many movies. It was just the one room, the one building with one movie at a time. It was open air too and right beside the train tracks so from time to time the movie would be drowned out by trains passing by. We watched Mamma Mia there.

I discovered a birthmark behind my ear during that movie and I thought it was cancer.

Don’t ask why I remember that.

There was this place there called Nádas, very popular though slightly out of sight, you had to go behind another store to get there, we Loved going there. I think not one summer passed when we didn’t go there. I always got the same thing, most of the time. When we were smaller there used to be these like, these things you could sit on, put in some coins and you could ride like a unicorn or something. That was the shit. I loved that place... god we spent so much time there.

Going further down the road was where the Wine Week would be organised every year. It was cool when it happened when we were there, it meant MORE VENDORS AND MORE SHIT WE COULDN’T BUY. Also sometimes there would be performers on this huge area to the right of the road.

I don’t remember the last time we got to go to the beach. The weather wasn’t always right, my grandma wasn’t always in the best shape and we didn’t spend that much time there anymore especially after she got difficult. But I loved the beach. There was this huge tree in the middle that most people were aiming for so back in the days we used to set out really early to get a spot there. I don’t quite remember the shore right now... but I remember the slides that I went down on once. We even went to the not-free beach once, I went down the slide there. There was this spinny changing room there. It didn’t have a door it was just a spiral so if you went around enough you were inside and nobody could see in or out. That was fun.

I listened to a lot of music there. Ironically, Nobody’s Listening by Linkin Park comes to mind but... there was a Lot of music there. We ate a LOT of corn too. And ice creams... we tried not to go potty there but sometimes we had to and I hated going cause the floor of the bathrooms were muddy from the wet sand...

We used to watch the August 20th fireworks there. We used to be so close I’d have to duck for fear they would fall on my head. Then we never went that far anymore for fireworks alone and we no longer stayed for one or two weeks.

We used to walk back home then both my grandma and my mum got older so we usually took the cab but most of the cabbies knew my grandma so we got cheaper fares. Once when we walked home my mum and I had to pee so much we actually went in a park. It was dark, don’t worry... I also almost threw up next to the kindergarten. Then my stomach hurt so much my mum thought my appendix burst but it didn’t.

I used to be so sad when we had to leave. It’s a little bitter feeling but once it got difficult to spend more time with my grandma it got easier to leave so maybe it’s lucky that happened so the change isn’t that huge. But it still hurts.

Because we no longer belong there.

I’m going to miss that house.

[plenilune]

anyway this is a thing, and some of it is awkward and half-formed and not good and some of it is a big ol’ cliche but this is the first real thing I’ve written in years so like. whatever. for those of you who remember Marwick, this is right before the climax of book one. and it’s not like I Wrote A Thing, I just rewrote a bit I only shared with like three people in summer 2013 in the context of New Marwick Is Probably Set In New England And Lottie Is In Her Late Twenties And I Don’t Know If It’s Actually In First Person But It Keeps Coming Out Like That When I Try To Find The Shape Of It. and normally I try to sleep on things but I haven’t written real prose in. literally years. so. whatever. this is a mess but I need to leave it somewhere conspicuous as proof I did something. 

At that point I was already tired.

  When I walked into the hallway, Mal was leaning against the wall, all loose unconscious grace, but he opened his eyes as I entered, and I saw – for once I could see – that he was tired too. I couldn't be worried about that now, Mal being tired enough for it to show, but it stung at me when I tried to fold it away, adding another weight to the worries sinking in my gut. He should be all coiled energy and anticipation. This was the thing he'd been building. I remembered the hungry eager curve of his mouth when I'd told him yes, I'll do it, oh – nearly a year ago.

  I didn't like the way the air felt when I breathed it in.

  “So,” I said. He tilted his head, his face taking on that old familiar look of lazy, amused attention, and the sun caught red-gold in the fall of his hair. My words went dry. I was so fucking tired, and my throat hurt like something had scraped it. I should be more frightened than tired, but that seemed like such a reach – frightened that it would go wrong, that he wouldn't go through with it, wouldn't heal Kat, that when he came back he would be –

  Mal pushed away from the wall like he'd caught at the tone of my thoughts, or the general hiss that I might be having some, and he took a step towards me, lean and fluid, till his hand cupped my elbow, his skin catching at the cotton of my sleeve. “You will be quite safe,” he said mildly. “I did promise. Even – my kind keeps our promises, if we make them binding enough.”

  “I'm not worried you're going to break fucking covenant with me,” I said. The words felt too big for my mouth; stupidly grandiose. “I know you... can't. I think you can't. I trust that, anyway.” He could still be cruel, but not to me. Not yet. That was something, maybe.

  He said, “Thank you,” almost like a joke, like a person might say it. Thanks, Lottie, I feel really supported in this.

  God, I'd miss making him laugh.

  I felt his thumb and forefinger on my elbow through my shirt. “I have every confidence,” he said, low, with that lazy detached amusement with which he'd once brought me tea, smoothed bloodied hair from my eyes, watched as I let flowers of flame bloom out of my palms – that drawl, half intimate, half inhuman – “that you will prove utterly capable. The spell offers you little danger, and you will not, I think, fail us in this,”

  He'd done his part, whatever it might have cost, and now I had mine.

  I wondered for a moment what it'd be like, not having him here anymore, not –

  Fuck, Lottie. Shut it off.

  “I am not dying,” said Mal flatly, doing the thing again where he seemed to catch a bit of what I didn't know or want to say. “I am only becoming. As we agreed. Becoming more.”

  “Yeah,” I said, or I tried to say it, or maybe I didn't manage to say anything at all.

  Becoming.

  A creature of fire and water and magic with no space beneath his breastbone for a heart.

  I tried to say, Mal, but I didn't manage to say that, either.

  “You can still call on me, if ever you need me,” he said. “I will have much more to offer you now, once this is done.”

  “A shitty goddamn selling point,” I said. “Not that you'll have any reason to listen to me now.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Why did that sting? He looked like a person again for a moment, in this weird way, like when you're going through candids in a slideshow or fast-forwarding through some ancient family videotape and you get someone in the background accidentally being absolutely real for a second because they don't know your Uncle Theo has turned the camcorder on them. Pushing their hair behind their ear, thinking about their girlfriend's grandmother in the hopsital and worrying, or about the bar they're going to take in a week, or their mother they haven't spoken to in two months since they came out. Not thinking about being looked at and giving away too much. But he knew he was being looked at, so it was just the old Mal thing, playing at being a person, being just convincing enough that a sap like me would want to take it as truth. Well it's about time you shut that instinct down, kid. Before it gets you killed. Or just leaves you with that deep hurt in your gut you can't seem to figure out how to solve.

  I found that I was shaking my head at him.

  –It's just that you won't be you any more.

  Whatever that had ever meant.

 The Mal I knew, the one shaped like a man, had just been a tool for Malephas the demon to get what he wanted. And I knew it, and I'd always known it, and I shouldn't be grieving the loss of the illusion now. That's what you're supposed to want, right? Not being vulnerable any more. No need for games and subterfuge. No need for each other's incompatible goals at all, really.

  Mal leaned back against the wall. My skin stung where his hand hand been, and had left.

  I let myself wonder offhand for a minute how much of a chance there was for something to really go wrong, for me or for Kat or for all of us, and my thoughts buzzed together like being overstimulated in a crowd, frightened and manic and too many colours and textures on top of each other and me not wanting to touch any of them, and I just wanted – oh, you know, to know, to be steady on the ground, feet planted; to absolutely know what it was that I wanted and to point myself to it so cleanly that I could only land where I neeeded to, to know what it was that I wanted so clearly that I could ask for it, or dig it myself out of the ground if I had to.

  “The sun's rising,” Mal said, looking away towards the long window that cast a heavy gold slant of light againt the floor and the wall, making warm planes and dark hollows in his face and summer-sea brightness in his eyes.

  I thought, sharp and hot like a cut, I want, and it hurt, deep in my stomach and in my throat, hurt like the sight of that black ugly mark on Kat's skin hurt, like my hand in the fire, like my mouth filled up with blood till I couldn't breathe through it, like the moment after falling hurt while you waited for your breath to come back, and then when it did, and it was worse. The sun was in my eyes. I want, I thought desperately, like reaching for a handhold, and I thought, oh hell, and before I could think any more thoughts I reached out and I caught Mal's face between my hands and I kissed him.

  First I knew that he was completely still against my mouth, like a watch that had been stopped, and I knew that I'd gone all wrong. And I heard him saying, months ago, with that thin knife of a smile, oh Lottie, we don't need to feel – and now his teeth caught so gently at my lower lip and his hand flattened, palm firm and light and hot against my breastbone, and the other hand was in my hair, and I had knotted my hand in his hair and somehow I'd got him against /the wall, shoulders sharp and stark against the stone, and his mouth left mine for a moment to graze against my jaw. I shuddered so hard my teeth hurt, and I let out a hoarse angry breath and felt my hand curl into a claw against his back, over his thin white shirt. He smelled of ginger and woodsmoke and wet leaves and wool, and he sighed into my mouth, almost real, almost warm, almost human.

  He tasted like skin and metal and teeth, like a person ought to, and I shuddered and pulled away, but for a moment he pressed his forehead harsh and sudden against mine, his thumbs against the corner of my jaw and then glancing away, and then he was leaning back against the wall and my hips were still holding his in place and his eyes were dark and strange and more human and less human and my mouth felt thick with shame and confusion. And want.

  I felt like a bruise in the shape of a girl. And then I just felt small.

  Did he tremble? No, not Mal, rubbing the palms that had just been in my hair against his trousers; trembling was such a human thing to do, but I could count the time I got to keep pretending he was anything like human or my friend in minutes now, and stupidly, already missing the man I'd invented, I leaned forward to kiss his forehead. And he let me. And he dropped his hands. And I stepped away, and his mouth was narrow, and his eyes as green as I'd ever seen them.

  I was one big scrape of longing, and then I swallowed it down. There, I said to my rebellious shivering self. Now that you've finished with all that we can go on.

 “Well,” I said, because if I didn't speak now I might never speak again. “We have somewhere to be.”

[someone-im-close-to-fanfic-blog]

Chapter 1: The Curtain Rises

Wilson is being bothered by something, and tensions grow between the rest of the Don’t Starve cast as they try to figure out what it is.

Chapter rating: PG, occasional strong language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Wilson's back and arms ached after a grueling day of working on his garden to test a new fertilizer he'd concocted a few nights ago. His hands were numb and red and covered in numerous injuries from both his work and taking a detour to tear some vines off the outside of the stone walls surrounding the plants, which happened to have rather large thorns growing on them. His legs felt like they'd been stung by a million killer bees all at once, and words couldn't describe how stiff his back was. The pain was excruciating. His legs wobbled like wet goop when he walked.

Unfortunately, even though his whole body felt like it was on fire, the stubbornly determined scientist continued his work, which was hammering away at new materials on the science machine now that the garden task was complete. With each swing of the hammer, swipe of a blade, or even the simple insertion of object into the machine, his body hurt a little bit worse, but the Brit paid his wounds no mind. He simply saw them as a minor distraction from what he really needed to do. See, there was something bugging him for the past few weeks. Everyone could see it, but no one could tell what it was. As a distraction, he began working more, not stopping even when the base was attacked by hounds and Wigfrid literally had to drag him in by his hair. When Wilson started going to bed early, Wickerbottom speculated he was becoming depressed, but didn't state much of a reason for it.

"Wilson's always been sort of...aloof, I guess." Wigfrid's red, curly braids bounced as she shook her head. She sat on a log by the fire pit, roasting a few morsels of meat over the fire. Her Icelandic accent was especially thick on the word "aloof". "Maybe this time is no different."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Wendy sat, cross-legged, next to Webber by the pit. She held a red rose in her hand and every so often she'd tear off a petal and throw it into the fire.

"He's always spendin' his time away from us, either working on some new project or getting materials for one of his new projects. He's obsessed. Maybe he's just really focused on this one." Wigfrid responded and took a bite out of one of the now fully cooked morsels.

"I'm not so sure about that." Wickerbottom pursed her lips. "Haven't you noticed how he's been so reckless lately? He works to the point of exhaustion on these so-called 'projects', and even then, he refuses to stop until he collapses. Last night I found him passed out just meters away from his tent, as if he didn't make it there before sleep got ahold of him. That boy..." She shook her head.

"Ma'am, he's not a boy. He's 35 years old. By now, Mr. Higgsbury is a man." Webber pointed out.

"Well, he certainly doesn't act like it." The old woman's voice had an edge to it. "I, personally, am a bit worried about him."

"So are we." Webber nodded in agreement. Wendy didn't speak but she appeared to agree with her friend.

Maxwell listened to them all eagerly from a distance. He was leaning against a tree, originally watching the girl and her friend throw a rose into the fire. For him, that was a very personal form of symbolism that lately had become rather appealing to him.

"I agree with Wickerbottom." His voice was deep like a bassoon and everyone's eyes fell to him as soon as he spoke. "Something is wrong with him, but I think we should leave him be until he reaches a critical condition."

"What kind of treatment is that?" Wickerbottom raised an eyebrow. "You're sadistic."

"Maybe I am." Maxwell shrugged. "Doesn't matter. If we let him slowly fall apart, eventually he'll come crawling to us for help, and it'll be easier for him to spill what's wrong." He shrugged.

"And how would you know?" Wigfrid asked slowly, an almost accusing tone slipping into her heavily accented voice.

"You know I used to be the high power of this island. I'm the reason, more or less, that he's here. I've monitored him long enough to see what happens when his sanity gets low enough." The tall man smirked. "Just save your efforts until he gets to that level. Then you can help. 'Till then, it's useless. He's stubborn as an ass. He won't tell you if you prod him with a killer bee on a stick."

"Why do you care, anyway?" Wigfrid glared over at Maxwell.

"Wigfrid, calm down." Wickerbottom chastised, but she was ignored.

Maxwell shrugged again. "I don't like to hear you all whine about something you can't fix is all."

Wigfrid rolled her eyes. "Makes sense. You know, sometimes I wonder if you can even feel for anyone anymore." She bit her lip and glared at the dapper half-demon. She was the last to arrive at this island and held the biggest grudge against Maxwell as of now.

Maxwell laughed bitterly. "Maybe and maybe not. It's not for you to know."

Everyone fell into an awkward silence after that. Webber and Wendy continued destroying their flowers in silence, Wigfrid ate her meat with a frustrated look on her face, and Wickerbottom kept busy with a new book she'd written the night before. That was how most nights went ever since; awkward and tense conversations between some members of the small society formed in this strange, new land while Wilson was away doing god knows what. Most nights he'd come stumbling into camp, bumping into the stone walls and passing out with a freshly lit torch still in his left hand. In the morning, before anyone could come find him to chastise him for being reckless and staying out late, he'd be long gone.

There was a reason for him not telling. This issue was personal to him, so much that he felt no one else could hear it. No matter how close he got with everyone else, he could never tell them, because he felt the secret would lose its value if they knew. Still, if he didn't tell, nothing could be done, but either way it wasn't fixable so he saw there was no point.

The scientist could tell his friends (and Maxwell) were on to him, though. One night, he came back to camp a bit earlier than usual and overheard a bit of conversation between Wickerbottom and Maxwell. He couldn't exactly see them except for their silhouettes through the leather outside of the tent, but he could tell from the way Wickerbottom moved her hands and her tense tone that she was feeling very worried.

"Maxwell, please. I've asked you over and over again for help on this."

"And I've been refusing your offer since you started asking. What's that tell you?"

"William Carter, you live here and I expect you to help out around here! This time is no exception!"

"Who died and left you in charge?" There was a cool, sarcastic tone in Maxwell's voice, and he was obviously amused that a woman much shorter than himself was trying to be the authority here.

"Well, no one, but still. Maxwell, please. No one else knows what to do because no one else has spent enough time with him as you!"

Maxwell held up a hand, which was just a blurry shadow in the point of view of Wilson.

"Technically, watching him from another plane of existence doesn't count as spending time with him."

"Listen, you know what I mean. You're the only person here who knows something about him other than how to identify him on an operating table. You know how he behaves and you know what he'd be most likely to do in a given situation. I know you don't like him but I want you to be the one to do this."

"I never said I didn't like him, and why me?"

"Because we all have our own problems to deal with!" Normally Wickerbottom repressed her Dutch accent well, but when she was feeling upset it sort of slipped out. "Wes can't talk so he can't help. Woodie and Wolfgang wouldn't know how to help, Webber and Wendy are just children and Wigfrid's still trying to get used to this damn place! So please, for the love of God, do something useful around here and try to help him out!"

That must have done the trick.

"Alright." Maxwell's voice had lost some of its coolness. "Fine. But get off my tail about it once it's done."

"Deal." Wickerbottom crossed her arms. "By the way, that wasn't a very gentlemanly thing of you to say."

Maxwell huffed. "That's not my concern. If you said that to Wilson, however, I'm sure that would take a good chunk out of his ego."

"Go to bed." Wickerbottom commanded and the two parted to each head to their separate tents. From then on, Wilson decided he'd spend enough time away from them for two reasons. One, he didn't want anyone figuring out what he was up to, and two, he wanted to spite Maxwell and keep him in trouble with Wickerbottom for as long as possible as sort of a payback for all the times he made him suffer.

Which brings us to the present. Dusk was setting in and Wilson knew he was screwed if he was left out here without anything to build a fire with. Quickly he grabbed some grass from the ground and plucked the twigs off a few saplings. With aching limbs, he crafted a torch and slipped it inside his backpack for safekeeping. He felt like he was being watched but brushed it off as low sanity. He looked down at his hands and saw they were bruised and red and forming blisters from a hard day's work. He spotted a stream not too far from where he was and stumbled over it, swerving to avoid a tree in his way. He went to kneel down but his knees wouldn't allow it, so he settled for sitting instead. He splashed cool water onto his hands and face, and his face and hair were soaked within minutes. Exhaustion set in shortly after, but the scientist tried to ignore it best he could. He leaned back against the tree, fighting to stay awake as he tried to enjoy this moment of relaxation best he could.

A few paces back stood Maxwell, hiding behind a tree. In a moment, he would step out and confront Wilson about why he had been acting so strange. He wanted to get Wickerbottom off his ass ASAP. That woman was seriously scary sometimes, even to him, though he'd never admit it.

That plan didn't work out so well. As soon as he stepped out from behind the tree, his foot crunched down on a sapling, scaring both of them so badly that Maxwell flinched hard and Wilson screamed.

"Who's there?!" Wilson produced a spear from his inventory and shakily held it up as he looked around.

"R-relax, pal, it's just me." Maxwell tried to keep the cool, steady tone of his voice, but it still wavered a bit.

"Oh, great." Wilson lowered the spear a little. "What do you want?"

Maxwell smiled, the initial shock of the sapling breaking having worn off. "Relax. I was just out gathering resources since our grass farms haven't replenished themselves yet. Fancy seeing you here. How long's it been since anyone saw you? Two, three days, maybe?"

"Four." Wilson put his spear back and looked down awkwardly. "It's been four days."

"What's the deal, pal? Are we all so unbearable that you've decided to run away? That's not smart, you know. We still don't know what all lurks in this strange, new world." Maxwell spread his arms out for emphasis.

"Nothing's wrong." Wilson rolled his eyes. "Besides, what the hell do you care, anyways?"

"I don't." Maxwell laughed cruelly. "It's everyone else who's worried, and I suppose as a sort of revenge for sending them here, they're making me check on you." He shrugged indifferently. "At least get up and show your face to the others so they know you're not dead."

Wilson refused, stubborn as ever, afraid that even one wrong move would make him spill his secret. "Absolutely not."

Maxwell frowned. "At least show me where you're staking out."

"I still stay at the base," Wilson argued. "I just come back late!"

"We've noticed. Care to explain?"

"Not to you." Wilson crossed his arms.

"Then to whom?" Maxwell inquired, raising his voice slightly.

"Nobody!" Wilson snapped. "...nobody can know."

"And why's that?" Maxwell raised an eyebrow. He didn't actually expect he'd get somewhere with this stubborn mule of a man.

Wilson was silent. That's when Maxwell noticed the several injuries on Wilson's body. He saw there were red marks on his face and bruises littering his arms and hands.

"What the hell kind of creature mauled you?" The dapper man raised both brows and pointed with a finger to Wilson's bruised appendages.

"Lack of self-care." Wilson smiled weakly and laughed.

"I can see that." Came the reply and without thinking, the taller man hoisted Wilson up and began to carry him back to the base.

"W-what are you doing?!" Wilson asked, panic creeping into his voice. "Put me down!"

"I'll do nothing of the sort." Maxwell pursed his lips. "Tonight, you're going to let Wes heal you and Wigfrid feed you. You don't have to tell us what's eating away at you, all right? I'll tell the others to lay off. But for now, at least get something good into your system. God knows you've been probably living off wild carrots and berries lately, right? I haven't noticed any food missing recently."

Wilson blushed with embarrassment. "I didn't think you'd notice."

"Well, you're thinner, too. That's part of it."

"You're awfully observant." Wilson commented. Maxwell didn't reply. The two traveled together in awkward silence and Wilson closed his eyes, sleep taking over him. He felt himself being dropped cruelly on the ground and heard footsteps running closer and shouting, but was too tired to care. All he heard was the sound of a feminine voice requesting healing salves and he was out cold.